Witch Hunter (42 page)

‘Your kingdom?’

‘Yes. My kingdom. My fool nephew may be king of this

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country, but I am the one who rules it. I work while he

plays. Gather armies while he hunts, deploy them while he

dances. I set policies and enact laws and plan rebellions

while he drinks and gambles and wastes his time with

women.’ He gives me a terrible, hard look. ‘You of all people

should know this.’

It takes a moment to find my voice.

‘You knew,’ I finally manage. ‘You knew and you didn’t

stop him.’

Blackwell gives my arm a rough shake. ‘Of course I

knew. Malcolm was married at sixteen to a woman twice

his age. He was bound to fall in love but never with her.

When he took a liking to you, I used it to my advantage.

I encouraged him. Told him you liked him back.’ He

shrugs, dismissive. ‘I knew where it would lead.’

Behind him, John makes a noise halfway between a

growl and a groan.

‘You were meant to do your duty – to do what I trained

you to do – and kill him,’ Blackwell continues. ‘I needed

him gone, and you were meant to do it. Caleb all but told

you to do it.’ His voice rises. ‘How many times did he have

to point out the ways Malcolm was losing control of the

country? How many times did he have to tell you we’d be

better off without him?’

‘And I was supposed to take that as instruction to kill the

king?’ I say, incredulous. ‘That’s insane. You’re insane.’

‘Manners,’ is all he says in reply.

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‘You can’t kill Malcolm,’ I say. ‘You can’t.’

Blackwell shrugs. ‘It’s done. At midnight tonight, it’s

done. The mask will finally be lifted and I will unveil myself

as the new ruler of Anglia.’ He smiles. ‘It’s a bit theatrical,

I know. But I really couldn’t resist.’

‘It will never work,’ I say. ‘The whole country is in revolt

against you—’

He laughs, a deep, rumbling laugh that stuns me to hear

it. I’ve never heard him laugh before.

‘The country is in revolt against Malcolm. I was simply

carrying out his orders. He is king, as you pointed out.’

‘But you created the laws!’ I say. ‘You were Inquisitor.

They were your rules—’

‘I created the laws Malcolm commanded I create.’ He

spreads his arms. ‘I was a victim of his treachery as much

as anyone. Perhaps more, as I was commanded to put

hundreds of witches and wizards – my own kind – to death.’

He shakes his head in mock sorrow. ‘But tonight all of that

will end. I will take the throne, and I will do it with an army

so powerful no one will dare stop me.’

‘Army,’ I breathe. ‘What army?’

‘The army you built for me, of course.’

I let out a gasp. Then I realise. I realise all along what he’s

been doing, what he’s done.

‘I trained you to hunt witches and wizards,’ he continues.

‘Hunt them and bring them to me. Didn’t you wonder why

I never wanted you to kill them?’

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‘But you did,’ I say. ‘You burned a dozen a week. I was

there. I saw it.’

‘I had to burn some of them,’ Blackwell says. ‘Malcolm

would have been suspicious had I not. But surely you

noticed the only ones on the pyre were healers and

kitchen witches? I had to sacrifice someone, and I had no

use for them. They’re about as useful as he is.’ He waves his

hand dismissively at John. ‘But the necromancers, the

demonologists? The wizards practising black magic? I had

use for them, certainly. I do have use for them.’

‘You can’t do it,’ I say.

‘I can, and I will. There is no one to stop me now. And

with this’ – he holds up the Azoth – ‘I will be invincible.’

‘Nicholas,’ I blurt. ‘He’s going to live. He can stop you…’

‘Oh, I think not.’

That’s when I hear it. A girl’s choked sob, a boy’s muffled

groan. It makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

Caleb comes into view then, followed by Marcus and

Linus, and I see where the noise is coming from. It’s Fifer

and George, both of them bound and beaten. Linus leads

Fifer by the hair, and it’s clear she’s fighting to stay

conscious. George’s eye and mouth are bruised, and there’s

blood running down his cheek.

I let out a gasp.

‘Did you really think you could get away with it? Did

you really think you could simply walk away?’ Blackwell

advances on me. Grabs my shoulders and looks down on

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me; his black eyes boring into mine. ‘Did you really think

you could stop me?’

I look at Caleb and he looks back, his face impassive. ‘I

warned you,’ he says to me. ‘I told you what would happen

if you didn’t come back with me. I told you I wouldn’t be

able to protect you.’

There’s a terrible silence as we stare at each other; I can

feel everyone’s eyes on us. I search his face for something –

a hint of sympathy, a shade of compassion – anything that

shows that my friend is still there. But I see nothing. And I

know – with painful certainty, I know – I’m on my own.

That in this, his final test, when faced with the choice

between family and ambition, Caleb chose ambition.

I turn back to Blackwell.

‘What are you going to do?’ I whisper.

Blackwell releases me then, so abruptly I stumble. ‘Bring

me the girl.’

Linus steps forward with Fifer, pushing her roughly in

front of him. I can hear John’s weak protests and George’s

muffled shouts, but they barely register. I can’t take my eyes

off her. Her dress is torn along the top; it keeps slipping

over her shoulders. Her shoes are missing, and she’s

trembling so hard her teeth are chattering.

I turn to Linus. ‘What did you do to her?’

‘Nothing.’ Linus gives a terrible smile and runs a finger

down the back of her neck. Fifer and I both shudder. ‘Yet.’

I’m so disgusted I don’t think, I just launch myself at

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Linus. He pushes Fifer away and jumps me. We hit the

ground, both of us punching and kicking and screaming

horrible things at each other. He pulls out his dagger and

stabs me repeatedly with it, aiming for my neck, my heart,

my stomach. He’s hitting something, but I can’t tell what.

The second I feel pain it disappears, followed by pain

somewhere else. My whole body is so caught up in the loop

of pain and healing, I can’t tell where one begins and the

other ends.

‘Enough.’ Blackwell’s voice thunders across the clearing.

Linus leaps away from me like a trained dog, still in the

habit of obedience. I get to my feet, but slowly. I’m not

healing as fast as I should be; I’m still weak from the poison

and from the wound in my stomach.

‘What do you want me to do?’ I whisper. ‘Whatever it is,

tell me and I’ll do it. Just don’t hurt them.’ I lock eyes with

him. ‘Just tell me what you need.’

‘I needed the king dead, and I needed Nicholas dead,’ he

says. ‘You were meant to do both, and you failed. At both.’

He steps towards me. ‘Fortunately, I have these two now.’

He glances at George and Fifer. ‘They will tell me where

Nicholas is; they will lead me to him. They will,’ he repeats,

louder, over John’s protests, ‘if they do not wish to suffer –

unduly – before I dispose of them.’

Fifer lets out a moan.

‘As for the king, he will be taken care of. It may already

be done.’ He glances at Caleb, who nods. ‘So, as you can see,

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I don’t need you to do anything.’ He steps up to me, his

black eyes glittering with madness, boring into mine. ‘I

don’t need you at all.’

The storm of his fury breaks. He throws up his arms and

it begins to rain again, the way it was when I stepped out of

the tomb. It comes down like an assault: I can’t see beyond

it, can’t hear beyond the sound of it drumming into the

ground. It’s just Blackwell and me now; everything and

everyone else has disappeared. I back away from him; I

would look for somewhere to run, but I’m afraid to take my

eyes from his face. Besides, I know there’s nowhere to go.

‘I would throw you into the maze,’ he says, not shouting

but I can hear him perfectly over the rain, ‘if I thought it

meant I’d be rid of you. But I did that before and you came

out. I’d send more of my hybrids after you, but I know what

would happen with that, too.’

He stops, his expression turning into something

almost…curious.

‘How did you do it? You weren’t strong, not like Marcus.

You weren’t ambitious like Caleb. Not vicious like Linus.’

He looks me over, shakes his head, as if the very sight of me

baffles him. ‘How did you survive?’

He’s asking me the question I’ve always asked myself.

How an unremarkable girl like me could live through

unimaginable danger like that. I didn’t know then, not

really, and I’m not sure now. I offer up my best guess

anyway.

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‘Because I was afraid to do anything except live.’

Blackwell nods, as if this were an interesting

viewpoint he’d never considered before. ‘And now? Are

you afraid now?’

I consider telling him I am. I consider that confessing

weakness might buy me time, or clemency, or a chance to

escape. But even as I think it, I know there’s no chance. Of

any of it.

‘I’m not afraid.’ I say this because it’s the last act of

defiance I have against him and I say it because – and I’m

shocked to realise it – it’s true. ‘I’m not afraid of you.’

Blackwell smiles. ‘Good. I might be worried if you

were.’ He steps towards me, arm outstretched, the Azoth

raised high. And, before I can register what he’s doing,

he swings.

I pull back, as he knew I would. He misses by an inch, as

I knew he would. He draws back, then advances on me

again, and again. I avoid blow after blow. Dodging, twisting,

turning. He’s not hitting me, but he’s not trying. Not really.

He’s playing with me, as a cat might play with a mouse. To

tire me, to weaken me. Then, when I start to stumble, begin

to wear out, he will strike. And he will kill me.

I’ve got to end this. Now.

I step back, stagger away, as if I’m trying to run from

him. Blackwell seems to expect this, too, and advances. At

the last second, I turn to face him and I charge. He doesn’t

expect this; he hesitates – a split second – before raising the

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blade. It’s enough. I lunge forward, slam my foot into his

leg. He stumbles. I rise up, clasp my hands together, and

bring my entwined fists onto his forearm, hard. Once, twice.

The Azoth loosens, then falls from his grip. It lands with a

thud on the rain-soaked ground. I drive my toe into the

hilt, send it sliding through the mud, out of his reach.

Blackwell stops. Hesitates. Me or the Azoth? He can have

only one of us.

He chooses me.

Fast – faster than I imagined he could be – he lunges at

me. Fastens his hands around my throat. And with a growl

of disgust, hate and rage, he begins to squeeze.

I slap at his hands, tug at his wrists. Scratch and beat on

his arms, his face. But I’m weak. I’m more tired than I need

to be, and he doesn’t stop. He just squeezes harder, looking

me straight in the eye, his gaze merciless and unremorseful.

I try to shout, to scream. But I can’t. Even if I could, I

wouldn’t be heard above the pounding rain.

My legs go weak and collapse beneath me; I’m on my

knees now, then my back. The rain pours down on both of

us, and I thrash around in the mud, but Blackwell keeps

squeezing. I can feel my eyes roll to the back of my head,

and I’m blinking in and out of consciousness, almost in

time with the lightning that flashes in the sky. My body

starts jerking uncontrollably as it fights off the inevitable.

There’s no one to save me this time.

Then I remember: Schuyler. He’s here; he’s somewhere.

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I shout his name inside my head. I scream it. Over and

over. Schuyler. The Azoth. It’s here. Come get it, and come

save them.

There’s a shouting noise then, a screaming. It breaks

through the rain and the dullness in my head – and

Blackwell’s concentration. He lets go of my throat. I take a

ripping, searing breath and I still can’t move. But the

screaming continues.

Abruptly, Blackwell leans back and gets to his feet,

swearing under his breath. He waves his arms and the rain

around us stops. I turn my head to the side to see what’s