Witch Hunter (43 page)

happening and feel my eyes go round.

It’s carnage.

Schuyler stands in the clearing, the Azoth held in front

of him. Marcus and Linus lie on the ground, the two of

them flayed open, blood and innards pouring from their

wounds. That was the screaming I heard. Schuyler’s got the

blade turned on Caleb now. Caleb holds Fifer in front of

him, a dagger held to her throat. Across the clearing, George

is huddled over John, who is still lying on the ground, still

unmoving, still bleeding.

Blackwell storms towards Schuyler. ‘You,’ he growls.

‘Tell him to let her go,’ Schuyler says, not taking his eyes

off Caleb. ‘Tell him to do it now.’

Blackwell advances on him. Throws his arms in the air

and, at once, the rain starts up again, accompanied by a

crackle of lightning and ear-splitting thunder. I lose sight of

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them all now, and I can’t hear what’s happening. But I know

I need to move.

Slowly, I roll onto my side. I hurt in a thousand places at

once and I’m bleeding from a hundred. I’ve got so many

wounds my stigma can’t heal them all. I get to my hands

and knees but stumble to the ground again, face-first into

the mud. I get up again, but it’s so hard, so painful; even

breathing is painful. Finally, I stagger to my feet and start

towards them. I don’t know what I think I can do. I can

barely move. I don’t even have a weapon.

I stumble over something then. I look down. It’s the

knife. The one I stabbed myself in the leg with, the one John

flung to the ground. I reach down, pry it loose, and keep

moving. Blackwell is directly in front of me now, his back to

me. Schuyler twitches the blade between Blackwell and

Caleb. Caleb digs his blade into Fifer’s neck so hard I can

see the blood rising. But his focus is slipping. His eyes dart

around wildly, from Schuyler to the sky, then back again,

blinking furiously against the downpour. Only I know how

much Caleb hates the rain; I can almost hear him pleading

for it to stop.

There’s another crack of thunder and Caleb winces,

closing his eyes for a moment against the sound. I don’t

think. I pull back my arm, take aim, and let my dagger fly,

right at Caleb. It lands with a sickening thump in his neck

and he jerks away from Fifer, a look of surprise on his face.

The delay is enough. Schuyler lunges forward and snatches

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her from his grip. Caleb wrenches the blade from his

neck, the wound instantly healing. Blackwell whirls

around, as surprised as Caleb to see me standing there. He

hesitates, just for a second, unsure of what to do. But that’s

enough, too.

The Azoth.

The second I think it, Schuyler throws it to me. I snatch

it out of the air, and as Blackwell rounds on me, I swing.

The blade slices down his face and across his shoulder.

He pitches forward, stumbling to one knee, his hands

pressed against his face, his shouts of agony piercing the air.

I swing again. As the sword comes down, Caleb dives

between us. Before I can pull back, the full force of the blow

lands on his chest.

I step back, almost drop the blade. Caleb falls to his

knees, clutching his wound, blood pouring between

his hands.

‘Caleb,’ I whisper. I look at him and he looks at me; and

if I expected to see sorrow or regret in his eyes, I would be

mistaken. I see nothing but determination.

‘We owe him our lives,’ he says, his voice hoarse. He

looks at his chest, at the blood, and he knows he’s dying.

‘No, we don’t,’ I say, and I’m crying now. Dimly, I realise

that the rain has stopped, but it’s growing darker. Everything

around me is fading into black, as if the world were dying

instead of Caleb. Then there’s no light at all and no noise,

just the sound of me crying.

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‘Elizabeth!’ The sound of Fifer’s voice breaks through my

sobs. ‘Elizabeth!’

I open my eyes. Look around. Caleb is gone; Blackwell is

gone. In the spot where they stood lies a stone, faintly

smoking on the ground. A lodestone. He disappeared, along

with Caleb, along with the storm, along with his magic. It’s

clear again, the sky bright enough for me to see the others

across the clearing, huddled over John.

I stumble to him, my legs weak with grief and injury and

then, when I see him, terror.

‘Oh my God.’ My knees give way and I collapse next to

him. He’s ghostly pale, his skin slick with sweat and blood.

‘We have to get him out of here.’ I reach for him, try to lift

him. But the moment I do, John groans in pain and blood

blooms brighter across his shirt.

‘You can’t move him; we already tried,’ George says.

‘He’s lost too much blood. Every time he moves, he loses

more.’

No, I think. This can’t be happening. I can’t let this

happen. I can’t let him die.

Then I get an idea.

‘Fifer.’ I look up at her. ‘Your witch’s ladder. Where

is it?’

‘What?’

‘Your ladder. Where is it?’

Fifer reaches into her boot and pulls out the black cord.

Only one knot left.

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‘You said you can transfer things using Nicholas’s

power.’ My words come out in a rush. ‘Can you use it to

transfer my ability to heal over to John? As you did with the

grass and the invitations?’

‘I – I don’t know,’ she stammers. ‘I’ve never tried

anything like that before. What if it doesn’t work? It doesn’t

seem to be working on you.’

She’s right. I have so many injuries that it’s taking much

longer for them to heal. Stab wounds, broken ribs,

punctured lung. Poison circulating through my veins.

‘What if it doesn’t heal him? Or worse, what if it hurts

him more?’

John starts coughing then, his body shaking. He’s lost

too much blood. If we don’t do something soon, he’ll die.

He told me he loved me. Do I love him back? I don’t know.

But all I know is that I cannot let him die.

Fifer and I exchange a glance.

‘Lie down next to him,’ she whispers. ‘Get as close as you

can. This spell needs close contact to work.’

I lie on the ground, carefully sliding one hand under his

shoulder, wrapping the other around his waist. I can feel

how cold he is, how fragile. The air between us doesn’t smell

like lemons anymore. It smells like blood.

Fifer begins to untie the knot, her pale fingers trembling.

The cord begins to glow and she places it over our entwined

bodies. She takes a deep breath.

‘Transfer.’

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The pain is instantaneous. I’m being stabbed all over

again in a hundred different places at once. Only there’s no

fluttery healing sensation that follows. Only more pain.

There’s a drawing sensation, as if something is being pulled

out of me. I realise it’s probably my life. I feel myself stiffen,

then jerk around uncontrollably.

Just hold on, a voice whispers.

I try to. I do.

But then it’s too much, and everything just slips away.

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I think – I can’t be sure – but I think I might be dead.

It’s not as bad as I feared it would be. It’s warm, and I’m

lying on something soft. I’m not hungry and I’m not thirsty.

I’m not in pain. The air smells good: fresh, like spring. I

even have a pillow.

Dying was another matter entirely. There was a lot of

yelling, a lot of jostling, a lot of pain. I heard my name being

called over and over. I wanted to answer, but whoever it

was seemed too far away. There was also a lot of rocking.

Back and forth, back and forth. Some lurching too, like on a

ship. Then silence.

I wonder how long I’ve been dead. Weeks? Months? It

seems like a long time. I wonder what they did with my

body. I forgot to tell someone I didn’t want to be buried,

but I guess it didn’t matter anyway.

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I think about Fifer and George and John. How they came

back for me at Blackwell’s. Somehow they found a way to

forgive me, but I don’t know how. Sometimes I can hear

their voices, hushed and whispered around me. Saying

my name, holding my hand, willing me to come back to

them. It’s just a dream, I know. But I want so much for it to

be true.

There was one moment when I thought I really wasn’t

dead. It only happened once. My eyes fluttered open and I

saw John. He was sitting in a chair at the foot of my bed, his

elbow propped up on the mattress, reading a book. I looked

at him for a while. He looked clean and healthy, not at all

like the bleeding, half-dead boy I saw last. He seemed to

realise he was being watched, because after a moment he

looked up and smiled.

I stared at him, something tugging at the back of

my mind. There was something I wanted to say to him,

something I wanted to ask but never had the chance. Finally,

I remembered it.

‘The bird.’ The voice, it didn’t sound like my own. It was

weak and gritty and raw. ‘In the tree. Why?’

He doesn’t hesitate in his reply, as if he knew the answer

long before I asked the question.

‘Because I love you. And because being with you makes

me feel free.’

I wanted to say something to him, but I couldn’t. I felt

the darkness wrapping itself around me again, but not

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before I felt a smile drift across my lips. Then everything

went black.

‘Elizabeth, open your eyes,’ the voice commands. Whose

voice is that? Don’t they know I’m dead? I can’t open my

eyes. I don’t even know if I have eyes anymore.

‘She did it before, two days ago,’ says another voice.

My brain struggles to make the connection. I know that

voice.

John.

I want to speak. I try to speak, but nothing happens. I

hear a moaning noise. Is that me? If it is, I should stop

immediately. It sounds awful.

‘I’ll make her something to try to bring her around,’

John says. Is that really him? Is he really here? ‘I’ll be back

in a minute.’

Is this real? It can’t be. But what if it is? I don’t want

him to leave. I’m afraid if he does, he won’t come back. I

can feel something building up inside me, boiling like

water left in a kettle too long. I’m going to scream. Instead,

the only thing that comes out is a whisper.

‘Wait.’

Then I open my eyes.

There’s a soft rustling noise, then Nicholas’s face appears.

‘Hello, Elizabeth.’

‘You,’ I whisper. ‘Are you alive? Or are you dead

like me?’ Only, he doesn’t look dead. He looks healthier

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than I’ve ever seen him. His face flushed with colour, eyes

bright with life. He’s still and calm, and even as he sits in

his chair, doing nothing but watching me, he radiates

strength and presence.

‘I’m alive,’ he says. ‘So are you, though you had us

wondering. How are you feeling?’

I feel slow. I feel weak. I ache not in one place but all

over, and it takes every bit of strength I’ve got to keep my

eyes open, to speak. But I’m alive, and that’s more than I

ever expected.

I can only nod in reply.

Nicholas smiles, as if he can read my thoughts. ‘John

really does have a gift.’

‘He’s okay then?’ I croak. ‘The last time I saw him, he…’

was dying, I think. But I don’t want to say it.

‘Yes, he’s fine.’

‘What about Fifer? George? Peter and Schuyler…’

‘They’re all fine, too.’

I close my eyes. It takes a minute before I can speak

again.

‘Where am I?’ I look around, not recognising my

surroundings. I’m in an all-white room: white walls, white

bed, white stone fireplace. Thick white curtains are drawn

across the window, and no light at all shines through.

It must be night.

‘This is John and Peter’s home, in Harrow,’ he says. ‘They

brought you straight here from Blackwell’s.’

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‘What happened?’ I say. ‘The last thing I remember is

Fifer’s spell. Then nothing.’

Nicholas nods. ‘The spell worked. All the healing power

you had in your stigma was carried over to John. He was

made whole again almost immediately. You, on the other

hand, had grave injuries. Most of them were not fully healed

when the spell was performed. You should have died. You

would have, were it not for that.’ He gestures at Humbert’s

sapphire ring, still on my finger.