by Sally Green
I take the paper. It’s a photograph of three people: mother, father, daughter. The father is hanging by his neck from a beam. I guess this is their house. The mother and daughter are on their knees. The mother, her face bruised, is crying. The daughter’s face is strange. Blood runs from one empty eye socket. A knife is being pushed into the other one.
“Your sister, Deborah, went to great lengths to get us this information. She’s working for us. She believes as we do—”
“Shut up.” I need to think and I can’t when they talk about Deborah. But I can believe that she’s one of the White rebels; she can’t stand any injustice. I focus on Celia, though. I say, “They’ve killed Black Witches for years in Britain and Celia joined in. They persecuted White Witches who helped Black Witches. And she joined in.”
“Most Black Witches fled Britain, Nathan,” says Van, “though I know many were killed. But this is different. Soul is slaughtering them—us. It’s already on a much bigger scale and getting worse.”
Celia says, “And Soul is not just a danger to Black Witches. Nathan, your father killed my sister but already Soul has done worse. He’s killed my old partner, a retired Hunter, and my niece is on death row. Their only crime was objecting to Soul’s regime. Soul is supposed to protect White Witches. He is betraying us.”
I know Celia isn’t lying. That’s one thing about her. She may have kept things from me when I was her prisoner but she didn’t lie. I drop my arm, turn and walk out of the room and onto the balcony where I can breathe.
Isch
Gabriel is with me, sitting on the floor of the balcony. I don’t talk, don’t want to talk. I’ve still got the gun in my hand but I’ve had enough of guns so I hold it out to Gabriel and he takes it.
After a few more minutes I say, “I think Celia might know something about Arran. He was always being watched by Hunters. Can you go and ask her about him and Deborah?”
“Yes, if you want. But can’t you ask her?”
I shake my head. I’m fighting back tears, though I don’t know why—lots of memories of Celia and me. I say to Gabriel, “I was just a kid. She chained me up in a cage, beat me . . .” And I think of all the times she hit me and used her Gift against me. “I tried to kill myself because of her, Gabriel. I was just a kid.”
* * *
An hour later Celia has gone and I’m sitting inside with the others. Celia told Gabriel that Arran is working in London, training to be a doctor. He will join the rebels—that’s where his sympathies lie—but he’s in danger and is always being watched. Everyone knows he hates the Council. Deborah is working for the Council, in the archives. It’s a junior position but she has access to all the old records and she’s managing to get ahold of recent ones too. She has an unusual Gift for that apparently. She’s risking her life every day to send information to Celia, but Celia hopes Deborah will soon flee as she’s always under suspicion.
I’m finding it hard to concentrate on anything. Celia wasn’t on my hate list, and I don’t think that I do hate her, but I’m angry. Gabriel, it seems, was right about that—I’m angry at most people, most of the time, and I’m angrier now than I was when I was a prisoner because now I can look back and see the injustice and brutality and I can do nothing about it.
And as much as I’m shocked at my feelings about Celia, I’m also surprised at my feelings for Gabriel. He trusted me. He drew his gun to protect me and then gave it to me without question, without hesitation, when he must have wondered if I’d go too far. He can’t have known what I’d do because I certainly didn’t.
I look over at Gabriel. He’s sitting on a low cushion, as I am. His hair is tucked behind his ears. He is handsome and brave and gentle and intelligent and funny: the most perfect friend. I’ve had few friends: Annalise, Ellen, and Gabriel. And I know he’s the one who knows me best, believes in me most. Even Arran didn’t trust me like Gabriel does. And when Gabriel kissed me, he did it so I didn’t feel bad. He did it to show me I’m not a monster. He must have known he was risking me pushing him away. And it would be so much easier if I didn’t care for Annalise like I do. If I felt for Gabriel what I feel for her. He says he can’t bear to be away from me and I’m like that with her. I can’t imagine living happily unless I’m with her. That’s the only place I want to be: at her side.
Gabriel turns to me, meets my gaze, and then his expression changes. “What?” he asks.
I shake my head and I mouth, Nothing. Then I force myself to turn from him and pay attention to what’s going on around me.
We’re sitting on large cushions that form a circle in the room. The floor is covered with rugs, Persian I guess, not one rug but many; they must be two or three deep and they’re soft and silky. The room is dim but rich—all reds and golds.
I’m sitting opposite Isch, a large woman dressed in layers of color—purple, gold, red—from her turban to her silk slippers. She has plump hands that flit around as she talks. Her nails are long and painted gold and her fingers are almost hidden under numerous jewel-encrusted rings. We’ve been introduced and offered tea. Now two young girls enter the room, carrying large, round wooden trays. The tea is poured in small glasses. There is what looks like Turkish delight on a plate, nuts and fat black grapes.
Isch watches the girls leave and when the door is closed she asks Van, “What do you think of them?”
“The girls? Who knows? Until an apprentice works with you, it’s impossible to say how things will turn out.”
“Perhaps I should ask what you think, Nesbitt?”
He swigs his tea in one gulp, then says, “I’m sure you’ll get good prices for them.”
“I’m not so certain. Troubled times bring shortages of certain commodities. Demand for herbs and flowers for protective potions is sky-high already but that doesn’t mean it’s the time to take on a new apprentice. Prices for them are plummeting.”
I’ve been sitting quietly up till now but I can’t resist saying, “You sell the girls?”
Isch turns to me. Her eyes are brown, like Gabriel’s, but smaller, lost in the plump beige skin of her face. Her nose is small too but her lips are full and painted a bright red. She says, “Of course the girls are sold. Boys too but few want boys.”
“Sold like slaves?”
“Not at all like slaves. They’re valued apprentices. Think of their prices as transfer fees. They’re more like professional footballers than slaves.”
“Do they get paid those sorts of salaries? Football salaries?”
Isch laughs. “They get the best training for free. They get the thrill of learning from another top player if they’re good enough. It’s how I learned. And Van.”
“And what if they’re not good enough?”
“Some owners put up with poor results; most don’t. Hence the market in new apprentices.”
“I was told Mercury ate little boys—would those be her failed apprentices?”
“I’m not sure she eats them but she does find uses for them—ingredients mostly, bottled for later use.”
“And my father? Does he have apprentices?”
Isch hesitates. “He’s never bought from me. But perhaps you’ll soon be looking for an apprentice? And then I will ensure you get the best.”
“No,” I say. “I don’t want a slave.”
She picks up her glass of tea, sips it, and says, “Well, if you should ever change your mind.”
“Are you intending to sell any of those girls to Mercury?” asks Van.
“Mercury doesn’t deal with me directly at the moment. I hear the Hunters were close on her tail in Switzerland and since then she’s cut herself off from everyone except Pilot. She’s being extremely careful. I’ve already sent a girl to Pilot for Mercury. A nasty little thing but very bright and fast to learn. Mercury will be looking for the best to replace Rose, now that she’s gone.”
“She’s not gone. She was
shot. Killed by Hunters,” I say.
“Alas,” Isch replies but her mouth is a wide, bright red smirk. “Still, as ever, disasters bring many business opportunities.”
“Well, I hope you make a tidy profit,” I say.
“Could you tell us where Pilot is?” Van asks. “We too intend to do some business with Mercury.”
Isch regards Van and then says, “In the Pyrenees, a small hamlet beyond Etxalar. The last house at the top of the road.”
“Thank you.” Van picks up a Turkish delight, which is a pale rose color, the same as her suit.
We’re in the car twenty minutes later.
Van slides on her seat belt and says, “Let’s go.”
Nesbitt is typing into the satnav as the car screeches away from the curb.
“You trust Isch?” I ask. “She wouldn’t just send us into a trap? She seems motivated by money.”
“She’s a fine Black Witch. She wouldn’t sell us out.”
“She sells girls into slavery.”
“The girls are free to go if they wish.”
“They’re not free if they have nowhere else to go, if they have no one to help them, to look after them.”
“You want to go back, buy them, and care for them?”
I don’t reply.
Van turns and looks at me enquiringly.
“I don’t think I’m the answer to their problems.”
Van smiles. “No, indeed.”
Pilot
It’s well past midnight when we arrive in the tiny mountain village. The journey here took nearly six hours but we haven’t stopped. We left the car in a different city, I’ve no idea which one, and Nesbitt traded it in for a new 4x4, but we’ve left that at the bottom of the hill with Van, as even that’s conspicuous here. There are few cars in this area and all of them are old and battered. Gabriel, Nesbitt, and I are now walking through the village and up the hill. Pilot’s house is the furthest and there is a faint yellow glow from a light in a downstairs window.
Van thinks her presence will be a problem. She and Pilot have had disagreements in the past, though she’s not mentioned that until now. But anyway this negotiation is down to Gabriel, as he knows Pilot and she trusts him.
I’m going ahead and doubling back to the others as they’re so slow.
“You’re like a puppy off the lead,” says Nesbitt. It’s dark but he’ll be able to see the finger I raise to him. “Take it slow, keep an eye out. Can’t be too careful these days,” he mutters.
We arrive at the small house. Nesbitt knocks gently on the door and we wait.
And wait.
And wait.
A shadow passes across the light inside. There are no sounds.
“Gabriel?” A quiet voice but not from the door—from behind us.
We turn as one and there’s a woman standing in the path, an incredibly tall woman with black hair almost down to her knees.
Gabriel takes charge, spreading his arms wide and saying, “Pilot, it’s good to see you.”
She doesn’t smile but she leans toward him and they exchange two kisses on the cheeks, which seems promising. Gabriel speaks in French, introducing us, I think. And that’s when I sense that Nesbitt and I aren’t going to get any kisses, ever. She can barely hold back a snarl from me and looks like she wants to spit at Nesbitt. Then she flounces off; only flounces doesn’t do justice to her stature. We follow her slowly round behind the house, Gabriel ahead, while I say to Nesbitt, “She looks like she can’t stand to have us near her.”
“Don’t take it personal. She’s just a snob. Some of them are like that. Van’s unusually open-minded, and young Gabriel is too, of course. Isch is just interested in business. You’d be surprised how liberal a lot of Black Witches are but some . . . some are snobs like Pilot. She can’t stand mongs.”
“Mongs?”
“Mongrels. Half Bloods. She only likes pure Blacks.”
“I bet being half White is worse in her eyes than being half fain.”
Nesbitt nudges my shoulder. “Don’t worry, mate, I don’t mind you.” And he puts his arm round me. “Us mongs should stick together. All for one and one for all.”
I push him away and he laughs.
Behind the house there’s a patio area screened by vines with a lit firepit in the center. It looks like Pilot wasn’t asleep. Or maybe she sleeps here. We sit on large, dusty cushions that surround the fire—or rather Pilot and Gabriel do. Nesbitt and I are relegated to the outer circle on threadbare rugs.
Pilot calls inside and a girl appears. She’s thin and her hair is a straggly, mousy mess, almost alive with head lice. She scowls when she sees us and seems to barely listen to Pilot’s instructions before going back inside.
Nesbitt leans toward me. “She’s been told to bring us some water. But I wouldn’t touch it, mate; she’s bound to have spat in it.”
A few minutes later the girl appears with olives and a carafe of wine. She spends the next few minutes going in and out of the house, bringing bread, olive oil, tomatoes, peppers, all for Gabriel and Pilot. Nesbitt was right: we just get water, and the glasses are filthy.
Gabriel talks to Pilot. I think he’s explaining what’s happened; I think I hear my name once or twice but he’s talking in French so he could be saying anything.
The talk goes on and on.
The house is old and ugly. There’s a low, plastered wall round the patio that was once painted white but is now gray. A structure of wooden trellis rises from the wall and connects to the house and over this is a thick growth of vines.
Gabriel and Pilot are sitting cross-legged. Pilot puts a log on the fire, Gabriel keeps his eyes on her, and they talk.
Nesbitt is splayed across his rug, half asleep. He says to me, “Sounds like this is going to take some time.” I lie down too, trying to remember when I last slept.
* * *
I wake. The sun is jabbing at my face through a gap in the trellis.
Nesbitt is lying on his back, his arm over his face, but I see his eyes are open and I think he’s listening to the conversation that’s still going on between Pilot and Gabriel. Nesbitt yawns.
I sit up. A cricket lands on the rug beside me. It chirps and then jumps away as I reach for it. I realize now that the noise of the crickets is all around, and it sort of swells and dims, almost pulsing with the heat. It’s a sound similar to mobile phones but it’s in my ears not in my head.
I stand, stretch, and yawn, and then I walk to the edge of the patio to look through the trellis and up to the dry hills that surround us.
Gabriel and Pilot have gone quiet.
I can hear crickets. Lots of crickets. But also, maybe, sometimes in a lull I catch a c h c h c h c h in my head. It’s so faint that it might not even be there. I move to the corner to listen rather than look.
Nesbitt is standing beside me now. “What?”
“I’m not sure. Can you see anything?”
Nesbitt looks through the trellis. He shakes his head. ‘I see better at night.”
And I think I catch it again, so brief and quiet that it’s almost drowned out by the crickets—but it was in my head, I’m sure.
“There’s someone out there with a mobile phone,” I say. “Maybe a fain.”
“Just one?” Nesbitt asks.
“I dunno,” I say.
“Let’s take a look.”
I turn to Gabriel. “Wait here? We’ll scout around.”
He nods. Pilot looks not too worried.
I circle wide to the left, Nesbitt to the right. The crickets jump ahead of me and fill my ears with noise. When Pilot’s house is a distant square I turn uphill, slow now, keeping well to the left of the house. The hill seems to go on and on. I veer left a little more and come to a dry valley, three meters deep, steep-sided. I send a rock clattering down it. I curse inwardly
as I stop and hold still. I’m surprised to be rewarded for my sloppiness as in return I hear . . .
c h c h c h c h c h c h c h c h c h c h c h c h c h c h c h c h c h c h c h c h c h
I can’t tell where the mobile is but it has to be uphill and I think I can hear it when its owner moves, like he or she did when the stone fell. I guess that if the owner of the mobile is a Hunter she’s lying on the ground on the edge of the valley, watching Pilot’s house. She’ll be well hidden and the noise from her mobile blocked so that I hear the phone only when she rises up to look.
I move fast now, downhill, then stop. Listen again.
Just crickets here.
I move slowly and carefully down into the little valley, each footstep chosen so that no stones are dislodged, and at the bottom I stop and listen again.
Just crickets.
Then up the other side, slow and careful. Keeping low, I run quickly over to a stand of olive trees and through them, looking to my right. No movement. I stop, look left—nothing—and turn round to survey the whole area. I can make out a few houses that form the edge of the village way down the hillside but Pilot’s house is out of sight.
I turn back to face uphill, close my eyes, and listen.
c h c h c h c h c h c h c h c h c h c h c h c h c h c h c h
I think I know where the Hunter is and I’m sure it’s a Hunter now. There’s no reason for anyone else to be up here, hiding. For a second, I consider trying to unleash the animal in me but I stand the best chance as a human. Celia has trained me for combat and it’s time I used the skills she taught me.
I move as fast as I can back to the right, toward the dry valley. Then I see her. A black figure laid out on the ground, in plain view from here but hidden from Pilot’s house. She’s looking through binoculars. It seems like she hasn’t realized that Nesbitt and I are scouting around.
But where is her partner? And are there two Hunters or more? Very possibly more.