Hunter found himself gazing in the direction of the kitchen where there was the clatter of mugs. What do you know, maybe Sophie would make a witch-hunter after all, and he wouldn’t have to feel guilty.
“Ugh, you do like to try me, George,” Brian grumbled.
“Who’s George?” Sophie appeared in the doorway, three mugs in hand.
“Ahm.” Hunter shifted uncomfortably, trying to work out if he could get a cup of tea without giving an answer.
“You didn’t think Hunter was his actual name, girl?” Brian guffawed, blowing everything. “George Astley the Seventh, that’s him. Only he insists on adopting that daft moniker and have everyone call him it. Just egotistical, if you ask me.”
Sophie turned to Hunter, her eyes glittering.
“Look, I’ll have you know my friends started that nickname - and it had nothing to do with witches. Besides, do I look like a ‘George’? Only my mother insists on calling me it - well, and you, Mr Lloyd.”
They sat drinking tea and chatting about insignificant things for another half hour. With a meaningful look from Brian, Sophie picked up some books and excused herself.
“You didn’t just come for a chit-chat?” Brian asked suspiciously.
“No,” Hunter replied, then fell silent. There was something else that had been making him increasingly uneasy, especially after a recent event.
“A police contact got in touch recently. He had something he thought I might be interested in. A couple of months ago six teenage girls died in a suspected arson attack.”
“And why should that concern us?” Brian asked, not sure where this was going.
“Well, it turns out they were all wiccans.”
The two men sat in silence. Wiccans. Whereas witches were a whole different breed, wiccans were normal humans (normal in perspective) that treated ‘magick’ as a religion. They were generally harmless individuals, bored housewives and teens that wore too much black. They played with their candles and foretold wobbly futures through cards and the like and were a bit of a running joke amongst the witch-hunters. After all, who’d be scared of a cat after facing lions!
Eventually Brian shrugged. “Sometimes wiccans die. It could have been an accident; it could have been arson, but mundane normal people arson. If witches were involved, the MMC would have found the traces.”
“There’s more.” Hunter sighed. “And I don’t know what to make of it. Last week, we took on a small coven, four witches. Three were killed, one bound. But as soon as the binding was complete, she burst into tears, saying crazy things: that she didn’t know what she was agreeing to. Then she committed suicide a day later. Something didn’t feel right so I had James do a background check. Turns out she was a wiccan.”
Ok. That was enough to get Brian’s attention.
“But… wiccans cannot gain anything from witchcraft.”
“I know,” Hunter muttered.
“What proud witch would allow one to join them. They think wiccans are scum.”
“I know.”
“And the binding, a wiccan would have no powers to be bound from, so why would she agree to be bound?”
“I know.”
“So… are they taking on wiccans as servants? Or using them to swell their ranks? It’s unheard of.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Hunter agreed. It didn’t seem to fit, but he was scrabbling to make sense of it.
Brian sat, idly scratching his chin as he stared into space. He was a living legend, one of the oldest, longest-running witch-hunters. He’d faced every threat out there and never backed down. If he couldn’t find an answer, who could?
“Aye, leave this to me, boy. I’ll look into it. Now, why don’t you bugger off so I can get some work done.”
Hunter smiled again and shook hands with his old mentor. Yes, time to leave, there were other sources he could get working too.
As he left he passed Sophie who was sitting in the front garden, a book on her lap. She looked up as he said goodbye and there was the briefest smile on her lips. “See you, George.”
*****
His next stop was Oxford.
Possibly one of the most beautiful cities in England. The way it clung onto tradition, and the studious air that came from the abundance of intelligent young minds. Oh, the memories Hunter had of this place. The slightly dilapidated rooms at his old college, the great hall that awed all newcomers, the underground bar where he used to drink with James and Charlotte.
It had been in his first year of university that he received the news that his father had been killed. Hunter joined the witch-hunters then and there and he’d dragged his friends into his dangerous world. Now they all had their parts to play. James was a 1st gen witch-hunter and Charlotte, dear sweet Charlotte, was a very important member of the Council: she had easily switched from law student to liaison in the office of bound witches.
So, who better to ask about bound witches. Hunter rolled up to her door early the next morning. But the person that answered wasn’t the black-skinned beauty, it was a tall, lanky bloke with glasses.
“Ah, morning, Steve. Is Lottie in?”
Steve King, the gormless bugger that had married the most important woman in Hunter’s life. Steve King, who now looked with intense dislike towards Hunter.
“Charlotte, you’ve got a visitor!” Steve called, and then stepped aside so Hunter could squeeze into the hall. “She’s in the kitchen.”
Hunter nodded humbly and went through the familiar house, Steve close behind him. Something about that guy always made Hunter feel like he’d done something wrong. But then, Hunter always did go out of his way to antagonise him.
“Ah, my favourite lady, just how I like to see her!” Hunter greeted with a fierce hug.
Charlotte gave him a sceptical look when he let go. She was sat at the breakfast table with a half-eaten bowl of cereal in front of her. Her unbrushed black hair was tied messily back and she was still in her dressing gown.
“I wanted to catch you before you went to work.”
“I’m not working today Hunter. You could have phoned ahead.” Charlotte glanced at the clock. “Oh, darling, you’re going to be late.” Her big brown eyes fell on her husband. “Go to work, we’ll be fine.”
“Yes, go to work, darling. I’ll look after Lottie.” Hunter added, enjoying the opportunity to wind him up.
Charlotte jumped up to see Steve out the front door, hitting Hunter as she passed him.
Ignoring the loving farewell that echoed up the corridor, Hunter helped himself to the fresh coffee.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” Charlotte said as she came back, “Every time you visit, he’s in a mood for a week.”
“Then you shouldn’t have married such a grumpy sod. Why you settled for such a boring-”
“Quiet, kind, caring and RELIABLE.” Charlotte cut in, repeating what she had said a hundred times before. “Why are you here, Hunter? Apart from driving my husband mad.”
Hunter repeated everything he’d told Brian. Told her everything.
“And you want me to look if we have any similar cases, and check out the backgrounds of any unusual cases?”
God, she caught on fast.
Charlotte regarded him carefully. “That’s a lot of extra work, Hunter. Do you know how many cases my office has processed?”
Hunter sighed. “I know, and I hate to ask, but I have a weird feeling there’s something bigger here.”
“Ok. I’ll do it, of course,” Charlotte replied with a sorry smile. “I learnt long ago to trust your weird feelings.”
“Thanks, Lottie.” Hunter gazed at her with friendly affection. But then frowned. “Where’s your bracelet? You know you shouldn’t take it off.”
He was speaking of Charlotte’s amulet, a delicate gold bracelet with small rubies, a beautiful way to protect oneself.
Charlotte reached into her dressing gown pocket and pulled out the offending piece of jewellery, her fingers gently playing over the links and s
tones. “Steve doesn’t like me wearing it too often, no matter how I explain it he still sees it purely as an expensive gift from you that he can’t compete with. But don’t worry, I always have it close by.”
Hunter frowned at this news, disliking dear Steve even more. “What if it doesn’t work like that, Charlotte? You shouldn’t take the risk.”
“I’m a full-grown woman, Mr Astley, it’s my choice.”
Ok, so Hunter felt like the petulant little boy whenever Charlotte got like this, but he couldn’t help caring. “Ok, but please tell me Steve hasn’t removed the protection over the house?”
“No, he sees that as a dividend of working at the MMC. If you don’t believe me, you can go inspect it.” Charlotte said, looking carefully at Hunter. “Can we talk about something else? How’s James?”
“Reliably annoying,” Hunter replied swiftly. “He’s gone home for a few days, which means he will come back with that unbearable over-the-top accent again. He might as well wear a bloody badge saying: ‘I’m from Yorkshire’.”
Charlotte laughed, she knew that Hunter was as fond of James as she was, but that didn’t stop these two southerners enjoying the peculiarities of their friend from oop north.
“And how’s - what’s her name - Leanne? All going well?” Charlotte asked, unconvincingly ‘forgetting’ the name of Hunter’s girlfriend.
“Leanne?” Hunter asked vaguely. “Oh, her. She got too clingy. It’s Marie now, but it’s not going anywhere. Then there’s Natalie of course, the girl from my mother’s tennis club.”
Charlotte laughed at the ever-changing women in his life. “Lord, I can’t keep track of you, Hunter. What are you trying to do, work your way through the alphabet before New Year? Will it be Olivia next, then Patrice? Aren’t you ever just going to settle down?”
Hunter shrugged. “What can I say? The best girl in the world is already taken, so I’m just enjoying the rest.”
There was an uncomfortable silence, and Hunter wondered if he’d tripped over that invisible line of conduct they kept for their friendship. They both knew that he had been in love with her since their days at University. Charlotte was beautiful and intelligent, she had been so caring and supportive when Hunter’s father had died. She had also been immune to his charms.
Charlotte had never returned his love, and their relationship had been awkwardly platonic. Some days it was more awkward than others.
Hunter was uncomfortably aware that today was going to be one of those days. He glanced at his watch, anxious for an excuse to leave. “Look, Lottie, I should be going. I promise I’ll ring before I come round next time!”
Chapter Four
Back to work again, no matter what else was happening, the fight against witchcraft was ongoing. During James’ trip to Yorkshire, he had heard of incidents that the MMC were yet unaware of. People in a small village were living in fear for their sanity. So, they had done their research and headed up. For the past few weeks, several prominent figures of the small community had been suffering from hallucinations. Constant terrifying visions of those they loved dying in gruesome manners. It all started when the village united to drive away a disturbing new resident, a middle-aged woman they suspected of carrying out sick, occult practices. And it all reached a peak when the post-office owner was found dead - verdict suicide.
It seemed like an obvious case of a witch taking revenge.
Hunter and James arrived at the village in the evening, the last of the summer sun giving it a warm, pleasant look. But the serene picture was ruined by the fact that from the moment they arrived, Hunter could taste the layers of magic and the violent, bitter tone of the spells.
James hefted their bags out of the car and slammed the boot. “So, where is she?”
They had managed to work out that the witch must be staying close to the village, but nothing more specific. That’s where a trained witch-hunter came in - they could sense the use, and source of magic; and Hunter just happened to be a finely-tuned 7th gen.
He closed his eyes, seeing and feeling the rhythm of the last cast spell. His eyes flew open. “Hope you brought your hiking boots.” He said, turning to James with a rueful smile.
Unfortunately. magic didn’t follow roads, or dry paths, and the two men pushed their way through a field of corn, then a field of wet grass, avoiding cowpats in the darkening evening. The land became more untamed and a small cottage appeared in a hidden dip of the countryside.
“There. Definitely there.” Hunter said, finally stopping.
James caught up, slightly out of breath. He dumped his bag and pulled out his kit: Kevlar jacket; long knife; short knife; gun; in the bag there was everything he could possibly need. He checked them over, repeatedly checking the gold ring on his right hand, even though he never removed the protective amulet.
Hunter was kitted out in similar fashion. He turned and nodded to James and they set off the short distance to the cottage in silence. Over the years they worked together perfectly and it seemed unnecessary for extraneous words.
Hunter went to the front door, then waited to give James chance to get around the back. He knew when James was in place - Hunter never challenged his senses, even he didn’t know how being a 7th gen allowed him to do this. Then, gun in hand, he opened the old, rusty latch on the door. It made a slight creak as it opened and Hunter held his breath, but there was no response. He opened it further and slipped in, creeping towards a flickering light, carefully, carefully over the rough wooden floor.
Hunter stopped at a doorway, gently inching round so that he could see part of the room. There was movement and he snapped back, then looked again. A figure was moving about, preparing for her night’s work. Candles were lit, random objects arranged on the floor - personal items such as brushes, photos, even clothing - all to help focus the magic upon her victims. Hunter knew from his research that the woman was nearly fifty, but she had the appearance of a thirty-year old. It wasn’t uncommon for witches to keep a youthful appearance, they were vain and arrogant creatures.
Hunter dragged his eyes across the room, searching for further danger. Then to the only other door, where a slight shift of shadow showed James was ready. Hunter nodded and stepped into the room, gun raised. “Stop!”
The witch jumped with surprise, she span around to see that there were two of them. But then she smiled and shook her head. She raised her arms and the shadow and firelight leapt up and formed two massive snarling beasts which rushed at the men.
Hunter didn’t flinch, didn’t move, as the very solid four-legged beast leapt up with teeth bared… and continued to pass straight through him.
The witch hesitated, disconcerted that her powerful illusions failed to distract these men.
“By the Malleus Maleficarum, you will surrender your-”
“Witch-hunters.” The witch snarled, stepping back, her eyes sparking dangerously. “In that case…”
She kicked over the candles and before Hunter could react the fire sped with unnatural speed and threw up a wall of flame. Hunter fired once into the flames, but heard the bullet hit the wall. The fire twisted into a huge serpent and darted at James. He didn’t move fast enough and his sleeve singed and ignited and he allowed himself to be distracted. The witch sent a wave of power that knocked him off his feet.
“No!” Hunter leapt to his friend’s side so that he could protect them both, firing off another round as he did so.
The whole room was on fire now, the air thickening with smoke. The witch stood in the very centre, a smile on her face. But then Hunter heard the smashing of a window and the image faded - the illusion buying its master time to escape.
Coughing, Hunter dragged James to his feet and the two of them stumbled through the heat and smoke to the door. Once outside they gulped down the clean air, James dropped to the ground again, but Hunter turned and ran.
Across the dark fields, Hunter’s sharp eyes could see a fleeing figure. He stopped as he reached higher ground and raised his gun, took aim a
nd fired. In the distance the figure jerked and fell.
Still coughing, Hunter jogged along to his quarry. The witch was gasping for breath and fighting the shock of having a bullet in her shoulder.
Hunter aimed the gun at her head, just in case she had the energy for another round.
“As I was saying, surrender yourself to my authority, to be bound and charged.”
The witch spat at him, then screamed. “She will be my saviour.”
Hunter heard James stagger up to them as he cocked the gun. It was his experience that this attitude led to immediate execution.
But the witch seemed to claw back her wild anger and gave a grimace. “Bind me, you cowardly bastards.” She dropped her head back to the ground, submitting to her disgraceful fate.
“If you will, Mr Bennett.” Hunter said, without moving the gun.
James knelt down and pulled out an amulet and piece of black ribbon. He took out his small knife and cut the witch’s thumb, then pressed it to the amulet and wrapped the black ribbon about her wrist.
The witch grew tense and screeched as her powers drained out of her and into the amulet.
Hunter watched dispassionately. He preferred not to kill, and now she was harmless - well, she was no more dangerous than a human now. Her power would be filed at the MMC, then disposed of; and she would be carted off to prison. A job well done, with only a few minor burns to deal with.
Only… Hunter felt uneasy. This witch had proved to be powerful, yet instead of fighting to the death, she had quickly given up on pride and been bound. It was unusual enough to make him worry. He sighed, telling himself to stop being daft, they had won.
*****
The offices of the Oxford Branch of the MMC hardly stood out. There was very little to differentiate between them and the other boring buildings that neighboured it. James had offered to take the recent deposits of files and amulets, but Hunter had insisted on doing it. After that last witch, James was still burnt and concussed. It was rather funny really, Hunter noticed that whenever good old James got concussed his Yorkshire accent got so bad that you could hardly understand the poor bloke. Besides, Hunter wanted to drop in and see Charlotte.
Witch Hunter Trilogy Box Set Page 3