Witch Hunter Trilogy Box Set

by K. S. Marsden

About 4 o’ clock that afternoon, the sun dropped to the misty horizon and the world was half-lit in a grey light. Twilight.

  “They’re coming.” Hunter breathed, his hand tightening about the cold handle of his gun

  There was a suffocating silence, and a gentle breeze that was oddly warm. In the open space outside the village, figures began to appear, black and solid against the insubstantial evening. There was a throbbing pulse of magic that raised the head of every witch-hunter.

  The witches were more than fifty in number, and they bristled with excitement as they marched behind their leader, the Shadow Witch. They came to the edge of the Astley estate and stopped, the magic of the Manor doing its work. None could cross the invisible line without rendering themselves mortal.

  In the privacy of every man and woman’s mind, a voice echoed an ultimatum.

  “Surrender and your lives shall be spared. All we demand is that you turn over Astley. Resist and you die.”

  Those inside the Manor exchanged grim looks. They did not sacrifice one of their own, nor did they compromise with witches. And upon feeling the hateful magic that brewed, none would trust their lives to the gathered witchkind.

  Hunter gazed about the other witch-hunters that stood waiting in the hall for his signal. Their anxious faces lit by flickering firelight - at least they were warmer than those on patrol outside. James, Marks and twenty others, all silently relying on his questionable ability to protect them.

  They might all die tonight. But there was no backing down.

  Hunter took a deep breath and nodded, no point delaying the inevitable. The twenty fellow witch-hunters scrambled to their feet and followed him out of the warm Manor and into the cold, darkening evening. They marched over the flat ground, directed by that inner sense that detected magic.

  There was a crowd of witches awaiting them, all charged with magic and excitement. They shifted so two opposing lines were formed, witches facing witch-hunters, just twenty feet apart, the Astley Estate border between them. The witches outnumbered the witch-hunters three times over.

  The Shadow Witch stepped forward closer to the border. Her eyes immediately settled on Hunter. “You have come to give yourself up?”

  Her question was answered by the tensing of the line and the metallic click of several guns readying.

  “No, I didn’t think you’d make it easy,” the Shadow Witch said bitterly, a familiar frown creasing her beautiful features. “You can’t win. Have your men lay down their weapons and they may live.”

  “Why don’t you come over here and we’ll discuss it,” Hunter responded, stalling for time while others moved silently into position.

  “I don’t think so,” Sophie replied. “Shall we see how the Astley protection stands up against the destructive power of the Shadow Witch?”

  She raised her arms and there was the crackle of immense energy building up. Hunter suddenly saw in a flash the ruins and rubble of Brian Lloyd’s house.

  A gun discharged as one of the witch-hunters lost his nerve.

  “NO!” Hunter barked, snapping back to the present.

  The witches stood unfazed, apparently protected from something as insignificant as bullets.

  “You can’t win,” Sophie repeated, her eyes unfocussed as she prepared to release her most destructive magic.

  “You won’t hurt anyone,” Hunter whispered.

  With those around him in danger, he let his desire to protect grow. It spread like a blanket over the witches and witch-hunters, regardless of borders. The Shadow Witch either couldn’t feel it, or was too absorbed in her own spell to notice. She smiled and released her magic…

  Nothing happened.

  Sophie frowned, thinking it had been the power of the enchantments of the Manor that had stopped her. But it shouldn’t be, she had lived there for months, she knew every defence and how to overcome it. Her eyes found Hunter again and her confusion turned to rage.

  “ASTLEY! You utter bastard. How dare you… You weren’t…” Sophie spat, her anger boiling over. “I warn you not to do this.”

  “Too late,” Hunter replied quietly.

  From the darkness, lines of soldiers and witch-hunters ran forward, aimed and fired.

  The gathered witches laughed scornfully as the first shots rang out - for what could harm them in the presence of the Shadow Witch? But the laughter turned to screams of shock and fury and pain as the bullets ripped through, killing and maiming.

  As one body, the witches turned to face their attackers, preparing to raise their reliable magic to destroy them. But again nothing happened, they were defenceless against the slaughter.

  Sophie span, turned from one scene of tragedy to another as her loyal witches were shot down. They were surrounded, no escape on foot. Sophie tried, and failed, to raise her shadows to get the survivors out. Hunter, this was his doing. No bullet could penetrate her seething aura as she sought him.

  Hunter stood firmly on Astley ground, using his Manor’s enchantments for protection. Everyone else had gone forward to engage the enemy.

  Hunter’s eyes were open, but unseeing. He trembled in his stance as he struggled to maintain the block. He was starting to weaken, to slip, magic started to seep through the defences, he had to hold on.

  He was vaguely aware of someone approaching. He was unsurprised that it should be Sophie.

  “You shouldn’t have told me… what I was,” he gasped. “Your fault. It’s your fault.”

  “Your magic shall die with you, Astley.” Sophie spat, drawing closer, crossing the border that made her powerless.

  Hunter shook his head with some difficulty. “You can’t kill me.”

  Sophie hesitated. “Don’t be so sure.”

  There was a flash of metal and movement. Hunter couldn’t move fast enough to block the knife that drove into his torso. It felt cold, he realised, before the pain came.

  He looked into Sophie’s eyes, so close to his, and saw that her anger was gone, replaced by shock that drained the blood from her face.

  Hunter felt the protective magic slip and fade, and he crumpled to the ground.

  There was more gunfire, closer now. People continued to scream, but now others were calling his name.

  It all grew fainter.

  ‘What do you know, I was wrong,’ he thought.

  Then the world disappeared.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Hunter was lying somewhere warm, soft, and familiar. He was comfortable, so he stayed as he was while his mind caught up. Images of an army and a battle flashed behind his eyes, and somewhere the knowledge that he should be dead. Was he?

  He was breathing, he could feel his heavy limbs, but not much more. He finally opened his eyes, squinting against the daylight. It looked like his bedroom in the Manor. He sighed, that wasn’t his idea of heaven.

  There was the sound of someone else in the room, alerted to his consciousness by the sigh.

  “Hunter, you’re awake. Thank god.” The familiar voice was accompanied by a familiar figure hovering over him.

  “James, you look terrible.” Hunter said, his voice rough.

  James grimaced, his face still bore the signs of torture at the hands of the witches. “Thanks mate, nice to see you too. Thought you were never gonna wake up.”

  “How long have I been out?”

  “A couple of days,” James replied.

  Hunter frowned, then struggled to sit up, noticing the thick bandaging around his midriff and the odd, pain-free, sensation-free feeling. Which he guessed had plenty to do with copious amounts of morphine. Sitting up probably wasn’t a good idea.

  “What happened?” Hunter asked.

  “Sophie stabbed you. You’re lucky to be alive.”

  “I know that.” Hunter grimaced. “But what happened in the fight? Sophie, was she…” killed? He couldn’t bring himself to say the word.

  “Sophie’s gone. Not dead, as much as we tried. She ran and vanished. As for the rest, we’d eradicated most of the witches
by the time you were attacked. Then there was nowhere for them to go, they were all eliminated, with surprisingly few casualties on our side,” James filled in dutifully, still buoyed up on success.

  Hunter sat quietly, taking it all in. They’d won, they had slaughtered their enemies. Never had Hunter been upset by the death of witches. So what had changed; was it because he was one? No matter how you phrased it he possessed magic. Or was it because… because he had loved one.

  James, sensing that Hunter had a lot on his mind, made a weak excuse and left. Hunter hardly noticed him go, his thoughts were now on Sophie.

  With no proof or reason, he had believed Bev when she said that Sophie could not kill him. Yet she had tried, she had meant to, it was only luck that had kept him alive.

  Hunter remembered how pale Sophie had looked in that last moment, as if she were sharing his pain. Then she’d fled.

  What came next was anyone’s guess. Hunter could predict that he and Sophie would be the most hunted people by opposing parties. And neither could exist without seeking to destroy the other.

  The future was dark and definitely interesting, and wholly full of possibilities.

  And then the truth niggled away in a quiet corner of Hunter’s thoughts and heart. He was in love with the woman that would kill him, and she was carrying his child.

  Mind the Threefold Law you should, three times bad and three times good.

  When misfortune is enow, wear the blue star on thy brow.

  True in love ever be, lest thy lover's false to thee.

  Eight words the Wiccan Rede fulfill: An ye harm none, do what ye will.

  The Shadow Reigns

  Witch-Hunter 2

  K. S. Marsden

  An insight from our villain

  For hundreds of years witches have been persecuted; forced to keep their heads down and conform to laws that we never agreed to. To be a witch is to live a hunted life; to suffer the stupidity and ignorance of those around you, even though you could outclass them with the simplest spell.

  I was born to free the witches from oppression. I am the Shadow Witch. I have freed my kin from the so-called justice of the witch-hunters and their Malleus Maleficarum Council. In one night, the world was thrown into chaos, and for once it was the witch-hunters that were forced back.

  We followed our victory with a second. We pitched the world into darkness and removed the advantage technology gave our enemies. The new world has already begun, and in this spiralling darkness, those with magic will finally be able to rise above all others.

  Then why do I feel guilty? Why do I feel doubt?

  Ever since the witches told me of my destiny, when I was thirteen and powerless, I have never felt any doubt in my path. When my powers were awakened seven years later – the witches conducting sacrifices on Hallowe’en to break the ancient spell holding them back – I was even more sure of what lay ahead.

  But it is shallow of me to even pretend I do not know the reason that I finally question everything. Him. For years I hated the very name Astley, knowing that they were the witch-hunters that killed Sara Murray, the last Shadow Witch; and all its consequences. I would not be the same if she lived; I would not have to take up this brutal destiny.

  I had not planned to fall in love with the current bearer of the name: George “Hunter” Astley. I ignored the attraction at first; whenever he was around, I told myself it was the excitement of playing him for a fool that thrilled me so, not his presence itself. But after months of secretly savouring each glance, each touch, I wanted more. I knew from the beginning that our relationship was doomed; I could not stay with him and soon we would be on the opposite sides of a war. Is it wrong I tried to find a way to keep him with me? If not for my sake, then for our child’s?

  Not that it mattered. In the end he chose his side, and I chose mine.

  I knew that I was expected to kill him when we met again, and I was prepared to do so. I came so close and failed. As my knife got past his guard and cut deep into him, I felt a shock of pain stab through me. It was all I could do to evade his witch-hunters and return home, where I collapsed at my mother’s feet.

  I have been recovering slowly for a month now. I cannot explain it, there is no physical wound; I can only guess that what was inflicted on him rebounded to me. None of the witches can explain why, but some theorise that the child links us – we can only guess what powers he or she shall inherit. In which case, if this is true; I shall withdraw as much as possible until it is born and hope the spell breaks.

  Chapter One

  Little Hanting was a picturesque village in the English countryside. Quaint bungalows and farmhouses fanned out from the church hall, with its perfectly manicured green in front of it. Not that the grass could be seen; fresh snow had again fallen the previous night, coating everything with a perfect whiteness. All it needed was children with mittens having a snowball fight, and the scene would be idyllic.

  But Little Hanting silently suffered. The inhabitants had all been evacuated when the village had been the setting for a decisive battle. Now all the homes lay eerily quiet, save for the ones that had been temporarily taken over by soldiers. They sheltered from the cold and waited – waited for answers and for their next move. They would huddle around the fireplaces, casting glances in the direction of the local manor house.

  Hunter drifted in a haze of painkillers and nightmares. He saw the flash of the knife a hundred times, Sophie’s hazel eyes, and the pain that tore through them both.

  The scene would change, and it was Hunter’s first day at University, and Brian was coming to tell him that his father was dead. Charlotte should be here to comfort him. Where was Charlotte?

  When Hunter was awake… lucid was hardly applicable. He lay in his bed, staring at the high ceiling, with all its familiar cracks. Or he would turn his head to observe the dark drapes that someone opened and closed with the passing of day and night. Huh, probably the same someone that fed the fire in his bedroom to stop it being too cold.

  Not that Hunter cared, the cold was numbing, and combined with the morphine, opium – whatever drug they managed to dredge up, it was a good haze. It stopped him having to think as much. Or at least, it kept his thoughts strangely disconnected from himself.

  So, this was what it was like to wallow. Hunter had never been much of a wallower: not when the witches had killed his father; Brian; Charlotte… Hunter was a witch-hunter, as they all had been. It was accepted as fact that you would lose friends and family, that you yourself would be a target. To be a part of the Malleus Maleficarum Council, to protect the people from the violence of witches was to invite that violence onto oneself.

  But the pain of the past was nothing compared to what he was putting off feeling now. It wasn’t as if Sophie had died – although Hunter wished she had. No, it had been worse. The woman he loved had turned out to be the Shadow Witch. It sickened him to think of the nights spent together, the caresses, the half-asleep conversations. And the days when he had never doubted his trust in her as a colleague and a friend. How could she have acted so innocently and seemed so honest when she had just killed his old mentor and closest friend?

  Before, grief had only driven him harder to fight back against witches. Now Hunter felt confusion over his life’s work in eradicating witches. He had fallen in love with one, and now she carried his child; and Hunter had recently discovered his own magic-like abilities.

  Hunter had thought Sophie mad, and looking for a loophole when she had sworn that he was different from his fellow witch-hunters.

  It was something that Hunter, and every MMC worldwide took for granted that, in a family of witch-hunters, each generation would become more adept. By the 3rd gen they could perceive spells being cast, and were immune to some magic; as well as being stronger and faster. As an unheard of 7th gen, Hunter Astley had been revered by the MMC. How little everyone (including himself) knew that he would evolve into a magic-wielder.

  Which left him with the question: should he us
e his new talents in this war; or should he copy the fabled Benandanti and kill himself for being a witch?

  He had no answers, and the thoughts just swirled incessantly in his head while he tried to numb them.

  The only thing that broke the cycle of monotonous thought was mealtimes. Usually someone left a coffee on his bedside table in a morning, although chances were that it would still be sitting there, stone-cold, by midday. And then someone would bring him some lunch.

  This irritating someone came in the form of Hunter’s best friend, James Bennett. He was a pretty average guy – average height, average brown hair and eyes. He was a little more intelligent than most. But this 1st gen witch-hunter was the truest and bravest person that Hunter knew. Oh, and James also had an invaluable knack for putting up with Hunter on a daily basis. Hunter couldn’t remember a time when James hadn’t been there for him.

  Which included bringing him meals while Hunter was injured, it seemed. Hunter was never very hungry and would have left the unappetising food if James hadn’t stayed. Not that James was watching and making sure his friend actually ate something. No, it just so happened that mealtimes coincided with James having found something interesting in the Astley library, and brought up one old book or another to get Hunter’s opinion.

  Twice a day. Every day.

  Today was a little different. James sat with the typical book on his lap, and the non-typical red pointy hat on his head.

  Hunter shot him a few looks, but today James was staying quiet. Hunter dutifully finished his soup and the last of the bread, pointedly putting the bowl aside to state it was empty.

  “Why?” Hunter asked simply.

  “Why what?” James returned innocently, looking up from his book.

  Hunter sighed. “The hat?”

  “Oh, that. I thought it’d annoy your mum.” James replied with a shrug. “And it’s my birthday. One of the soldiers found this and thought it wa’ funny.”

  That made Hunter sit up and pay attention. “What? It’s the end of January already? Oh shit, I’m sorry James, I forgot. It’s just… it’s been a blur, I lost track.”