Witch Hunter Trilogy Box Set

by K. S. Marsden

  Hunter looked up, a little surprised at Dawkins’ boldness. “Colin, I’m hurt. You know I’m just looking for another opportunity to make you faint.”

  The sergeant tried to keep a serious face, but a smile flashed over his lips.

  “Ok, down to business.” Dawkins pushed on. “We’ve got a good handle on London. It’s too big to know we’ve covered everything, but it turns out the witch-hunter running things, Tyler, knows what he’s doing.”

  “Tyler who?” Nadira asked.

  Dawkins looked a little sheepish. “I’ve been down there a month, and I still can’t pronounce his surname. Begins with an M. But yeah, Tyler – tall, imposing guy, used to part-time as a lawyer…” Dawkins looked about, hoping something would sound familiar. “2nd gen, used to report to the London Bridge branch.”

  “A 2nd gen?” Hunter echoed, surprised that such an important role would go to such a new family.

  “Not every higher generation witch-hunter is made for leadership.” Dawkins replied drily, with more than a tad of insinuation. “Tyler has a good network of allies down there. And then there’s the wiccans. There’s a lot of wiccans.”

  “London has the densest population of them.” Hunter suddenly reeled out. “It’s a very… accepting city.”

  Dawkins looked over at the unnecessary interruption. “Well, they’ve been very helpful.”

  The sergeant looked over to his General. “Sir, I know your intel points to an attack on the capital, but we need to be prepared for elsewhere. We are strong there, possibly too strong for the witch army. I can’t imagine they’d throw their lives away on uncertain victory with high prices.”

  Hayworth nodded, as he listened to his sergeant’s opinion. “I will take this into consideration, Dawkins. But until we have firm proof, let us proceed as though London will be their target.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Hunter!”

  The cry rang through the makeshift barracks. It was nearly 10pm, and Hunter was trying to get some sleep before his turn on watch duty in the early hours. It was Hallowe’en, and they were taking their watch duties seriously.

  “Hunter!” General Hayworth’s familiar voice blasted through the silence.

  Hunter cracked open an eye and groaned. “Yes sir.”

  “Emergency signal from Dawkins. Get your team and get to London. Now.”

  “What?” Hunter asked, now fully awake. He threw back the bed sheets and grabbed his trousers from the pile of clothes on the floor.

  “Dawkins sent an emergency signal through the wiccan stones. I need you to go assess the situation. We’ll be mobilizing here if he needs back-up.”

  Hunter nodded, as he pulled on his shirt and hunted for his stab vest. He was still checking his gun when the door opened again. This time James walked in, followed by Ian, Maria and Alannah. They were all kitted up and looked ready to go.

  “We got the message, let’s go.” James announced.

  Hunter felt a wave of respect at how quickly his team responded, followed by a wavering doubt on his ability to get them from Manchester to London safely. He’d done a few practise runs with James, but that didn’t completely eradicate his worries.

  But he didn’t say a word and waited for his team to take their positions. Hunter counted to three, then closed his eyes and let his focus shift.

  There was the familiar, suffocating darkness, followed by the cool air of their destination. Hunter opened his eyes to the sight of the MMC’s London Bridge base.

  “You took long enough.”

  Hunter spun round to see Dawkins standing by a black window. He ignored the sergeant’s snarky comment. “What’s happened?”

  Dawkins didn’t reply immediately, something outside at ground level was occupying his attention.

  “The witches have gathered to burn us alive. You’ve got to appreciate the irony.”

  Hunter frowned and moved to join him. They must have been ten floors up, which made the angle incredibly awkward, but Hunter could make out the orange glow at the base of the building.

  “We’re about to burn to death? Great.” Ian stated in his usual dry manner.

  “Care to explain, Colin?” James asked.

  Dawkins looked over at him. “I was wrong over how secure we were. The new mayor and his team switched sides. They must have been planning it for a while, maybe they never really believed that we could permanently take London back from the witches. The wiccans split, the majority staying with us, but still a sizeable group joined the witches.”

  “Casualties?” Hunter asked.

  “We’re not sure yet, sir.” Dawkins reported formally. “Tyler went down in the first attack, along with a dozen others. After I sent the alert, I saw we were outnumbered and ordered a retreat. The rest of our forces have scattered, with orders to meet at the MMC branch in Oxford asap.”

  “And you stayed behind, Colin?” James frowned at his friend’s bravado. He only hoped the sergeant didn’t have ideas of martyrdom. They were still reeling from the loss of Anthony Marks.

  “I’d already sent the emergency call to you, I had to await your arrival and fill you in. I didn’t trust leaving a note to be adequate.”

  “Um, sorry to break this up guys.” Ian interrupted, the tall sergeant standing by the next window. “But I think they’ve set the building on fire.”

  The rest of the group pushed closer to the window and it seemed true, the orange glow had grown fiercer, and smoke began to cloud visibility of the stars.

  “Do we engage them?” Maria asked, as she checked her gun.

  “We’ll get revenge for Anthony Marks.” Alannah concurred, her green eyes sparking.

  “No.” Hunter commanded. “We’ll leave and reconvene with the others at Oxford.”

  There was a moment of silence when everyone looked to Hunter, their disappointment evident.

  “Y’know, I thought being part of this team would include a little action. Not acting as glorified messengers.” Ian growled, perfectly expressing the thoughts of the group.

  Hunter stood, not sure what to say. To be truthful, he wanted nothing more than to lead them down to the witches baying for their blood, and solve a few problems with violence. But someone here had to be logical and sensible. Bloody hell, why did it have to be him.

  “Look, we can go down there and repel a few witches before we die. Or let’s not be cocky, we might toast in the inferno on the way.” Hunter snapped, feeling his own frustration at the prolonged passive nature he’d adopted. “There is no guarantee that the Shadow is with them, and I won’t waste your lives despatching a few of her servants. I promise, the time will come when we face her – soon.”

  Hunter looked from face to determined face, when eventually his team conceded.

  There was a cough from the side of the room. “Well, if you’re all done team motivating, do you think we could get out of here?” Dawkins asked, hardly able to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

  Hunter shot the sergeant a suitably dirty look, but held out his arms in what was becoming the usual manner. Without a word, his team stepped in and held onto him. Only Dawkins hung back, the nerves finally beginning to show as he looked down at Hunter’s outstretched arm.

  “Any time, Colin.” James snapped, ready to get this over with.

  Dawkins swallowed nervously, then gingerly held onto Hunter’s forearm.

  Hunter didn’t give him the chance to change his mind, and immediately blinked from the burning building at London Bridge, to the grounds of the old MMC headquarters in Oxford.

  As he felt the cold, fresh breeze on his face, and the light spattering of rain, Hunter looked about him. This had been his MMC office, where he had been registered when young, and where he had made constant trips for reports and meetings since he had become a fully-fledged witch-hunter six years ago.

  It was as familiar and frustrating a building as any workplace.

  Or it had been.

  Hunter looked at it now and saw only rubble. A coup
le of walls still stood, useless monuments to what had once been. Oxford was the oldest MMC headquarters, and as such was the historical seat of the Council, as well as storing most processed amulets from the binding process.

  The Shadow Witch had hit this place first, after she had procured the Key from Hunter’s dear friend, Charlotte King. The Key had released all the bound power the MMC had been storing away for generations – not a good system, in hindsight.

  It was painful for Hunter to look on to his old, ruined offices. A reminder that, despite the wheels set irreversibly in motion in Venice, here the war really started.

  A heavy pat on the shoulder brought him back to the present, and Hunter turned to see James looking back at him with a similar pain in his usually light brown eyes.

  “It’s really quiet. Where is everyone?” Alannah asked, looking around uneasily.

  “We blinked…” Dawkins gasped out, trying not to retch. “They’ll arrive… in a few… hours.”

  Ian smirked at the sight of General Hayworth’s right-hand man so disabled. “Maria and I will make a perimeter check. We’ll be back in half an hour.” Ian stated, volunteering for the walk. Well, it was better than huddling in the rubble of some building while they waited.

  The survivors came slowly, in dribs and drabs. Many had emergency vehicles and used precious fuel to escape the city, and they brought as many as they could with them.

  Ian and Maria had found a disused theatre that might be big enough to house them for the night. With the help of James and Alannah, and the locals who awoke to all the noise, food and spare blankets were acquired; and a section of the theatre was cordoned off for first aid.

  Hunter had managed to round up Oxford’s promising medical students. Despite the witch revolution, they were all here to learn, and still socialised in the same places they had when Hunter had gone to university here. The young meds had come willingly to the theatre, that was now full of people; soldiers, witch-hunters, and helpful locals.

  Once the first mad rush of caring for the wounded, and organising the able-bodied had passed, Hunter stepped back to observe the place. Despite the injured, it was warming to see how his old town of Oxford rallied to help them. That was something the witches would never understand, would never overcome in their drive to control all – the average person could step up and do things they would never account for.

  *****

  Hunter tried to get a few hours’ sleep, then the next day he worked alongside Sergeant Dawkins to organise the troops. They would send those willing back to London, to be their eyes and ears, to make sure the people they left behind were not treated too harshly.

  To the rest, they offered a chance to leave, to go home to safety. Or to go on with them to Manchester, to face the next fight with the witches. Hunter was heartened that nearly every man and woman immediately signed up to travel North.

  Leaving Dawkins with the wiccan stones in case of emergency, Hunter took his team back to Manchester that very afternoon, to report to the General all that had occurred.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The notion that Manchester was the next target of the witches became a firm fact. For the past couple of weeks, ever since London had been hit on Hallowe’en, their wiccan spies had been running back with information. It was the first time all details pointed in one direction.

  But this time, they were ready for them.

  Nadira and General Hayworth had divided their forces into groups, bolstered by the volunteers from the city. Hunter looked over his group, noting how soldiers now outnumbered witch-hunters, after they had been targeted so fiercely by the witches. Both were outnumbered by the citizens of Manchester and the surrounding area – it was cheering to see so many step up to defend their city, their home.

  Hunter was glad to see the familiar faces of his team in the sea of strangers. They sat together, outwardly looking calm and ready, a highly skilled team that was comforting to the rest that were new to battle. But Hunter knew them well enough now to see the nervous tells. James was twisting the gold ring on his right hand that blocked minor spells; Alannah sat polishing an already gleaming knife; Maria fiddled with the zips on her stab vest and jacket; and Ian – well, Hunter had yet to work out what nervous tick that man had, he was constantly calm and in control.

  Hunter drifted back to his friends, causing them to look up.

  “You sure about…” Alannah started. She coughed and lowered her voice. “You sure about your plan?”

  “Course he is.” James interrupted, then glanced at Hunter. “Aren’t you?”

  “Already told you James, if you don’t feel confident, you can stay here and keep charge of the others.” Hunter replied, repeating an earlier suggestion. “The four of us can handle it.”

  James snorted. “Yeah right, as if I’ve ever hesitated in following you into madness.”

  Hunter just smiled in response, not sure James should be describing his leadership skills and plans as ‘madness’. At least, not in public.

  Hunter was saved from trying to come up with a suitably intelligent reply by the sudden headache that accompanied magic and spells being cast. It was immense, almost over-whelming, and Hunter took a moment to tune it out enough to concentrate. He could see Alannah making the same mental struggle, as the other three just looked on expectantly.

  “They’re here.” Hunter murmured. The witches had come. They were about a mile to the south, if his senses were correct.

  Hunter was distracted by a sharp pain in his side. He pulled the wiccan stone out of his pocket, watching as the lump of quartz flashed hot, then faded back to its normal smoky colour. He held it up for the others to see, as proof that their allies were engaging.

  “It’s time.”

  Hunter turned to the masses and shouted for attention. The chatter and general noise immediately died down, and everyone looked to him.

  He took a deep breath, realising they were expecting some sort of glorious, heroic speech – because wasn’t that what he was to these people, a hero they had heard could do miracles and lead them to victory?

  But Hunter’s throat closed up at the very thought.

  “Let’s move out.” He shouted in a strangled voice.

  There was a snicker besides him.

  “Oh aye, very inspiring, Hunter.” James didn’t even try to hide his amusement as he watched his friend struggle over something so simple. “I hope that speech doesn’t go down in history – really shite final words.”

  Hunter was tempted to retaliate, but he remembered his audience. They probably wouldn’t like to see the man they were trusting with their lives, beating a friend.

  So, Hunter turned and nodded to the rest of his team.

  The hundred or so men and women picked up their arms and followed Hunter to the south, where magic was bristling so strongly, Hunter was surprised the 1st gens couldn’t feel it.

  There was a blast of light to one side as they approached, followed by the screams of the spell’s victims. The ground shook with the strength of magic that ran across it, and the wind picked up, whipping through the forms and fields that had become the site of battle.

  As they approached within sight of the witches, Hunter saw the illusions of monsters that were hastily thrown up to gain the witches time to bring out harder spells. Fire burst out on their left flank, as salamanders and fire-wrought creatures moved into existence.

  Hunter threw up his shield, the illusions of monsters faded to nothing. The fire wavered, but having enough dry fuel to sustain it, it spread on.

  The witches hesitated, seeing their spells falter, and knowing that the infamous Hunter Astley must be behind it. Hunter took advantage of the moment and led his fighters on, forcing the witches in close combat that served knives and guns better than magic.

  Hunter cut a swathe through his opponents. His anger spurred him on, with each thrust of his knife, broken neck, or shot to the heart, he was avenging Anthony Marks, and countless other witch-hunters and innocents that had b
een caught in this rebellion. He did not spare a thought for the blood that coated his hands and arms, he ignored the cuts and wounds he gained as adrenaline surged through his body. But he was aware that he had pushed further than anyone else, and started to back up, enemies on all sides able to pick him out.

  There was a gunshot, close enough that Hunter could hear it over the fray, and one of the witches before him crumpled to the ground.

  A pat on his shoulder made Hunter start, but he turned to see James and Maria moving up to join him, Maria turning her gun to her next victim.

  There was a wave of magic so strong, Hunter was nearly knocked over. By the time he regained his balance, he recognised the swirling clouds overhead, and felt the now-familiar rhythm of Sophie’s magic. The wind picked up, and Hunter swore.

  “Maria!” James’ voice cut through the noise.

  Hunter turned to see Maria unmoving on the ground, and James dispatching the witch that had managed to take down their best gunman.

  Hunter felt a renewed strike of magic against his shield, but he pushed it back with a mental shove, then knelt by Maria.

  James was already searching for signs of life with shaking hands. He then gave a sigh, his shoulders drooping. “She’s got a pulse.”

  James closed his eyes and muttered something to himself. If Hunter didn’t know him better, he would have sworn it was a prayer of thanks.

  Hunter was distracted by something sharp cutting into the back of his exposed neck. He looked up to see wind-driven ice starting weakly but gaining momentum. Cries of pain went up around him as his allies were forced to stagger back. The witches seemed immune from the sharp fragments, or at least were not the intended victims.

  “Hunter, we need to move.” Ian barked as he ran up, Alannah on his heels.

  “Maria?” Alannah’s green eyes were filled with fresh worry above a blood-stained cheek.

  “She’s alive, she’ll be fine.” Hunter replied quickly, determined to keep positive.

  James huddled over Maria, protecting her from the cutting ice. “Hunter, I can’t… I need to…”