Witch Hunter Trilogy Box Set

by K. S. Marsden

The Abate sat also and spoke again.

  “The Abate would like to know what brings an English gentleman to the hidden valleys of Italy?” Biagio voiced eagerly.

  “I… I came looking for the Benandanti.” Hunter replied, getting straight to the point.

  Hunter waited impatiently for this to be relayed.

  “Benandanti? It has been a long time since any sought them. They were a branch of our family that were wiped out hundreds of years ago.” The Abate said via Biagio.

  Hunter sat up straighter, his pulse quickening as his hopes were realised. “The Benandanti were part of the Donili?”

  “Yes, they were one of the largest families. They were discovered by Europeans and were killed by their narrow-mindedness. The Europeans saw the skills that were inborn and strictly trained to protect others, but instead of seeing it as natural they accused the Benandanti of devil worship and magic and punished them.

  “Thankfully, the rest of the Donili remained undiscovered, and by the grace of God, have been able to keep protecting those that ask for our help.”

  Hunter sat there, absorbing this new version of history. He had hoped that perhaps some of the Benandanti had survived, he could never have dreamed that the Benandanti were only a small part of something bigger, older and perhaps stronger.

  “Now, I have given you an answer, it is your turn.”

  The Abate frowned, equally displeased with the circuitous nature of speaking through a translator. He looked directly at Hunter, “Te parle italiano?”

  “Si, fluente.” Hunter replied, feeling those blue eyes pierce him.

  The Abate quickly dismissed Biagio, who looked disappointed at no longer being needed.

  “This is easier, no?” The Abate asked in steady Italian. “I dislike using a translator, but like many of my kin, I only speak the language of our fathers, and occasionally Italian.”

  “Si, padre.” Hunter said, then couldn’t help but lean forward. “But I have many things to ask.”

  The Abate raised a hand to stop him. “Of course, you do, but it is my turn. How else am I to ascertain if we should answer your questions, unless you answer mine?”

  Behind the gentle words, Hunter saw the unyielding stubbornness of the Abate on this point, and he sat back reluctantly.

  “Good. Now first, our friend Maurizio tells me you used a defensive shield similar to the Donili’s. How?”

  “It’s a long story.” Hunter sighed. “I’m a witch-hunter with the British Malleus Maleficarum Council. We discovered a long time ago that the sons and daughters of witch-hunters were born with certain advantages against witches and magic. Just small things really, they are faster, stronger, can perceive the use of magic and are immune to some spells - improving with each generation.

  “I’m a 7th generation and a few years ago I was - ah - awoken to the fact that I could do more. I could travel anywhere in a blink; I can shield and block magic…”

  Hunter broke off, there was more to it than a few tricks, his ability to shield himself and others had been a major factor in every battle. But Hunter was sure he was capable of more, there were times that things - inexplicable things - happened; what else could it be but an unconscious use of his power. He had a sudden image of a crumbling church, dead witches half-buried under the rubble. It was a dark and terrifying scene, but if he could harness that particular power, it would surely shift the balance of power away from the witchkind.

  “Are there many like you?” The Abate asked, breaking into Hunter’s thoughts.

  “No.” Hunter replied. “I’m the only one. That’s why I came to find - well, you. There’s so much I need to learn. And… and for your help.”

  The Abate brought his hands together and looked over his steepled fingers at Hunter, his bright blue eyes very serious.

  “Certamente! We dedicate our lives to helping others. But the help they receive depends on the path they are willing to take.” The Abate said cryptically. The old man then frowned, an edge of suspicion in his voice when he spoke again. “Surely the help and learning you seek are the same thing?”

  Hunter dropped his gaze, suddenly inspecting the dirt on his hands, before remembering he was an English gent and witch-hunter and should not fear being assertive with anyone.

  “Padre, I come to you as a representative of the Malleus Maleficarum Council. It cannot have escaped your notice that we are at war against the witches. I come to ask you to help us in any way you can. Become our ally and help us drive away the shadows.”

  The Abate sighed, as though Hunter had confirmed his low expectations.

  “No.”

  The single word surprised Hunter. One word, with no deliberation or uncertainty.

  “No?” Hunter repeated, as though the meaning of the word eluded him. “Can’t you… will you at least consider it?”

  “Signor Astley, we are not fighters, we are monks, we protect life. Oh, I am sure you have what you consider valid points to argue, but on this point, I will not be moved.”

  “You say you protect life - then protect those worldwide that are threatened by witches. Give your protection to those that will fight for a better world.” Hunter leant forward; his speech impassioned.

  But the Abate looked unimpressed and did not respond to this request. Instead he turned quite calmly to the other two old men in the room.

  “Forgive my selfishness brothers, in hogging all the words. Perhaps you could voice your opinions to Signor Astley’s request.”

  Hunter blinked, looking to the other aged monks that he had near forgotten.

  The unknown monk spoke first. “Whether we are the shield or the sword, we shall not enter this bloody battle. Our prayers would be ignored, and our souls scarred if we stood by and watched you and your kin killing, knowing that we were the ones that enabled such murder and massacre.”

  Hunter could give no reply to such an answer; how could he, he’d just been labelled a murderer. He was surprised at how forgiving the Donili sounded about witches - surely, they couldn’t turn a blind eye to such an evil force. Surely, they had been fighting witches even longer than the MMC.

  “How can we help those that would turn on us?” Maurizio finally spoke, “It happened once before, when your people discovered a power, they did not understand in the Benandanti. The Donili have long memories.”

  Hunter looked with surprise at the old monk, for some reason feeling betrayed by Maurizio’s harsh and unfair prejudice. How could they hold a grudge over something that happened five hundred years ago? Back when the MMC was a very different entity, its witch-hunters narrow-minded and devout on a religious scale. The modern MMC were much more controlled, fairly ruled by strict codes and laws. But… there came a seed of doubt. Hunter flashed back to when he had discovered his own unnatural powers, he’d been torn with fear that he would be condemned, even by those he called friends, so much so that he nearly kept this huge defensive bonus a secret as he and the other witch-hunters prepared for a suicidal battle against the Shadow Witch.

  “That’s ridiculous.” Hunter retorted with a shake of his head, arguing against his own thoughts as much as the monks’ words. He took a deep breath, frustrated, and ran a hand through his straggly hair. “It’s not like it was, things have changed; the whole world has changed. I’ve travelled so far and seen so much, if you would just listen and-”

  “We believe you, Signor Astley.” The Abate interrupted curtly. “Indeed, you look so tired from your travels and troubles. Perhaps you would like to rest and gather your thoughts before we speak again.”

  At his words, Hunter felt a wave of tiredness wash over him, and was immediately suspicious of the three monks that sat with him. Hunter frowned and fought the fatigue.

  “No, I don’t need to rest, I need to keep moving.” He stumbled over the words, concentrating on keeping his Italian fluent. “I must keep moving… they cannot be allowed to find me. I must move on to find those that will help.”

  “No, Signor Astley, I think you need t
o sleep.” The Abate said with quiet confidence.

  And Hunter felt the darkness of unconsciousness sweep him away.

  Chapter Three

  Normally Hunter’s sleep was so fragmented, as he pushed himself daily beyond exhaustion. But in this forced slumber he slipped deeper and deeper.

  The colours were so bright and beautiful, as they only can be on a glorious spring day in the English countryside. The trees were in that transitional stage where the leaves gleamed green against the blossoms on the branches, waiting to fall. The sun was low and still hot, but the slight breeze was a cold reminder of the winter that was always slow to leave.

  Hunter pushed open a small painted, wooden gate and stepped into a garden that was a half-tamed wilderness. With no control of his movements he walked up the garden path to a picturesque country cottage that inspired a vague sense of familiarity. When he reached the oak door, he opened it without hesitation, surprised at the feeling of possession that was sparked as he stepped over the threshold.

  Hunter moved through the modern interior of the old cottage, wondering whether he’d ever visited this place in his life, and why he should feel so at home.

  The cottage was quiet, but as he stepped into the living room, he found that it wasn’t empty. A woman was standing at the opposite end of the room, as tense and expectant as he was. She was dressed casually in jeans and a simple maroon jumper. Her dark brown hair was pulled back into a careless ponytail, and her face was so beautiful and her eyes so sharp.

  Sophie, the name leapt up Hunter’s throat, but he didn’t utter a sound. He just stood there, stupidly still and silent. It unnerved him that, even after all this time and chaos, his heart still leapt and he felt irresistibly drawn to this woman that had seemed so special, so important to him. But still he didn’t speak, he didn’t trust himself.

  “Hunter?”

  Hunter smiled; oh, his imagination was doing a good job of representing Sophie. That voice, quiet but confident. The expression on that beautiful face, an enquiring frown that gently creased her brow, and no compassion to be seen.

  “Hunter, what’s wrong?” She asked, before sliding onto the settee with natural grace.

  Hunter was not in complete control but sat down next to her, his eyes not leaving her face, feeling suspicion and desire in equal measure.

  “You need a shave.” Sophie teased, with that familiar sneer that was the closest she ever got to smiling. To make her point she ran her left hand across the side of his face, her fingers gently stroking the coarse hair growing there. “You don’t suit a beard.”

  Hunter felt an electric shock at her cool touch, and his hand flew to lay across hers. This all felt so comfortable, so familiar, Hunter experienced a sense of longing. Why couldn’t he have this in his waking life, in a homey cottage with a beautiful woman.

  He caressed her hand, his brow creased as he felt an unknown band of cold metal, then his eyes widened with understanding. A young, sharp cry rang across the room…

  Hunter woke with a start. His heart was pounding in his chest, but for once it wasn’t with fear. The dream clung to him and he was disorientated as he opened his eyes. It took a few long moments for him to realise where he was - or where he should be - the last thing he remembered was that damn monk. He knew he was in a bed, with a soft mattress and light blanket, which seemed a safe place to be. Lying still, he was so wonderfully comfortable, and warm, and definitely not ready to be wide-awake. It’s Sunday, Hunter thought lazily, it must be Sunday.

  Quite happy not to move, Hunter ran through his dream, which was still bright and clear in his mind. He didn’t often dream, and when he did his subconscious always steered clear of featuring Sophie Murphy, the human face of the Shadow Witch.

  Hunter was slightly agitated by the whole happy feeling of the scene, compounded by the cry that had woken him - that cry had been one of joy, and he was pretty sure it hadn’t come from either Sophie or himself.

  Slowly his senses were reawakening to the world. To the bright light that filled the room, to the sound of birds outside… to the sound of another person’s breathing inside.

  Hunter jerked up and turned, getting twisted in the bed sheets in his rush to rise. But the haste was unnecessary. There was another narrow bed in the room, and upon it sat Marcus, legs crossed and calmly reading.

  Quite unhurriedly, Marcus finished reading the page, then gently closed his book.

  “I was thinking you would never wake.” He said in his heavily accented English.

  Hunter looked up to see the young man was only teasing.

  “How long have I been asleep?”

  “Twenty-four hours, signore. It is after noon.” Marcus replied calmly.

  Hunter swore beneath his breath and collapsed back on the bed.

  Marcus smiled at the Englishman’s reaction. “The Abate did not want you disturbed; he say you need rest. He also say when you wake, I am to give you a tour and give answer to your questions.”

  Hunter turned his head to look at the young man. “That’s very kind of you.”

  Marcus smiled and waited patiently as Hunter pulled himself together and traipsed off to the washroom. When Hunter came back, he was clean and alert.

  “Let’s go.” He simply said.

  The Abbazia di Donili was old and strong, and somehow warm from years of sun on the white and brown stonework. The place sprawled across the hillside on several levels; it was a long walk from the accommodation quarters where Hunter had slept, through the corridors and courtyards, all clean-cut and well-kept. There were large rooms of varying yet specific use.

  Marcus kept up a running commentary of the design and use of the buildings, only pausing to search for the correct word in English, often resorting to Italian.

  Hunter listened, eager for any and all information, but his attention caught every time another monk passed them by. He couldn’t help being curious about the many people that lived and trained in this abbazia.

  “How many monks are there?” Hunter asked, breaking Marcus’ monologue.

  Marcus paused, thinking for a moment. They’d reached the foot of stone steps that Marcus promptly led up. Hunter followed, and soon stepped up onto a high walkway, with the hot sun shining brightly from above, and most of the abbazia laying out before them.

  “There are perhaps fifty in the abbazia, and fifty in the town. The children of the Donili join the abbazia when we have thirteen years. We train, we pray and protect. Until we leave the abbazia to marry and have our own children.” Marcus spoke calmly of this organised life, he leaned casually against a stone wall and gazed down at the green courtyard below.

  Hunter followed his gaze and noticed a couple of monks going calmly about their business. Hunter frowned, suddenly realising something as he looked at the young slender ‘monks’ with their dark hair tied back.

  “There are women?” He gasped. “In a monastery?”

  Marcus laughed at the Englishman’s amazement. “Certamente! The Donili daughters learn with the sons. It was common for male and female to live and pray together, a long time ago.”

  Hunter thought back on what he knew - or what he thought he knew, of the Benandanti. They were recorded as an anti-witch breeding cult, propagating and honing the genes that allowed them to repulse witches. A good idea in theory, but Hunter couldn’t imagine a less appealing life, amorously. He’d experienced a variety of women and relationships, from his childhood sweetheart whom he’d stuck with for convenience; his infatuation with Charlotte while at university, and so many meaningless dalliances. His thoughts stopped short before they arrived chronologically at Sophie, last night’s dream still haunting the recesses of his mind.

  “Will you have to marry one of them?” Hunter asked with a vague nod in the direction of the female Donili.

  Marcus hesitated, looking at Hunter carefully. Then the young monk shrugged. “I do not know yet. I marry a Donili, or a girl from the village, or a girl from somewhere in Friuli. I do not know. Whoever I
choose must be approved of by the Abate and the elders. But not for years, perhaps. I am happy training and doing my duty.”

  Hunter felt slightly uncomfortable. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to ask something so personal.”

  Marcus looked away, but smiled, accepting the apology. “The Abate says to answer all your questions. You must be special, Signor Astley.”

  “Call me Hunter, please. And I’m not special.” He said, modesty forcing him to voice the lie. Oh yes, he was very special, no matter how you looked at it.

  “Hunter.” Marcus repeated with a nod of his head. “It is nearly time for prayers. We will go down and join the others.”

  Marcus led back down to the lower level and along a stone pathway to the large church that was the head or heart of the whole abbazia. Inside the church opened up to a large, cool hall. They walked slowly between the rows of benches, and Hunter stared at the beauty of the architectural arches and the statues that stood watch. Beside him, Marcus would murmur the name of a particular saint or other; Sant Antonio; San Guiliano; San Pietro; all in hushed tones.

  At the far end of the church the altar rose out of the ground, a large stone table. But behind was something to catch any man’s attention. The walls were decorated in a brightly-coloured fresco. Staring up at it, Hunter could depict several suitably saintly men and women, standing with their hands placed serenely on their breast. But one picture drew his eye, a building struck by lightning.

  “What-?” Hunter’s voice failed as he pointed to the section of the wall bearing the image.

  Marcus came up beside him and looked at the fresco. “Ah, that is importante. The old abbazia, hit by fulmini - lightning - and destroyed, in the year 1131 AD. We build again, naturalmente.”

  “Why should that be important?” Hunter asked quietly, not wanting to offend what they might consider vital.

  But Marcus did not reply, the young monk had turned away and now bowed at the approach of another.

  “Signor Astley.” Came the voice of the Abate. “I hope you have enjoyed your tour, and Marcus has been helpful.”