Witch Hunter Trilogy Box Set

by K. S. Marsden

Hunter turned to see the Abate; the old monk was dressed in red and white robes, ready to lead his kin in prayer.

  Hunter bowed to him, respectful of the position the man held as a representative of god. “Si padre, grazie.”

  The Abate looked at Hunter with an assessing gaze, his bright blue eyes very thoughtful. “Yes, we will speak properly after the service.”

  Hunter and Marcus both bowed as the Abate passed them by, Hunter felt his heart beat faster, harder, affected by the power of the old monk’s office.

  Hunter remained seated as the rest of the congregation filed out. As the church finally emptied, he got up and made his way back up to the altar to the fresco. The image of the lightning-hit church reminded him of the tower in a deck of tarot cards - a sign of disaster that overturned the old and welcomed the new. Unfortunately, Hunter could not remember whether it was a good sign or bad.

  He sighed, shaking his head at his own thoughts. Tarot and other fortune-telling methods were the tools of wiccans, a laughed-at semi-religious sect that had been scorned by witches and witch-hunters alike, whom had seen true magic and power. If Hunter was seeing non-existent wiccan signs, it meant that Jonathan had succeeded in educating the stubborn witch-hunter.

  Hunter took a deep breath to counter the pain of the direction of his thoughts. The wiccans had suffered greatly in the new regime. They had gone one of two ways; the darker obsessives had fallen to worshipping the real witches, fawning at their feet in hope of a taste of seductive, addictive power; the harmless majority had tried to use their practices to protect against, or even overpower the witches. Hunter had even managed to become friends with some of them, had started to respect them… before the Shadow Witch and her followers killed them.

  “You admire our décor, Signor Astley?”

  Hunter turned, taken by surprise at the old monk’s silent approach. “Si, padre. The image of the old abbazia is very interesting.”

  The Abate came to stand beside him, gazing calmly at the familiar pictorial representation of the Donili’s history. The old monk continued in Italian. “Ah, the old abbazia. Destroyed in 1131.”

  “So, Marcus told me. Destroyed by lightning.”

  The Abate smiled sadly. “How polite of him. It was actually destroyed by magic. The monks that survived the attack went on to discover all they could about witches and rebuilt the Abbazia di Donili, promising to protect the innocent people of the surrounding country. They could never have predicted that, after a few generations, certain skills would awaken within them.”

  “That was the origin of the Donili?” Hunter asked, amazed. The order of Donili evidently began three hundred years before the Malleus Maleficarum was set up; and they had been honing their skills since the very beginning, whereas Hunter was the first known witch-hunter in six hundred years to develop similar anti-witch power.

  But that might have to do with the Donili’s passive stance on witches, Hunter realised bitterly. They never brought on the outright wrath of witches that destroyed the witch-hunters’ every bloodline, which was why no witch-hunter had ever reached the 7th generation before.

  “Indeed.” The Abate confirmed. “Come, let us walk in the sun before evening meal.”

  Without waiting for a response, the Abate led out of the church and into the courtyard. The bright spring sun was warm and blindingly low.

  “I have been speaking with the other elders about what to do with you, Signor Astley.” The Abate started, gazing out across the courtyard, rather than facing Hunter. “Your violent attitude towards witches, and your pride, both put you in bad stead. But the fact that you are so alike us in power enforces a certain responsibility on our shoulders. Indeed, it would be preferable that you learn here and perhaps tame your temper, rather than by experimenting alone.”

  Hunter stood quietly beside the old monk. As his character was slighted, he felt that same pride rear up, and he couldn’t help but smile at that particular truth.

  “And did you reach a decision?” Hunter asked mildly. During the service, he’d used the time to assess his position. He was no longer the renowned witch-hunter with the MMC to back him; no longer was he surrounded by loyal companions that would follow his every command, even if they thought it a bad idea; no longer lord of the manor with an extensive estate. He wasn’t even special compared to these monks. The Abate had proven that by so effectively and easily knocking him out yesterday. And Hunter knew that he wouldn’t get his way in this place by force or argument.

  “Yes.” The Abate replied. “You may stay; you will train with the young monks. As long as you do not try to persuade the others with your ill-formed prejudices. Do you accept?”

  Hunter hesitated, but this was likely to be the best deal he would receive.

  “Si, padre.” He murmured, with a bow of his head.

  Chapter Four

  After breakfast the next morning, Hunter followed Marcus down another identical corridor in the sprawling abbazia, heading to his first lesson.

  “Catalyn teach you, today.” Marcus explained, his English slow and broken. “Manipolazione di elementi, it is basic, but necessary.”

  Manipulating elements? It sounded far from basic to Hunter.

  Marcus noticed the look of apprehension cross Hunter’s face, and he patted his new friend on the shoulder. “Catalyn is good teacher, you will see.”

  Hunter nodded. “So, will you be joining us?”

  “No Hunter, you will join the other novices.” Marcus replied, his brown eyes flashing with amusement. “I will see you at dinner.”

  Hunter narrowed his eyes at the younger man’s comment, but opened the door, stepping into what was effectively a classroom.

  And immediately stopped in his tracks.

  There were half a dozen students that turned to look at him. By their fresh faces, Hunter guessed they were only thirteen at the most. Hunter half-turned, but found Marcus blocking his escape.

  “Seriously?” He hissed.

  Marcus grinned, not understanding the word, but understanding the sentiment perfectly. “Catalyn - un nuovo studente.”

  A woman in her fifties drifted over, her eyes flicking over Hunter in assessment. “You must be Signor Astley.” She commented in Italian.

  “Please, call me Hunter.”

  “Join the others please, Hunter.” Catalyn gestured to the others that stood in the middle of the room. “Grazie Marcus, I shall take it from here.”

  Hunter’s shoulders drooped and he walked over to his ‘classmates’ as they milled in the middle of the room with the restlessness of youth. They all looked curiously at the Englishman, their scrutiny adding to Hunter’s discomfort.

  “Today we will be completing the practical of yesterday’s theory work.” Catalyn stated in quick Italian. She paused, her eyes turning to Hunter. “Normally I have students start with earth or water manipulation. But as you join us mid-course, we will see how you cope with fire.”

  Catalyn held out a hand and with a mere moment’s concentration, a flickering flame hovered above her palm.

  “Greta, what part of the air around you is responsible for manipulation of movement, and stops you getting burnt?” Catalyn asked, as the fire moved into a ball and hovered higher.

  “Um, oxygen?” The girl replied.

  The rest of the class tittered, and one of the boys raised his hand.

  “Carbon dioxide. Oxygen is for the manipulation of size.” He rattled off, looking at Greta with superiority.

  “Good Francis. Now catch.” Catalyn smiled and with a flick of her fingers, the little ball of flame flew at Francis.

  The boy jumped, startled; but recovered to stop the fire before it hit him. He smiled, setting it spinning in front of him, before sending it across the room to a tall girl.

  The girl laughed. Hunter watched, both amazed and discomforted to watch the children play with the fire, like it was nothing more than an ordinary ball. Every ounce of his witch-hunter upbringing screamed that this was an unnatural use of magic.


  Noticing his distraction, one of the novice monks sent the fireball at the outsider.

  Hunter staggered backwards and felt the searing heat fly past his chest and combust against the wall.

  “Now Luca, that wasn’t very nice.” Catalyn stated in a very neutral voice. “I am sorry, signore, would you like to try again?”

  Hunter hesitated, not sure what was going on, nor what he was supposed to do. “I am afraid I need your instruction, Signora Catalyn.”

  Catalyn looked stumped for a moment, then she brought more fire to life in the palm of her hand.

  “Perhaps we should try something else. Come to the table please, Signor Astley.” She motioned towards the long table that was the length of the back wall. Immediately a flame flickered from one of the tall candles on it.

  “Now, I want you to extinguish the flame.” Catalyn stated, breaking off as she heard some of the others chuckling. “Hm, if you will excuse me.”

  The female monk drifted back to the group, snapping in the Donili dialect that Hunter could not follow what she had said. But from the kids’ blushes, he could guess.

  Hunter sighed and settled to his task. Catalyn drifted over every now and then, giving tips and advice, but the candle stayed stubbornly alight.

  Hunter looked over at the teenagers, feeling a stab of jealousy when one of the youths decided to play keepy-uppy with the fiery ball.

  “Luca, stop showing off.” Catalyn said, although the woman smiled at the boy’s antics.

  Catalyn seemed like such an open and easy to read; Hunter found it increasingly awkward whenever she looked at him. The female monk observed him like an interesting experiment.

  Not soon enough, the lesson came to an end. Hunter thanked Catalyn and, feeling quite depressed over the whole ordeal, he made his way to the dinner hall.

  Upon entering he noticed Marcus sitting with Biagio over to one side. With no better plan, he drifted over to them.

  Both monks stopped their conversation and looked up to the Englishman.

  “How was your lesson?” Biagio asked, managing to keep a straighter face than Marcus.

  Hunter sat down next to Biagio, not saying anything.

  “We exercise this afternoon. Many ages.” Marcus said helpfully, not bothering to hide his amusement.

  Hunter half-smiled but was already starting to regret all that was happening. For so long, finding the Benandanti meant finding answers to all of his questions. He had hoped for support, for miracles perhaps… but not this.

  *****

  Hunter walked through the cottage, his hand running over the familiar furniture. He made his way to the living room – as often happens in dreams, he knew who he would meet there.

  A young child sat on the floor with papers around him. As Hunter entered, the boy looked up guiltily.

  Hunter noticed the wet paintbrush in his hand. “Adam… what did your mother say about painting indoors?”

  Hunter’s fake sternness slipped further as the boy looked up, with his dark hair and hazel eyes, he was the very image of Sophie.

  Hunter tutted and picked up the newspaper from the sofa. He spread the broadsheets over the carpet and stepped back, letting his son carry on. Hunter watched the young boy painting with such rapt concentration, as long as Adam was happy, that was all that mattered.

  “You spoil him.”

  The three words were softly spoken by his ear, as two slender arms wrapped around his waist.

  Hunter turned his head to glance back at Sophie, taking in her calm and composed expression, her sharp features, the challenge in her gaze.

  “You shouldn’t encourage him.” She added.

  Hunter shrugged. “It’s hard not to.”

  Sophie sighed and rested against him, moulding to his back. They stood together quietly for what felt like an eternity, before Sophie spoke again.

  “Where are you?” She asked, the words barely passing her lips when she suddenly gasped, her arms jerking.

  Hunter turned and caught her, before she fell into the side table. “Sophie? Are you ok?”

  Sophie looked very pale, her hazel eyes standing out brightly. She wet her lips to speak. “I don’t know… it was pain, just pain.” She looked at Hunter accusingly.

  “It wasn’t me.” Hunter said. “Maybe you’re not allowed to know.”

  Sophie pulled away from him. “Don’t be ridiculous.” She snapped.

  “Mummy, can I have more paper?” Adam’s voice broke through, the young boy looking up at his parents, the picture of innocence.

  Sophie glared at Hunter once more, then pushed past him to help her son.

  Chapter Five

  It wasn’t too much later when Hunter was summoned to see the Abate. He had been relaxing in the company of Biagio and Marcus, trying to learn more of the Donili dialect when the message came. Hunter was apprehensive, but obediently made his way to the common room of the senior monks.

  It was the same room to which Hunter had been brought when he first arrived, but this time only the Abate was present.

  “You wished to see me, padre?”

  The Abate, distracted by a heavy book, looked up. “Ah, Signor Astley. Please sit down.”

  Hunter did so, sliding into the comfortable armchair, with a sudden feeling of déjà vu. He looked across at the padre, aside from when leading the monks in prayer, Hunter had not seen the Abate, who left the teaching of novices to the other seniors.

  “Now, how are you getting on?” The Abate asked, his bright blue eyes locking on Hunter.

  “Very well, thank you, padre.” Hunter replied quietly, and not quite convincingly.

  “Really?” The Abate asked sceptically. “Aurelio tells me that you lack attention and Catalyn says you do not connect with the other novices.”

  Hunter grit his teeth. So, this was why he was here, to be castigated like an overgrown schoolboy? I am twenty-eight years old, came the bitter thought.

  Although he hadn’t said a word in reply, the Abate suddenly laughed at Hunter. “Your pride and your arrogance work against you, Signor Astley. Perhaps you have been spoiled by your heroic deeds and respected image. You are too sure of yourself and cannot take criticism. Trust me, there will be a time when you are fifty, or sixty, and you will laugh at your obstinate younger self.”

  Hunter sat, tense and silent. Yes, he may be proud and arrogant and aware of it, but it didn’t help to be laughed at.

  “I do my best, padre.”

  The Abate waved away his pathetic response. “Perhaps your pride is attached to some of your deep-rooted beliefs. Now you are here, perhaps we can break them both. What are you?”

  Hunter frowned, honestly confused. “What do you mean?”

  “It is a simple question.” The Abate replied with a knowing smile, then repeated, slower. “What are you?”

  “A witch-hunter.” Hunter said without thinking.

  The Abate shook his head. “No, you choose to be a witch-hunter. It was most likely a forced decision, but you could have chosen not to hunt witches. What are you?”

  Hunter shrugged, not understanding this game. “A human.” He tried.

  The Abate considered this before responding. “A human? Yes, you could argue that. But you aren’t the same as those we call human in any ordinary sense. Hm, for example, I am Donili, a different class of human. What would you call yourself?”

  “An anti-witch.” Hunter replied hesitantly, voicing the term he’d often used amongst the Malleus Maleficarum Council and other witch-hunters.

  “Anti-witch?” The Abate repeated. “I do not understand this term, please explain it.”

  When Hunter obeyed, the Abate smiled. “Anti-witch. Yes, I like this term. But to understand it fully, what is a witch?”

  Hunter frowned, finding this all too patronising. But he played along, quoting almost word for word the definition that was in the modern Malleus Maleficarum - the witch-hunters’ handbook. “A witch is a man or woman that can wield magic and is born of at l
east one witch parent. They are a sub-human species recognised as homus maleficarum. As such they have every appearance of being human and can cross-breed.

  “A witch is born with latent powers that emerge at some time between childhood and puberty. These powers are varying in strength and use, from controlling natural forces; creating illusionary and solid threats; dominating the minds of men; and many other varied and inventive ways of undermining the natural order of a magic-free world.”

  “That is enough, Signor Astley.” The Abate didn’t look too pleased at the official MMC opinion, and to be honest, Hunter had stressed certain points, half hoping to open the Abate’s eyes to the real world.

  “If you want my opinion, and I know you won’t like it.” The Abate stated. “Anti-witches and Donili have a lot more in common with witches than normal humans.”

  Hunter’s eyes blazed at this. “We are nothing alike. It is like comparing the Night and Day and saying they are the same because they are opposites.”

  He was angry at this assumption, it clashed against everything he’d ever been taught, everything he’d experienced, had learnt for himself.

  ‘Sounds like magic to me.’ The voice came rushing from the past, and he remembered it so clearly, how Sophie had dared to say such a thing, and his and James’ responding anger at such outrageous thinking. But Hunter finally saw it in a new light. After all, it was not he, but Sophie, that had discovered the nature of the witch-hunter’s evolution into something that rivalled the witches they fought. How much had she known, there in the library, when her questions gained an extra fervour? Had she already guessed what was in store for Hunter; Sophie already binding his affections to her.

  “That argument did not spare the Benandanti from persecution.” The Abate’s voice pulled Hunter back to the present.

  “That was four hundred years ago. Things are very different now.” Hunter replied, irritated by the Donili’s refusal to drop this grudge.

  The Abate sat back in his chair, observing Hunter. He sat silently for so long that Hunter began to think this uncomfortable meeting was over. But then the old monk spoke again.