Yes, the days went by swiftly and fluidly, in a daze of learning and friendship. But the nights… the nights Hunter would stay up reading until his eyes could no longer focus, desperate to learn all he could, and also desperate to hold off the dreams. They did not come every night, sometimes they only came once a month, but Hunter came to crave and dread them. They were set either at the cottage or in a village, he was always accompanied by Sophie, who continued to look at him with a steady love, and a small, dark-haired boy - their son. Hunter had never seen the child that he had with Sophie, and had only heard vague reports of the Shadow Witch having a son, but in his dream the boy was fleshed out to be an active and beautiful child, who looked like his mother, except with warmer Astley eyes. Adam. That was the name that rang in Hunter’s mind every time he saw his son, the name that Sophie spoke out loud. And as time passed, in his dreams Hunter saw the subtle shifts as Adam slowly grew older in real time.
Chapter Nine
“How long have you been with us, Signor Astley?”
It was a bright summer day, with the warm sun shining down on the Abbazia di Donili. Hunter stood on the high walkway, looking down the hillside to the town and the shimmering river in the distance. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply the sweet-scented breeze.
“How long have you been here?” The Abate repeated gently.
“Nineteen months, two weeks and a day.” Hunter reeled off without hesitation.
It seemed such a long time, and he hated watching each day pass. But each day there was something more to learn, and he became that much stronger.
“How long do you plan to stay?” The Abate asked softly.
Hunter shrugged, “There is so much to learn, padre.”
“I know.” The Abate agreed. “I have dedicated my life to the Donili, and I cannot claim to know everything. But I wonder if this is where you belong…”
“You want to get rid of me?” Hunter was a little hurt that the Abate might finally be giving up on him. It was true that Hunter always had to work that little bit harder to fit in, he always had to control his temper and hide all his heretical research. It hadn’t been too bad a life, until Hunter lost his close friend and almost-conspirator. Marcus had left the abbazia at the beginning of spring to marry and take his place in the village. Hunter thought back on a conversation with Marcus, only a year ago the young monk was focused on his duties and studies and had no desire to leave. But he was so young, a year could drastically change his ambitions.
The Abate gave Hunter an amused glance. “You know that is not true, my son. But I wonder, what are your plans?”
Hunter didn’t reply but continued to stare out across the hills as he leaned against the sturdy stone wall. He didn’t know what his plans were. During meditation and sleepless nights, he would run over scenes and scenarios, but failed to see what could ultimately work. And the longer he put it off the more daunting a prospect it became.
“You no longer speak of your old friends, your Council, your home. I fear that you are forgetting them and forgetting your reason for coming here.”
Hunter sighed. “It’s difficult to talk about them, they don’t belong here. Anyway, I thought you wanted me to give up my old life. Congratulations, you’ve won.”
The Abate smiled sadly. “Perhaps I did, I wanted you to abandon your violent past and adopt our ways. But I see that you are giving up everything and taking on nothing. What are you afraid of George?”
Hunter looked up, surprised by the use of his Christian name, when the Abate had never strayed from calling him Astley, and the other monks only knew him as Hunter.
“I don’t know.” He muttered, turning away again. “I’m afraid that the world has moved on and is beyond repair. I’m afraid that they’ll think I’ve abandoned them. Most of all, I don’t know that I can actually do anything.”
Hunter fell silent, and the two men stood in the spring sunlight as the minutes drew by.
“So, if you think I don’t belong here, kick me out.” Hunter finally said. “Or I’ll devote my life to the Donili, as a monk; or at a word from you I’ll marry within the Donili and have children, I am not too old.”
Hunter looked to the Abate and there was desperation in his eyes. The Abate stepped closer to Hunter and placed a frail hand on his shoulder.
“I am sure that you would make a fine monk, Signor Astley… if you could give up the inbred self-righteousness of course.” The Abate suddenly smiled. “You are thirty-years-old, I am sure you do not need to be told what to do! Very well, my instruction to you is to take the first step. No one can predict the outcome, but don’t let that stop you.”
Hunter nodded, knowing that the Abate was only saying what he already knew.
“So, the question is, what is your first step?” The Abate asked.
Hunter took an unnecessary moment to think. “The first thing is to head home, preferably without alerting the Shadow Witch. Then I want to find my son.”
“Then I suggest you go, my son. There is nothing more we can teach you. You will always be welcome back.”
Then the austere Abate did something that shocked Hunter, he reached out and embraced him warmly like a son.
“Grazie, padre.” Hunter managed to mumble.
Ten
Hunter left the very next day. Now that he had made up his mind he wanted to leave before it became more painful to abandon the comforts of the Donili life. He made a few brief goodbyes amongst the monks and villagers. Hunter wished he could take Marcus, or even Biagio on this new adventure, he had become so accustomed to company and friendship and he was loathe to give it all up again.
But after a restless night’s sleep; and a rushed, solitary breakfast, Hunter slung his pack of meagre possessions onto his back and closed his eyes. He had rarely thought of home for a year, but the image of Astley Manor rushed in with such strength and clarity that Hunter almost felt homesick for that brief second before he opened his eyes and the reality of the Manor overwhelmed his senses.
It was cold and dark in the sitting room in which Hunter had materialised. The brittle light of early morning seeped in at the seams of heavy drapes. Hunter’s eyes grew accustomed to the dim light and he moved over to the window, peeking through a gap in the curtains. Outside the world was silent; there was no sign of life across the stretch of land that belonged to his family’s ancestral estate. From the light and time of year, Hunter guessed that it was not yet 6.00am - he wondered if there were any residents still asleep above his head.
Hunter turned back to the room, there were no obvious signs of habituation; dust covered the surfaces and there was cold ash in the fireplace. Even in the darkness he could see the familiar layout of the room. He hadn’t been here for two years and he felt sorry for how he’d abandoned the old place.
Astley Manor was an unusual place. For years the grand estate was owned by the very private and reserved Astley family. The residents of the local village had seen it as part of the landscape, impressive but boringly traditional. Until all hell had broken loose at the Battle of Little Hanting.
People were increasingly aware of the fact Astley Manor was filled with seven generations worth of objects confiscated from witches, all sort of occult and ceremonial items that could be both protective and offensive. There was also the largest privately-owned library on witchkind in the country. The information and artefacts that Hunter had at his disposal rivalled the MMC - no wonder the Council had feared his ability to work independently.
But what was most amazing about Astley Manor was the basic fact that it was still standing. The more successful a witch-hunter was, the more he and his family were targeted by revengeful witches. Families struggled to reach 5th generation status and lived in constant fear of near-inevitable destruction.
But Astley Manor stood untouched for seven generations - and it was hardly a discrete safe house.
Hunter didn’t know what enchantments or miracles had been invoked by his ancestors, but no magic could penetrate t
he borders, and no witch could step onto the estate without having their powers stripped. And no witch would enter a witch-hunter’s lair so defenceless - Hunter grudgingly marvelled at Sophie’s courage in doing so for so long.
After the witch rebellion, it became the rallying point and makeshift base for witch-hunters after the fall of the Malleus Maleficarum Council. It protected them against magic, even that of the Shadow Witch. But all this protection and information wasn’t enough.
Hunter still remembered the evening the witches drove the witch-hunters and their allies from the Manor. The night that Anthony Marks, the leader of the MMC, had sacrificed himself to give the others time to escape.
Hunter didn’t know if there was any organised rebellion left. And if there was, he had no idea where they were, and only a vague idea where to start looking.
Hunter heard a creak from upstairs and he tensed, his hand straying to his gun, which felt familiar even after so many months of absence in the peaceful abbazia. There were three possibilities: his charming mother had survived here alone for years; a remnant from the MMC was using the famous Astley Manor; or a witch or two were stationed here in case Hunter or his allies returned. As much as Hunter wished for someone on his side, he pessimistically assumed the worst. After all, Sophie knew him so well, she would definitely station someone here.
Hunter drew his gun and moved silently towards the ajar sitting room door, then slid into the hallway. Quickly glancing up the wide staircase, Hunter took a deep breath and purposefully slammed the door behind him. The sound was booming in the silence and echoed through the familiar corridors. Hunter heard the shuffle of feet upstairs and pressed himself into the shadows, his gun aimed steadily at the stairs.
There was the sound of feet treading slowly and carefully onto the bare boards, more than one person, trying to be silent. In the darkness of the heavily panelled hallway, Hunter detected two figures moving down the stairs. The way they moved and the fact that they carried guns echoed of witch-hunter training, making Hunter hopeful.
“Who goes there?” A voice called out.
Hunter frowned. “You first. Who are you?”
The man whipped around, staring blindly in Hunter’s direction. “I am a first gen with the MMC, this property is under the Council’s authority, you are trespassing. Now, who are you?”
Hunter watched as the speaker reached the bottom step and stared wide-eyed to try and detect anything in his near-blindness. Hunter, who had no trouble seeing thanks to his 7th gen status, considered bringing a little bit of light to the proceedings; but lord knows where any candles were, and he doubted that this man and his colleague would appreciate a very magical-looking but harmless ball of suspended light.
“I am not trespassing.” Hunter replied quietly. “Come into the sitting room and we shall talk.”
Hunter turned back to the sitting room and opened the heavy door, before promptly whisking open the curtains to allow in the strengthening morning light. He watched as two men in their thirties stepped into the room, squinting in the sudden light.
“Who-”
“I am Hunter Astley, 7th gen, lord of this manor.” Hunter said quickly, cutting across the inevitable question.
The two men stood staring formlessly at Hunter. They obviously hadn’t expected that answer.
“Do you, ah, have any ID?” One man managed to choke out.
Hunter laughed, suddenly released from tension and amused at how things were playing out.
“I haven’t had identification on me for years - an unfortunate result from being constantly on the move and not wanting to be known, of course.” He smiled, oh yes, how handy would that be, if he were caught by enemies that could quickly check his passport to discover who he was. “But if you won’t take my word, go to the portrait room. Unfortunately, I don’t have one, but if you look at my father’s I am sure that you will see the family resemblance.”
The two men continued to stand there, looking nonplussed. But one eventually managed to speak.
“We thought you were dead.” He breathed. “After the battle of Salisbury Plain, we thought none had survived.”
So, it suddenly made sense, why they looked at Hunter like a ghost. He supposed that it was a natural assumption, especially as Hunter had no way to contact any surviving MMC, even if he had thought it safe to do so.
“I am very much alive and well, I’ve just been off the radar. But who are you, gentlemen?”
“Shaun Williams, 1st gen.” The first man replied.
“Jack Lowe, 1st gen.” The second man added. “We’re part of the MMC, stationed here to defend Astley Manor and its contents for the good of the Council.”
“So, the MMC still stands? I feared there would be no organised resistance. Where are they based? Not here, obviously.”
“They’re currently at a secure base within travelling distance.” Shaun Williams replied obscurely.
“I think I should go to them.” Hunter suddenly decided; he was likeliest to learn what he needed to know from the MMC directly. “Where are they located?”
The two witch-hunters exchanged a look.
“Sorry sir, we aren’t authorised to disclose that.” Jack Lowe said formally, “But we can take you.”
Hunter paused, considering this offer. He would prefer to blink straight there rather than spend potentially hours in a car. But he doubted he could learn where the MMC were located without breaching the privacy of the witch-hunters’ minds. Plus, as he thought about it, blinking and suddenly materialising inside the anti-witch headquarters might not be the most sensible entrance.
“Very well.” Hunter said with a brief nod of agreement.
The witch-hunters shared a brief conversation, with Jack taking the task of driving Hunter, and Shaun staying to keep charge of the manor. Jack left the room to get the car ready, leaving Shaun with Hunter. Shaun stood uncertainly, obviously in awe of the legendary 7th gen, returned-from-the-dead, Hunter.
“We’re not really supposed to leave only one guard on duty. I mean, we’re due to return to base when the next team relieve us, but I’m guessing you’d rather go now, sir.” Shaun rambled on.
“It’s fine.” Hunter cut across, something else on his mind. “Mr Williams, can I ask… do you know anything of my mother? Is she still here?”
Shaun hesitated. “I don’t know for certain, sir, but I think Mrs Astley is in MMC care.”
Hunter found it hard to believe that his proud and fierce little mother (who had very little respect for witch-hunters) would give up her family home, no matter what the danger. And Shaun’s flimsy answer did nothing to comfort him.
Outside there was the rumble of an engine, and Hunter went out towards the drive to find what looked like an old army jeep. Jack Lowe was already sat at the wheel and eyed Hunter curiously as he hopped into the passenger seat.
Jack coaxed the old jeep forward and they crunched over the gravel until they got to the long drive. Hunter looked out at the beautiful, familiar landscape that was his estate. They passed through the village of Little Hanting, a picturesque place that Hunter had always taken for granted.
Hunter sighed, watching the scene pass by - too slowly for his liking. Hunter tried to surreptitiously glance at the speedometer. He frowned as he saw the needle wavering over the 45mph mark.
“Sorry.” Jack suddenly apologised.
“What for?” Hunter asked, looking up at the older man. Closer to, Hunter could tell that his initial guess of mid-thirties was a bit young. Jack looked closer to his late-forties, or even early-fifties.
Jack looked back, unconvinced with Hunter’s innocence. He nodded to the dashboard. “I’m sure it’s slower than what you’re used to, but it’s MMC rules. Diesel is rationed, so we have to drive conservatively. Not that this old piece of crap could go fast anyway.”
“It’s fine. It’s faster than walking.” Hunter replied unconvincingly. What would be faster and more fuel economic would be to blink over there.
The
y drifted back to an uncomfortable silence that allowed Hunter too much thinking space.
“So… how long have you been a witch-hunter?”
“Nearly two years.” Jack replied shortly. The older man glanced unnecessarily in the mirror, and his grip tightened on the wheel. “I joined the MMC after I lost my son to the witches. He was a witch-hunter, see. Fell at Salisbury Plain.”
“I’m sorry.” Hunter mumbled.
“He was only twenty-year-old, he said he’d save the world or die trying.” Jack smiled bitterly at his late son’s bravado. “Maybe you met him? Darren. Darren Lowe?”
Hunter saw the gleam of hope in Jack’s face, the hope that his son lived on in one more memory, and he felt sorry for letting him down.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t.” Hunter replied quietly. “There were… so many men and women at Salisbury Plain. I wish I could say I knew him.”
“It’s ok.” Jack mumbled, to himself. “It’s ok.”
Chapter Eleven
The jeep rumbled on for over an hour, until Jack nodded and spoke up.
“Nearly there.”
Hunter looked out at the surrounding countryside but saw no sign of life. Jack swung the jeep off the main road and down a private track. Hunter finally saw an old barbed wire fence running around what looked like an airfield. Across the cracked tarmac were a couple of derelict hangars.
“Just… wait and see.” Jack said, watching Hunter’s expression with amusement. Jack drove straight into the hangar and parked the jeep alongside several vehicles of similar antiquity.
“This way.” He jumped out of the driver’s seat and led the way to an internal concrete bunker. Jack pushed back his sleeves and grabbed the handle of a small iron door, with a grunt he managed to drag it open wide enough for them to enter.
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