Before Jack had a chance to explain, the something, or rather someone, became apparent.
“All this noise, this early in a morning is uncalled for. On a Sunday too! Why, if you had any shame-” The arrogant female voice stopped suddenly, as the person came down the stairs and saw who had blustered in.
‘Oh no.’ Hunter thought. He’d much rather face demons and witches. He watched warily as the petite figure made her way down the stairs. Dressed in black, with her make-up flawless as ever, looking as though the war had not touched her.
“George?” Even her monosyllable enquiry sounded harsh. “So, you came back then.”
Her cold grey eyes swept over the small group, assessing the visitors unforgivingly.
“Mother, it’s good to see you, no one would tell me where you were.” Hunter replied, suddenly guilty that he hadn’t done more to find her sooner.
“Well.” Mrs Astley began huffily. “Your witch-hunter rebels came and claimed Astley Manor for ‘the cause’ in your absence. They stuck me in some poky community building.”
She exhaled her displeasure. “But I heard you had returned, and there was no longer any legal reason they had to hold me. But to think that I have no right to live in my own home without my son’s approval is appalling.”
“I’m sorry you had to go through that, mother.” Hunter replied, his guilt increasing. “I had no idea that would happen when I left.”
“Well, you did leave. Gallivanting off and having a fine old time, just like your father, I’m sure. While I stay behind and try to make the best of the neglect.” Mrs Astley paused, finally acknowledging the rest of the group. “And you bring a party back as always. You seem incapable of acting alone George.”
Hunter looked to his small group of friends, feeling regret again that he should drag them into his misfortunes. “Mother, may I present Miss Kristen Davies and Miss Mythanwy Elspeth Lughnasa.”
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” Kristen said, more polite than Hunter had ever known her, obviously wary of the petite battle-axe before her.
Kristen held out her hand, but Mrs Astley just let it hang there, looking with disdain at the girl. “Oh no, George, not an American. Too gaudy and pretty, and nowhere near as elegant as the last one. And your other friend keeps rather quiet. Modesty is a virtue, but extreme shyness a curse. And look at her, one can hardly tell her age she dresses such a lamb!”
Kristen’s mouth was agape at the criticisms that were thrown her way, and poor little Mel pressed closer to Hunter.
“She scares me.” Mel breathed, making Hunter smile that an accomplice of Lucifer should fear his mother.
“And who is the boy?” Mrs Astley demanded, speeding along the introductions.
Hunter gave Adam’s hand a reassuring squeeze before replying. “Mother, this is Adam – your grandson.”
And finally, Hunter got to witness his mother being shocked into silence. Mrs Astley stood there, her normally pale cheeks fading to white and her thin lips opening and closing as she tried to comprehend this.
“No, but… how is this?” The normally articulate Mrs Astley was at a loss.
“He’s mine and Sophie’s son.” Hunter answered softly. Then he looked down at Adam. “Say hello to your Grandmother Astley.”
But the little boy clammed up, and faced with his daunting grandmother, he squeezed harder on his father’s hand and shuffled to hide behind Hunter.
Mrs Astley pressed her fingers to her lips, looking quite choked up. “Finally, a grandchild. One I can help raise right this time.”
Hunter frowned at this; he knew that his mother had long craved a grandchild – she had been less than subtle in her hints for years. But there was no way he was letting that poisonous woman near Adam – with his contradicting parentage the boy already had enough issues.
“Sir?” A male voice cut in, and Hunter turned to Jack as he spoke up, looking both nervous and amused by the exchange. “Sorry to interrupt, but you said you were here looking for something.”
Hunter blinked, oh yes, back to business. It was almost a relief to turn his attention from his mother, back to the imminent witch threat.
“Right, I need to finish translating a few newly acquired papers. Kristen, I’ll show you to the archives, bring up everything you can find from Old George, my grandfather, especially pertaining to the 1940s. Mel, can you go to my family’s collection of artefacts – see if there’s anything you recognise as useful that we might have mislabelled.”
Hunter looked up to Jack and Shaun. “Gentlemen, if you wouldn’t mind aiding the ladies.”
Shaun stepped forward, introducing himself to Kristen and Mel and offering to show them the way. Jack gave Hunter one last look, then followed the trio towards the library.
And so, Hunter was left alone with his son, and his mother. Mrs Astley stood quietly; her eyes fixed on her grandson. Then suddenly she clapped her hands together.
“Well, I suppose I should start with tea and coffee for everyone while they work.”
Hunter looked at her warily. Mrs Astley was infamous for being a cold hostess, and this out of character offer made Hunter start. “Mother…” He began but was quickly cut off.
“With Charles gone, we can hardly offer hospitality as we once did, but it will have to suffice.” Mrs Astley mused aloud, then feeling quite determined, she headed off in the direction of the kitchen.
For a few minutes, Hunter was left alone with his son in the entrance hall of his old home. He stood and breathed in deeply, taking in the familiarity of this house that seemed to awaken, as Hunter’s party began to move through it, and the cheerful atmosphere recognised the return of the master of the house, and the young heir.
Chapter Twenty-three
Hunter had been sitting in the study for a couple of hours, poking over the Berlin papers. He was slowly beginning to piece together what Laura Kuhn had found so important. But it was hard to concentrate while his mother hovered in the room.
Oh, she was silent, Hunter had never known her to be so quiet; Mrs Astley was rapt with delight with Adam’s existence. Well, at least she did not seem disturbed by the fact that his mother was a witch, which was a refreshing change. No, for once it was the other way around, with Adam feeling quite unsettled by her unwavering attention.
As Mrs Astley sighed contentedly once more, Hunter snapped, slamming his pencil on the desk.
“Mother, perhaps another round of coffee is in order. And you should probably assign our guests rooms for later.” He suggested, hinting heavily that she should make herself busy.
Mrs Astley looked towards him; her gaze steely again, now that it had been torn from her grandson.
“If you wish to be alone, you only had to say, George. I do not know why you insist on treating me like an idiot.” Mrs Astley stood up and brushed her black skirt into neat lines. “I shall see to lunch, as I doubt anyone else has cared to plan it.”
Hunter looked at her sceptically. “But you can’t cook, mother.”
Mrs Astley raised a neatly plucked eyebrow at his comment. “You would be surprised, my son, what I have had to learn these past few years.” Mrs Astley said without modesty.
Hunter stared down at the book in front of him, taking in none of the words as his mind ticked over. “Where is Charles?”
Mrs Astley didn’t reply immediately, but took the time to straighten the cuffs on her blouse. “He died. Last autumn. Not that you care, of course. You did such a good job of abandoning us.”
“Mother, I-” Hunter stopped, aware that he had no excuse for his past choices. Charles had been a loyal part of the household for as long as Hunter could remember and had been a source of company for his unpopular mother. “I’m sorry, I thought you were safer without me. How did they get to him?”
Mrs Astley blinked in surprise. “Not everything comes down to witches, George. Charles had lung cancer. I thought he had pneumonia that would not shift. He only told me the doctors had diagnosed him with cancer months later
, near the end. He said that he did not want to cause any unnecessary hurt or fuss.” Mrs Astley gave a wistful smile.
Hunter sat silently, noting his own pang of grief and, shockingly, sympathy for his mother. Mrs Astley had depended on Charles for years, and Hunter had often wondered about their friendship.
Mrs Astley took a single glance in her son’s direction and tutted at the emotions that he was daring to feel. “I do hope that isn’t pity your feeling, George.”
Content that she had made her point, Hunter’s mother picked up their empty mugs and made her way out of the study.
Hunter shook his head, while he waited for the stuffy feeling to leave the room. When it didn’t seem keen to clear, he decided he needed to stretch his legs. With a sigh, and a creak of the antique chair, he got to his feet. Hunter held his hand out to his son, and together they headed to the library.
Inside, Kristen and Shaun were ensconced at a desk, their heads close together over a stack of papers. Before Hunter had a chance to ask what had them so riveted, the opposite door opened and Mel danced through from the cellar, Jack following more calmly, carrying a few bits and pieces from the famous Astley collection.
Jack looked sheepishly up at Hunter, the older man excited to be able to handle the artefacts they had previously guarded and treated with near reverence.
“Did you find something?” Hunter asked hopefully.
Mel smiled brightly, her blue eyes shining. “So many pretty somethings, some we thought lost long ago!”
“But anything useful, Mel?” Hunter tried again, focusing his question.
“Oh, nothing as useful as that.” Mel answered, pointing vaguely towards Hunter. “But some of these will protect against strong magic.”
Hunter nodded, then paused and rewound over what she had just said. “Wait, you mean they’re not as useful as me?”
That was interesting; both exciting and frightening that a demon should value his ability to shield others above these amulets and trinkets he’d been taught to respect.
But that wasn’t what Mel had in mind. She giggled, and playfully smacked his arm.
“No, silly. That.” Mel reached up and pulled at the dog tags Hunter perpetually wore, until they slipped out of his shirt and were visible for all to see.
Hunter wrapped his hand around the familiar piece and raised it for inspection. Nope, they looked the same as they always had; a soldier’s old dog tags that Hunter had worn for as long as he could remember. “Why do you say that Mel?”
Mel’s eyes narrowed as she tried to work out why her friend George didn’t understand his own history. “They belonged to your grandfather, when he was a young man, fighting a world war.”
“Really?” Hunter mumbled. He wondered how it could be that he had never known this; had never asked. He had always assumed that it was just one of many protective amulets owned by the Astleys.
“Uh-huh, and then his witchy lover put her super-strong spell on it. She was super-strong, after all, sweet little Sara.”
When Mel stopped speaking, Hunter was aware how deathly quiet it was in the library. No one spoke and no one moved.
Hunter coughed, trying to find his voice. “Sara? As in Sara Murray?”
Mel brightened up at his recognition. “Oh, so you know her? She is lovely. We tried to send her a familiar, but she’d popped her clogs before she had chance to meet it.”
Hunter stood silently, staring out unseeingly. Then he snapped back to attention and shook his head.
“That’s crazy.” He snapped.
Feeling a familiar wave of anger and frustration threaten to rise up, Hunter turned and left the room. Everyone else was left in awkwardness, sharing embarrassed glances with one another that they should have witnessed this.
Without a real destination in mind, Hunter ended up on the first-floor corridor. He paced up and down it a couple of times, the familiar portraits of his ancestors silent in the background.
Eventually he stopped at his grandfather’s. It was the second to last, with the final one belonging to Hunter’s father, “Young” George Astley. Beyond that was a space that always hinted that a portrait of Hunter would join the others, but he had always put it off.
He took a deep breath and looked up at his grandfather’s likeness. Hunter hardly remembered him from real life, he’d died when Hunter was a young boy. But from what Hunter gathered, Old George was an unremarkably average man (when one ignored the witch-hunting occupation). People liked him, although he wasn’t exceptionally outgoing. He was giving and charitable, without being overly kind. Old George had not married until he was in his forties; and by all accounts it was a pleasant marriage, with the production of a single son.
In fact, as far as Hunter could work out, the only remarkable thing that Old George did was to defeat a Shadow Witch. And now thanks to Mel, even that was in question.
Hunter sighed, his right hand moving instinctively to the dog tags at his chest. Had they really belonged to his grandfather? He looked up at the portrait of Old George. There was something at his neck, but it was hard to tell at this angle.
Hunter glanced guiltily down the corridor, then reached up and unhooked the painting, lifting it down from the wall. On closer inspection, the brush strokes only revealed a hint of grey tucked into Old George’s shirt. It could be anything, and Hunter knew it was only his desire to see his dog tags that made his eyes depict and translate the image. He moved to return the painting, when something else caught his eye.
Hunter frowned. Now that the painting was no longer on the wall, he could see a rectangular shape carved into the plaster. Hunter put his grandfather’s portrait down gently. Then he reached up and traced the groove,
Hunter shook his head and sighed. It couldn’t be this obvious, could it?
He searched his pockets and pulled out his battered old pocketknife. He ran the blade through the groove and felt little resistance; then he twisted it until the small panel shifted and fell obediently into his hand.
Hunter looked down at the wedge of wood and plaster, then turned his attention back to the wall. Someone had made a nice little hidey-hole, only big enough for the book that was nestled within.
Hunter pulled it out; it was a notebook, looking very unimpressive with its unadorned navy cover. Hunter flicked through the pages that were filled with tight black handwriting that looked very familiar.
Hunter finally settled on the first page. It was clearly dated November 1948 in the top right corner.
“By the hand of George Astley V.
“It is three years since the death of the Shadow Witch, and I am finally fulfilling my promise to write down all of my dealings with Ms Sara Murray.”
Hunter’s heart beat faster. It was here. How long had he been looking for his grandfather’s account of the 1940’s Shadow, and mad Old George had hidden it in the bloody wall!
Hunter looked down the corridor, but all remained silent, no one had followed him here. He looked about for a nearby chair; and seeing none he sat down on the floor, his back against the wall and his knees propped up in front of him. Hunter opened the seventy-year-old notebook again.
Chapter Twenty-four
In the summer of 1939, I was seventeen years old, and the only son and heir of George Astley IV, the famed witch-hunter. My older sister Elizabeth is married and living a life away from the witch-hunting madness. She always was the sensible one. I felt that my life was always planned before me – I would follow my father, of course, and look after the Manor when my time came.
But that year was to upset everything. In summer, I met the most beautiful girl I had ever known. Although, perhaps less girl, and more grown woman. Sara Murray was twenty-one years of age, and the mother of a two-year-old daughter. She came to Little Hanting to stay with her uncle’s family. ‘So, the countryside could improve her health,’ was the official story. But the village is small, and secrets are not easily kept, and shortly after her arrival it was widely known that she had been sent because
her parents could no longer bear the shame of a child born out of wedlock.
As you can imagine, my own parents discouraged all association with her, and forbade any romantic inclinations I might feel. Stuffy, antiquated pair that they are. Of course, it did not put me off from seeking her company. Over that summer we became good friends, and I discovered that Sara was not only beautiful, with her bright green eyes and rich brown hair; she was also smart and sweet and funny.
I confess that I was quite in love with her within a month of knowing her. For who could not love such a kind and honest lady. Indeed, several of the young men in the village sought to court her, despite her sins of the past. But she declined them gently, wishing for nothing more than friendship. And friendship I readily gave, rather than be cast out of her acquaintance.
Sara was always a very sensitive person, she became uneasy when foul weather arose, and would shake with fear at bad premonitions. She had an uncanny ability to see future events, although the visions often didn’t make sense until it actually came to pass. I attributed it to mundane wiccan skills, because I could never sense a hint of magic around her.
That autumn she became worried to the point of being ill, but so did the rest of the country. It was no surprise when we fell back into war with Germany, tensions had been building for so long that it had been a question of ‘when’, not ‘if’. It didn’t alter life much in Little Hanting; we were too far from any city or place of interest.
Personally, I was itching to help, but had to wait until the following summer to be old enough to volunteer. Sara begged me to wait another year, but she seemed resigned to the fact that I would go immediately. Her objections were so mild, that it was actually comforting – I was becoming so used to trusting her future sight – had she seen my death she would have tried harder.
I will not go into my time at war, this account is on one focus only, and I do not need to raise any more painful ghosts. It was a year until I returned home, and I arrived to find Little Hanting showing signs of war. Many homes had taken in children from London, and many of the women had joined together to manufacture uniforms on top of their daily chores.
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