Witch Hunter Trilogy Box Set

by K. S. Marsden

  Hunter looked up at Kristen, dragging himself firmly back into the present.

  “Did you find something?” Kristen asked, looking at the notebook she was sure Hunter did not have before.

  Hunter held up the offending article.

  Kristen nodded, her eyes narrowing at the very plain little book in his hands, wondering if that was the source of Hunter’s current weirdness.

  “And?” She prompted.

  Hunter took a deep breath as he thought over what he had learnt, of Old George and everything he had gone through for the woman he loved, he thought of the history and connection that had been hidden…

  “It tells of how to kill a Shadow Witch.” Hunter finally replied in a low voice. He eventually pushed himself up off the floor and stood on numb legs. He looked at the offending item in his hands, weighing his options. He didn’t want to share what he’d read, it felt personal; but he also didn’t want to seem like he was keeping secrets from the people that were risking everything to follow him. With a sigh, Hunter handed Kristen the book, then without a word he started to walk back down the corridor.

  Kristen looked at him, her blue eyes wide with curiosity. She looked down at the book that had been shoved into her hands, and then flicked through a few of the pages, scanning what was written.

  “Hunter, wait!” She called, jogging to catch up with him, wanting to keep him on his own for a little longer. She grabbed his arm, yanking to insist that he stay. “So… Mel was telling the truth? About your grandfather and the witch?”

  Hunter stopped, reluctant to meet Kristen’s eye, he shrugged. “Isn’t she always telling the truth?”

  Kristen paused for a moment. “Good point.”

  Hunter used her hesitation to pull away again.

  “Hunter… do you want to talk about it?” Kristen asked, uncertain.

  Hunter stood still, hovering between what he wanted to say, and what was polite to say. He took a deep breath and turned back to Kristen, a half-attempt of a bitter smile on his lips. “Talk about what? That it’s in my genes to fall in love with a Shadow Witch? Or that my whole family’s history is a lie; and our right to persecute witches suddenly questionable? No, I don’t want to talk.”

  Kristen blushed at Hunter’s little outburst, feeling embarrassed on his behalf. And feeling uncomfortable at the prospect of bringing up a certain something. “So, if they were lovers, does that mean you’re related to… um, Sophie?”

  Hunter looked at her sharply, surprised to hear anyone use Sophie’s name; and also, a little disgusted at the insinuation.

  “No!” He snapped. “Old George loved Sara, but they were nothing more than friends. Sara had a daughter with another man before they met.”

  “Alright.” Kristen replied calmly, tapping her long nails against the hard cover of the notebook, trying to think of a polite way out. “I’ll… um, add this to the rest of our sources.”

  Kristen pushed past Hunter and hurried away, back to the library.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Later that evening, when everyone else had retired to their rooms, Hunter sat alone in the drawing room. Despite it being summer, a fire crackled in the grate, for extra light and to try and push back the interminable chill of this big old house. Hunter nursed a glass tumbler of whisky – he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had whisky, being on the run had left no time for a drink, and the Donili had favoured wine only. To be honest, he was surprised that his personal stock hadn’t been raided in his absence.

  He took a sip of the amber liquid and gazed into the flames of the fire. He thought again over what he had learnt today, and his mood didn’t improve. He felt like his grandfather had lied to him, betrayed him. Old George had led Hunter and everyone else to believe that he had killed a serious threat. The truth was just depressing.

  Hunter sighed and silently cursed Old George and Sara. By the sounds of it, they were doing what was right at the time. But surely this was not the outcome they had wanted. For such a smart woman with allegedly accurate foresight, Sara Murray had done a shite job in saving the world from the power of a Shadow. She’d only managed to postpone it for seventy years. And she’d foolishly allowed her death to spark a fierce desire for revenge in her great-granddaughter.

  Hunter wondered what Sophie would make of all this. She would probably think that he was making it all up for some hidden reason.

  Hunter heard the soft pad of bare feet in the hallway. He glanced up briefly to see Kristen opening the door, then returned to his comfortable haze of whisky and thoughts.

  “Is this for anyone?” Kristen asked, nodding to the bottle on the table next to him. Not waiting for an answer, she poured herself a generous portion.

  Kristen tried a couple of times to strike up light conversation – on the history of the house, or Mel’s newest piece of randomness. But Hunter was proving an unwilling companion, his answers short and uninterested. Eventually things dissolved into silence, both of them drinking wordlessly.

  The small carriage clock on the mantelpiece chimed eleven times, claiming Kristen’s attention.

  “Well, I suppose I better head upstairs.” She announced, and then knocked back the rest of her whisky. Kristen looked at Hunter, her eyes bright. “Care to join me?”

  Hunter looked up at Kristen. Her proposition came as no surprise. And of course, he would politely turn her down. He should turn her down.

  Hunter didn’t reply immediately, instead his eyes lingered on the young woman in front of him. He couldn’t deny that she was attractive, her features delicate, but far from weak; her blonde hair falling in soft waves past her shoulders. His eyes travelled down, appreciating the simple t-shirt and jeans that showed off her womanly curves and narrow waist.

  Noticing Hunter’s new focus, Kristen opened her mouth to come out with some witty barb, but then she thought better of it. She set down her empty glass, then removed Hunter’s from his hand. The faint chink of the glass being set down on the table was the only sound.

  Kristen felt a familiar lick of desire, along with an unfamiliar tension that rose through her as she moved closer and wordlessly straddled Hunter’s lap.

  Hunter watched her careful and precise movements. He breathed deep as her scent enveloped him, and his hand came up to catch the back of her neck and pull her into a desperate kiss. Kristen’s heart began to race, as she tasted the whisky on his warm mouth. She kissed back hungrily, her teeth grazing against his lower lip.

  When they eventually pulled apart, their eyes met, equally dilated with passion. Hunter felt his own pulse demanding more, and he watched Kristen as she gave a mischievous half-smile.

  Kristen pulled her t-shirt up and over her head, revealing the pale, toned body that Hunter had occasionally speculated about. A black bra stood out against her milky skin, and her curves were emphasised. Her breasts rose and fell with her quick, shallow breathing. Kristen leant down and caught his lips again, moaning into the kiss as Hunter’s hands dug firmly into her thighs, pulling her closer.

  “Wait.” Hunter breathed, then spoke stronger. “Stop.”

  Kristen froze. That hadn’t been what she had been waiting to hear. She caught Hunter’s eye. “Seriously?”

  “We shouldn’t do this. It’s neither the time nor place.” Hunter muttered, pushing the semi-naked girl off his lap so he could stand up.

  “This is exactly the time and place – we live in dangerous times; can you promise we’ll still be safe tomorrow? And you can’t go back to pretending you don’t want me.” Kristen snapped.

  Seeing that Hunter wasn’t going to reply, and even less likely to reignite the mood, Kristen silently swore and reached for her discarded top. She pulled it back on, embarrassed that she had to do so in this manner.

  Her eyes flashed dangerously in Hunter’s direction. “Did you forget how to use your dick in that monastery? Or is it still her? You know it’s pretty twisted if you’re still in love with her.”

  Hunter took a deep breath, and trie
d to argue, to deny it, but the words died in his throat.

  “That’s it, isn’t it?” Kristen asked, her voice and her sweet blue eyes filling with pain. “She should mean nothing to you. You had what – a fling for a few months, years ago. Get over it.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.” Hunter replied, smoothing down his appearance, and careful not to catch her eye.

  But Kristen was determined to get his attention one last time. She walked straight up to him, her fierce gaze meeting his.

  “Just remember Hunter, that whatever you think you feel for her, we will fight, and we will kill her. Just as she will strive to kill you.” And with that, she turned on her heel and left.

  Hunter watched her go and continued to stand silently while he listened to her light steps up the staircase and across the landing. When he was confident that Kristen was in her room, he finally moved.

  Hunter only thought of his warm bed now but made a stop by Adam’s room. It was the first time the boy had slept alone since he had been kidnapped. Having always shared a room with either Hunter, or Molly.

  Hunter paused at Adam’s door. Upon hearing nothing, he quietly opened it, letting in a stream of faint light. Hunter felt a vibration, similar to magic, but too faint to make out. He frowned but was suddenly distracted by his stirring son.

  Adam rolled over, and seeing someone in his doorway, he sat bolt upright. “Daddy?”

  “Yes, it’s me.” Hunter replied gently. “Were you having a bad dream?”

  Adam rubbed his eyes and didn’t even try to hide his yawn. “No. You woke Incy.” His little voice sounded surprisingly accusing.

  “Sorry, I’ll not do it again.” Hunter replied, confused by the random comment, and thinking that he should perhaps limit Mel’s influence. “Go back to sleep, Adam.”

  Hunter watched as his young son obediently lay down, cuddling close an old bear Mrs Astley had dug out. Hunter smiled briefly, recognising the teddy from his own childhood. Trying not to make a sound, Hunter gently closed the door, and made his way to his own bed.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  The next morning Hunter woke up disorientated. He lay still, his eyes flicking from the high ceiling, to the long dark drapes, and the antique furniture. He’d not slept in this room for years, but it hadn’t changed. It all echoed back to a time when things had been normal – well, more normal.

  Hunter wished he could freeze things now, something telling him that from here on, things would only get worse. But he could already hear the rest of the house stirring, and reluctantly got up. Hunter winced at the whisky hangover that casually reminded him that his body was out of practice imbibing his old levels of alcohol.

  When he made his way downstairs, the smell of fresh coffee was already wafting out of the kitchen – and thankfully Jack had gotten to the task of producing drinkable coffee, before Mrs Astley could delight them with another pot of tar.

  Hunter didn’t say much to the motley bunch that crowded into the kitchen. Discussing their next step over breakfast, while still half asleep was not the best plan. But finally, after his second cup of coffee, Hunter called for his team’s attention. His team – it felt strange ever acknowledging it again. He took a deep breath and pushed back the memories of sitting in this kitchen with James, Maria, Ian and Alannah. Even Sophie once upon a time. Now was not the time for emotions or weakness.

  “We’ve got a lot of work to do. We know how to kill the Shadow Witch, which is a big step in the right direction, but it won’t win us this war. The whole world is at war with the witchkind. Oh, I know Britain will bear the brunt of it, being the home of the Shadow Witch and her Council, and they may crumble without her. But we have the rest of the world to contend with.

  “We need to co-ordinate with our foreign allies, with other witch-hunters, and even witches like Laura Kuhn, if any exist.” Hunter broke off, hardly believing what he was suggesting: an alliance with witches. Padre would be so proud that this stubborn Astley was finally opening his mind to the possibility of good witches. “So, we need to get Marcus, and any other Donili I can persuade to help with transport.

  “And… we’re going to America. Five years ago, the witches used a machine to bring down civilisation. Let’s see if we can restore it.” Hunter tried to sound more convincing than he felt, and his gaze finally drifted to Miss Davies.

  Kristen looked a little nonplussed at his attention. “I hope you’re not waiting for me to drop critical information here, Hunter. I’m from New York; I only ever went to D.C. on a school trip in eighth grade. And I was never part of their MMC.”

  Hunter waited for her to finish, then shrugged. “Ok… does that mean that you don’t want to go?”

  Kristen opened her mouth to retort, then closed it again, her eyes narrowing at him in a silent warning instead.

  “Thought as much.” Hunter muttered, choosing to ignore her look.

  Jack glanced between the two witch-hunters, suspicious at their sudden hostility.

  Hunter sighed and suggested that they should inventory and pack everything they had found, so they could take it back to the MMC at a moment’s notice. He also asked that they start making a list of potential allies while Hunter sought the Donili.

  The chairs scraped back as everyone rose, ready to leave their impromptu meeting in the kitchen. Poor Shaun was nominated to clean up, and everybody else made a quick exit.

  Jack stood in the hallway beside Hunter. The older man looked questioningly to his ‘leader’. “What if the Abate refuses to help - are you willing to fracture the Donili?”

  Hunter shrugged, not the most persuasive argument. It had already crossed his mind many times over the last two years that, if he asked for help and the Abate denied him, what path was there for him to take? Could he betray the man that had trained him; to whom he had sworn not to force his views on others? There was no satisfactory outcome, and Hunter felt a knot of anxiety that the time had come to find out.

  “I only give the monks the option to help us. It is on them to take it.” Hunter finally said, not entirely convinced himself.

  “And, ah, what’s happening with you and Kristen?” Jack asked, nodding towards the library where Miss Davies had disappeared. “Things looked a little tense.”

  Hunter grimaced. He hardly knew Jack and wasn’t about to unload his personal grievances on him. But he must have looked somewhat embarrassed because Jack suddenly smirked.

  “Look Jack, it’s…” Hunter began, but trailed off, having no idea what he was going to say.

  Jack put his hands up defensively. “Hey, forget I said anything.” He gave a small chuckle and walked away.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  It was still morning when Hunter and Adam suddenly materialised in the Donili Village. The villagers barely spared them a glance, so used were they to the monks appearing.

  Hunter walked up to the abbazia, Adam holding his hand tightly, looking around in wonder. Adam had wanted to come with his daddy and, as the trip was perfectly safe, Hunter had agreed immediately. To be honest, he didn’t like the idea of leaving his son in his mother’s care; and he was wary of encouraging any further influence from Mel.

  The Italian sun was already hot on their backs as they walked up the hill to the Abbazia di Donili.

  Hunter and Adam were unhindered as they entered the large gate and headed towards the Abate’s rooms. A few of the monks watched them curiously as they passed, but then returned to their daily tasks.

  “Si, entrare.” The Abate called after Hunter knocked.

  Hunter smiled encouragingly at his son, then pushed the heavy door open.

  The Abate was sat in the window seat, a heavy tome on his lap, and the window open to encourage the morning breeze.

  “Ah, Signor Astley, another visit so soon, I am honoured.” The old man said politely, though his blue eyes carried his questions.

  “The honour is mine, padre.” Hunter replied formally. “Things have, ah, progressed quickly since last
we spoke.”

  The Abate gently closed his book and placed his hands upon it. “Go on.”

  “The witches are stirring and preparing for war. I can feel it; the fragile peace vibrates and is ready to splinter.”

  “Very poetic. Perhaps you have missed a calling in life.” The Abate replied drily. “And what is your purpose in coming here?”

  Hunter took a deep breath. “To ask what I once asked before: for help. I know that you will not fight or defend, but I beg you to consider helping us reach out to our allies. We have no way of communicating quickly with them – I can’t be everywhere at once.”

  The Abate sat, silently considering this request, then finally nodded. “I will bring this up with the other monks in a meeting this afternoon. You may attend it, but you will not have permission to speak. Is there anything else you wish to tell me?”

  Hunter hesitates, thinking over the discovery of his grandfather’s notebook. He weighed up getting the Donili’s help regarding the knife, but the cost of sharing Old George’s attachment to the old Shadow Witch.

  “There’s a dagger we need to locate. It is from the time of the original Shadow Witch and has the engraving ‘By Her Hand Only’ on the blade.” Hunter finally admitted, carefully leaving out the how and why they came to this information. “We believe it can bind the power of a Shadow. And kill one.”

  The Abate looked a little worried at the mention of a weapon against their enemy. One with the strength to bind her? Why did the old man suspect that Hunter was more likely to take the kill option?

  “I vaguely recall a mention of this dagger in our historical archives… I shall have to find the particular parchment before I start misquoting it.” The Abate replied. “Now, let me account you with all that we have discovered since you were last here.”

  The Abate glanced down to Adam, hesitating. “This is your son, I take it. Does he understand Italian?”

  “Yes, this is Adam, padre. And he does not know Italian. Just English. And some German… and Celtic – it’s a long story.”