Fire Girl

by Matt Ralphs

  Hazel felt as if she was walking on a tightrope. One false move and she’d topple to her death. She decided to hedge her bets. ‘I’m not sure,’ she replied, as smoothly as she could. ‘Ma never spoke about it. She always said the subject was far too painful.’

  David nodded and squinted up the dark road.

  She turned the next page and started in surprise. It was a picture of a demon, the demon, her demon, crook-backed and skinless. Caught in the light of the swinging lantern the image seemed to swell, as if drawing breath. Gripping the book to stop her hands from shaking, she read on:

  Rawhead. Daemon-mediocritas. Blind, but with a keen nose for magic, making it ideal for hunting witches. It resides in the Slaughter Gardens of Dryhthelm, the dreaded demon Underworld, and always carries with it the stench of blood.

  If it can smell magic, does that mean it can smell me? Hazel thought. Perhaps the smell of the enchanted hedge hid my scent back there in the forest? Next time I might not be so lucky.

  ‘I’ve found it,’ she said, passing the book to David.

  ‘Excellent. Take the reins, would you? Don’t worry, the horses will walk on.’ He frowned at the picture. ‘Are you sure this is the one? It’s a daemon-mediocritas – which means it’s in the mid-ranks of the demon hierarchy. It would take a Wielder of enormous skill to summon it and keep it bound.’

  ‘I know what I saw,’ Hazel said, her voice shaking. ‘If we’re going to work together you need to trust me.’

  ‘All right, I believe you. It’s just unusual, that’s all.’ David scratched his chin. ‘You know, I’d prove myself to be a Witch Finder to be reckoned with if I captured a daemon-mediocritas.’

  ‘I’m paying you to help find my mother, not improve your reputation.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ David said hurriedly. He took another look at the picture. ‘I’d better tell the boss about this. This demon is too much to handle on my own.’

  ‘Shall I wake him?’ asked Hazel.

  ‘Probably best to wait until he wakes up, er . . . naturally,’ David advised. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll look after you.’

  Hazel bristled. ‘I don’t need looking after. What I do need is to know how we’re going to find this horrible creature.’

  David tapped his nose. ‘We Witch Finders have our methods.’ He reached back inside the hatch and retrieved a polished wooden box. ‘Take a look in there,’ he said, handing it to Hazel and taking back the reins.

  Hazel opened it. Nestling in the frayed, red velvet lining was a pair of silver goggles, with thick glass lenses and a leather strap. Each eyepiece had several adjustable focusing wheels and brass levers etched with writing. Hazel lifted them up and was surprised by how heavy they were.

  ‘What are these for?’ she asked.

  ‘Hunting demons, of course,’ David said with a grin. ‘The boss designed them himself.’

  ‘How do they work?’ Hazel fiddled with one of the rotating wheels. It clicked solidly as she turned it.

  ‘Well, when a demon is summoned from Dryhthelm – that’s where demons come from – they begin to decay.’ He took the goggles from her and adjusted some of the wheels. ‘For a demon like Rawhead, being in our world is a slow and painful death sentence.’

  ‘You mean he might already be dead?’

  ‘I doubt it. It would take a long time for a demon like Rawhead to wither away – and there are ways they can prolong their existence in our world.’

  ‘Like what?’ asked Hazel, both fascinated and horrified.

  ‘They feed.’

  Hazel’s stomach churned. ‘On what?’

  ‘Animals . . . people . . . whatever they can find – as long as it’s fresh. They’re particularly partial to children.’

  ‘Ask him about dormice,’ Bramley squeaked.

  ‘The advantage for us is that the decaying demon leaves a trail behind,’ continued David.

  ‘Like a slug?’ asked Hazel.

  ‘Almost exactly!’ He put the goggles around Hazel’s head and adjusted the strap to fit. Hazel tried to stifle a giggle as she felt Bramley wriggling his way under the neck of her cloak to avoid David’s clumsy fingers.

  ‘Demon trails are invisible to the naked eye,’ David went on, ‘but that’s where these Entropy Goggles come in handy. Comfortable?’

  Hazel nodded, the weight of the goggles making her head feel unbalanced. ‘But I can hardly see—’

  ‘I’ve adjusted them to show Rawhead’s trail. Everything else will be indistinct.’

  Hazel pushed the goggles up her head and blinked her eyes back into focus. ‘How long do the trails last?’

  ‘It depends on the demon. A lesser demon’s trail – a Boggart’s, for instance – may only last a few hours, whereas a more powerful demon leaves a more indelible one. The boss says you can still see traces of a greater demon summoned by a Grand Magus in the Hebrides, and that was five hundred years ago in eleven sixty-three.’

  ‘What about . . . Rawhead?’ Even saying the name brought the taste of blood to Hazel’s mouth.

  David tapped the cover of Demonology. ‘Our chap is of middle rank. I’d say his trail could last for several days.’ He shook his head in wonder. ‘A daemon-mediocritas. This could be the making of me.’

  Hazel closed the book, shutting her nemesis away. The fields on either side surrendered to rocky scrubland dotted with a few stunted bushes. A stream bubbled somewhere in the darkness. She peered ahead as a dark shadow grew from the fog.

  Wychwood, she thought with a thrill of fear. Where the demon might be.

  13

  SILK AND POISON

  ‘The King is defeated. The Witch War is over.

  It’s time to exterminate the rats.’

  Lord Protector Oliver Cromwell

  The wagon rocked and creaked its way into the forest. A pair of hanging metal cages guarded the entrance, each gibbet containing a crumbling skeleton shrouded in rags. A raven sat hunched on a wrought-iron ‘C’ at the top of one of the cages.

  ‘C for Cromwell,’ David remarked. ‘Odd to think that there used to be witches in the King’s court, isn’t it?’

  ‘It certainly is,’ Hazel hazarded.

  ‘Things are very different now, of course. It won’t be long before there are no witches left in England at all. Then all of us ordinary folk will be safe from them forever. Cromwell says the witches who remain at large will do anything to get revenge for losing the Witch War.’

  Hazel looked sidelong at David. Are there many witches left now?’ she asked.

  David shook his head. ‘Very few, I should think. The Witch Hunters under General Hopkins have seen to that. Most have gathered in the North, but Lord Cromwell himself is leading his army to defeat them.’ He sighed. ‘I wish I was up there with him.’

  The forest closed in, branches lacing together to shut out the sky. Only a few streaks of moonlight reached the road. The gloom dampened even David’s spirits. Only the horses seemed unperturbed as they plodded down the rutted track, their perspiring flanks steaming in the cold. Hazel eventually got used to the wagon’s sway, her backside becoming so numb that she couldn’t feel the seat. Sleep stole over her.

  Perhaps it was a drop in temperature or a shift in wind direction that woke her up and quickened her heart; she knew Bramley felt it too because he stirred and shivered, his bristling whiskers tickling her neck.

  ‘David?’ she said.

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘Can you . . . feel something?’

  David nodded towards the gnarled trees encroaching on the road. ‘The mist is getting worse,’ he said. ‘Is that what you mean?’

  Sure enough, fog was seeping through the trees on either side, filling the shadows with grey vapour. The first white tentacles were already uncoiling on to the road in front of them. Hazel tasted moisture in the air and water droplets gathered on her cloak. She peered ahead at a dark shape lying prone across the road.

  ‘Stop the cart,’ she hissed. ‘I see something.’

  �
�Whoa, boys.’ David pulled on the reins and the wagon creaked to a stop. ‘It looks like a body.’ He reached under his seat, pulled out a short wooden club and climbed down the ladder. ‘You stay here. If there’s trouble, get the boss.’

  ‘But you said not to wake him up,’ Hazel said.

  David shrugged. ‘Just don’t get within arm’s reach. Try shouting “fire”. Actually, “ale” will probably do the trick.’

  Hazel perched anxiously on the edge of her seat as David crept up the side of the road towards the shape. His boots crunched on the ground.

  ‘Can you smell something odd?’ Bramley asked, squirming out of Hazel’s hair and on to her shoulder.

  Hazel sniffed. Could it be . . . ?

  She lowered the Entropy Goggles over her eyes. The world faded and was replaced by blurry shapes. The only thing in focus was a trail of glowing red footprints leading out of the forest, around the body and then snaking down the road into the distance.

  ‘Rawhead,’ breathed Hazel. ‘He’s been here . . .’

  ‘I have a bad feeling about this, Hazel,’ squeaked Bramley.

  David stopped a few feet from the body and crouched down, head cocked. Through the goggles he was nothing more than a shimmering wraith. ‘She’s alive,’ he called. ‘I can see her breathing.’

  Hazel ripped off the goggles just as something shifted in the branches over David’s head. A shower of leaves drifted down.

  ‘David,’ Hazel shouted, feeling the tremor in her voice. ‘Come back!’

  He turned to her. ‘What?’

  ‘Come back, right now.’ She pointed at the drooping branches. ‘There’s something—’ Her voice seized up in her throat.

  David looked up. Above him hung a huge spider; at least twice the size of a grown man. Moonlight drowned in its bulging eye-clusters. Silver venom dripped from its fangs. Eight legs, splayed like an open hand, reached towards him.

  ‘David!’ Hazel screamed.

  For a frozen moment the spider and David stared at one another; then the creature dropped on a glistening length of silk, smothering him before he could make a sound. Through the hideous tangle of legs, Hazel saw the spider work its fangs into David’s cheek.

  With a violent spasm, he flopped to the ground like a boned fish and lay perfectly still.

  14

  LILITH AND SPINDLE

  Nicolas Murrell spent many years studying

  demons, and is an expert in their evil ways.

  A Contemporary Study of Witches by William Steer

  Hazel pressed her back against the wagon as the spider turned its bulbous eyes towards her. She felt as if it had caught her in an invisible web; all she could do was watch as it sidled towards her, its long hairy legs stroking the ground.

  ‘We’ve got to wake the Witch Finder,’ Bramley squeaked, scrambling around her hair in a panic.

  A spark of hope ignited in Hazel’s chest as the woman in the road rose to her feet and sidled towards the spider. Something long and metallic glinted in her hand.

  Stab it, Hazel thought. Save us all!

  The woman was level with the spider’s back leg when she looked up and smiled. ‘Hello, Hazel,’ she said in a voice as light as snow. ‘Thank goodness we’ve found you. Please don’t be frightened of Spindle; she won’t harm you.’

  ‘Who . . . ? How do you know my name?’ Hazel gasped.

  The spider flattened its abdomen and shuddered with pleasure as the willowy young woman ran the silver comb through its bristles.

  ‘We know all about you. We’ve been looking everywhere for you.’ The woman tucked her long, dark hair behind her ears and took a step forward. Her skin was so white is seemed to glow. Spindle followed, front legs tickling the air.

  Hazel stood up with her fists clenched. ‘Stay where you are – don’t come any closer.’

  The woman stopped and tucked the comb into her shawl. ‘It’s all right, I’ll stay here. I’m a Wielder, like you. My name is Lilith, the last Frost Witch in England.’ She held up her bare arms, smiling as white mist poured from her skin and gathered in swirling eddies at her feet. ‘Don’t be afraid, I’m here to help.’

  ‘I definitely think we should be afraid,’ Bramley said. ‘That creature she’s with isn’t natural . . . It’s a demon, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘What’s your horrible spider . . . thing done to my friend?’ Hazel said. ‘He’s not moving. If you’ve killed him, I swear . . .’ she trailed off. Swear what? What can I possibly do?

  ‘She told us you had a fiery spirit,’ Lilith said. ‘I can see it now. It matches your hair.’

  ‘Who told you?’

  A frown cut a furrow in the witch’s flawless brow. ‘Why, your mother, of course.’

  Hazel gawped at her. ‘My . . . mother?’

  ‘She’s lying, Hazel,’ squeaked Bramley. ‘Don’t listen to her.’

  ‘Yes. We found her lost in the forest. She was badly hurt. Burned.’

  Dread punched Hazel in the stomach as she remembered the wave of fire she had cast back at the pool.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Lilith held up a hand. ‘She’ll recover. We’re looking after her now.’

  Hazel distrusted her relief as much as she distrusted the witch. ‘Who’s “we”?’ she asked.

  Lilith took a step forward. Hazel saw that her eyes were as cold and clear as a frosty morning. ‘Friends,’ she said. ‘Witches. People like you.’

  ‘Me and my mother don’t need friends – we have each other.’

  ‘If that’s true, then what are you doing consorting with a Witch Hunter?’ Lilith gestured contemptuously at David’s crumpled figure.

  ‘He said he’d help me—’

  ‘Help you?’ Lilith shook her head sadly. ‘Do you know what he’d do if he found out what you are? He’d kill you –’ she snapped her fingers – ‘just like that.’

  Hazel stamped her foot. ‘You don’t know that for sure.’ Fire flickered in her hair.

  Lilith held both hands up, palms outward. ‘Hazel, please believe me—’

  ‘No. You’re a liar,’ Hazel said, her voice low. ‘Now let us pass or you’ll regret it. I’m going to take David and find my mother.’ She jumped as a deep voice rolled like thunder through the shifting mist.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t let you do that.’

  Lilith lowered her head and Spindle cringed.

  ‘Who’s this now?’ Bramley whispered, his claws pricking Hazel’s neck.

  Hazel felt her magic seep away like water through her fingers. ‘Trouble,’ she replied.

  15

  NICOLAS MURRELL

  ‘Curses, poisons and plagues are their weapons.

  Beware the witch. They live among us.’

  Father Alfred Jourgensen

  A man wearing a cloak of black feathers and resting a walking stick on his shoulder strode out of the fog. ‘Cold as a grave tonight, isn’t it?’ he said, stopping in front of the wagon and leaning on his stick. His face was shrouded in a deep hood, but the lanterns flashed on dark eyes that peered keenly at Hazel.

  The man from the forest.

  ‘Get out of my way,’ Hazel said.

  The man raised his hands. ‘I just want to talk to you.’

  ‘I won’t do anything until I see David,’ she said.

  ‘The boy is fine. Spindle just put him to sleep, that’s all.’

  ‘Why should I believe you?’ Hazel said, gripping the seat so hard she thought it would snap.

  ‘I am not a liar, Hazel Hooper. Nor am I a murderer.’ His smooth voice oozed into her mind like syrup, calming her nerves and soothing her fear.

  This isn’t right, she thought. Why do I want to believe him?

  ‘Don’t listen,’ Bramley muttered. ‘He’s lying, just like that witch.’

  Hazel shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. ‘You might not be a murderer, but you did take my ma,’ she said. ‘I saw you by the Border Hedge.’

  ‘Did you now?’ He reached out and stroked Hercules’s no
se. ‘Your mother told me you were clever, and I see that she was right. Very well, let us talk honestly to each other.’

  Why do I feel like I’m the dishonest one? Hazel tried to keep hold of the truth but it had become slippery in her mind.

  ‘Let me relieve you of the one fear that I know weighs you down,’ he continued, raising his finger into the air. ‘The one thing that stands between us. The one thing that is stopping us from becoming friends.’

  Hazel felt fuzzy, as if his words were sticking to her brain and clogging it up. She stared at his hovering finger, vaguely aware of Bramley squeaking into her ear, but the mouse’s words were slurred and meaningless.

  ‘Your mother, Hecate, is safe and well in my care,’ he said. He lowered his finger and Hazel was engulfed by a wave of relief and gratitude. But a part of her deep inside knew that this outpouring of emotion was false, and that her sudden, inexplicable trust in this man was misplaced.

  She wobbled to her feet, mind churning. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name is Nicolas Murrell, and I have the honour of leading the Chosen. Have you heard of us?’

  Hazel ran her hand over her face. She felt woozy, and when she spoke her voice sounded far away. ‘No. Who are the Chosen?’

  ‘The Chosen is a secret organization of witches and Wielders, good people like my consort, Lilith here –’ the witch bowed her head and smiled – ‘sworn to end the oppression of our kind.’

  ‘You took my mother . . .’

  Murrell nodded. ‘That’s true, and I’m sorry for it, but we need her and the power she wields. We didn’t mean for her to get hurt. That, I’m sorry to say, was your fault.’

  An image of Hecate’s terrified face flashed into Hazel’s mind, cutting through the confusion. A spark of anger kindled in her stomach. ‘Your demon grabbed her. It hurt her . . .’

  Bramley’s squeaking became louder and more insistent, stabbing through the fug inside her head.

  ‘No, Hazel,’ Murrell said. ‘You hurt her. With your fire-magic. My demon was trying to protect her.’