by Matt Ralphs
Rawhead padded towards them between the rows of gravestone, sniffing the air like a hunting dog. Hazel had only ever seen it shadowed in dusk and darkness, and she was unprepared for the full horror revealed in the morning light. The demon was sleek and lethal, and it had their scent.
Titus and Hazel backed away, the distance between them and the demon less than twenty paces.
‘You go on,’ Titus muttered. ‘Follow David. I’ll take care of this.’
‘You’ve got no weapons,’ Hazel whispered back. ‘It’ll kill you.’
‘Just go, will you?’
Hazel took a step back and slipped, almost losing her footing. A rotten, fishy smell overpowered Rawhead’s blood-stink. It was the remains of the Shabriri demon. The Grinder glinted at her from where she’d left it behind a gravestone – a thousand years ago.
An idea broke through the haze and she grabbed Titus’s arm. ‘Keep backing up,’ she said, gathering the final embers of her magic into a ball around her hand. She raised her arms, waiting for the right moment.
Rawhead stopped closer, jaw lowering like a drawbridge.
‘I really think we should run,’ Bramley said.
‘Your master’s over there,’ Hazel cried, standing her ground. Rage and a need for vengeance built inside her. ‘But you’ll have to go through me first.’
Rawhead’s back legs quivered, tongue slipped between its teeth.
‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ Titus growled.
The demon leaped, and as it bounded towards her, Hazel flung her fire at the ground, igniting the fish oil with a whoosh. Green flames leaped eight feet into the air, spreading across the paving slabs and filling the air with greasy smoke. Titus grabbed Hazel and pulled her away.
Moving too quickly to stop, Rawhead ran straight into the inferno. The demon slipped and fell forward, legs splaying out beneath it. There was a hiss like roasting meat, and then the flames baking its flesh blossomed red and exploded.
Titus dragged her away, choking on the fumes as the fire died as quickly as it began, leaving behind a dark stain on the ground.
Hazel woke to the creak and roll of the wagon. She was lying on the bed with the hearth warming her toes. Bramley lay by her head on the pillow. It was night-time; she must have slept for hours. Memories filled her mind and she struggled up on to her elbows.
Bramley stirred and yawned. ‘Up at last,’ he said.
‘I’ve got to go back to the church,’ she said. ‘Find a way to follow Ma . . . to bring her back.’
‘There’s no way to the Underworld from there any more.’ Titus sat with his feet on the table, looking keenly at her from under his brow. ‘It’s been sealed off, and a good thing too.’
Hazel swung her legs over the bed, pleased to see Samson fast asleep in front of the fire, the only sign of his wounds being two scars by his neck. ‘I’m going to find a way somehow . . .’
‘I thought you’d say that,’ Titus said, kicking her boots over to her.
‘Where’s David?’
‘Who do you think’s driving?’
‘And Murrell?’ Just saying his name made her heart ache with fury.
‘Tied to the roof.’ Titus picked up his pipe and cleaned the bowl out with his thumb. ‘The boy was all for taking you both to London. For the bounty, you understand.’
‘But you disagreed.’
‘I don’t work for Cromwell. Besides, you may be foolish and stubborn, but you’re not a criminal.’
‘Murrell is.’
‘Indeed. And believe me, I could retire comfortably on the money on his head. But he’s also the only man alive who has ever been to the demon world and survived. Which means . . .’
Hazel’s eyes widened. ‘Which means if we want to find Ma, we need his help to do it.’
Titus jabbed his pipe at her. ‘Exactly.’
It took the rest of the day and the following night for them to reach Mary’s cabin, during which time they stopped only once to rest the horses. Hazel had just fallen into a doze, with Samson lying on her feet and Bramley nesting in her hair, when the door opened and Titus looked in.
‘We’re here,’ he said.
Shaking off her weariness, she stepped outside, blinking in the warm summer sunlight. The wagon was parked behind Mary’s cabin by the vegetable garden. Grey clouds lay heaped on the horizon like great piles of ash, but overhead the sky was clear and the sun had already warmed the grass under her feet. Hazel was relieved to see that the grave she’d dug for Mary was undisturbed.
I hope she found the peace she wanted, she thought.
David led Hercules over to Titus, his face impassive under the black scarf tied around his eye. Titus handed him a few coins. ‘We’ll need some food and supplies. We may be here some time. Take the dog with you.’
David climbed on to Hercules’s back.
‘I know this is not working out how you wanted, David,’ Titus said. ‘But it’s the right thing to do.’
‘You’re the boss, Boss.’
David avoided even so much as looking at Hazel. He jabbed his heels into Hercules’s flank and trotted away with Samson by his side. Hazel and Titus watched him disappear into the trees.
‘No reward,’ the old Witch Finder said. ‘No victorious entry into London with Murrell and a Fire Witch in chains. Just a disfigured face and a life-lesson hard learned.’ He shook his head. ‘I think I may be losing him.’
‘What have you done with Murrell?’ Hazel asked. Bramley shuddered behind her ear.
‘I’ve tied him up in the outhouse for now. I’ll let him stew for a bit. You get on inside and light the fire. You can do that, can’t you?’
‘I think so.’ Hazel managed a small smile.
45
GATHERING FLOWERS
‘Find them, bind them, burn them.’
Witch Hunter Captain John Stearne
Hazel lay in Mary’s bed with a heavy head and a heavier heart. She sat up, blinking as the first rays of the sun crept through the window and the hole in the roof. Bramley stirred in her pocket and poked his head out, blinking sleepily.
‘Have you slept at all?’ he said, giving himself a wake-up shake.
‘Not really.’ Hazel rubbed her eyes. ‘I feel all foggy and confused. I don’t know what to do. How are we going to get Murrell to tell us what we need to know?’
‘We’ve been indoors for too long, and thinking too much. Why don’t we go out for some fresh air? Maybe find an apple tree to plunder?’
The thought of a cool breeze and a wash in the stream was appealing. ‘All right, why not?’ Hazel picked the little dormouse up and tiptoed downstairs to the kitchen. She was a little surprised that the old Witch Finder was not still dozing in the rocking chair where she’d left him last night.
‘I wonder where Titus is,’ she said.
‘Perhaps he’s seeing to the horses.’
The forest was eerily quiet, although the sound of the chattering stream lifted Hazel’s spirits. Verdant patches of clover, their purple blooms waving in the breeze, grew in the trees’ shadow not far from the cabin. Hazel walked through them, enjoying the feeling of wet leaves against her legs.
‘It’s nice to be outside again,’ Bramley said. ‘I’ve missed the feeling of the sun on my whiskers.’
Hazel froze as she bent down to pick some blooms. There’s someone behind me!
Before she could move, a hand clamped over her mouth and dragged her into the undergrowth skirting the trunk of an oak tree. Fighting panic, she twisted around to see her assailant. Her eyes widened. It was Titus.
He put a finger to his lips. Hazel nodded and he released her. ‘Whatever happens,’ he whispered, ‘don’t make a sound.’
Hazel’s scalp crawled at the sound of slow footsteps crunching across the vegetable garden and heading towards the cabin. Hardly daring to breathe, she peered cautiously around the tree.
Creeping along a nearby row of cabbages was a helmeted soldier wearing a tarnished breastplate over
a dark red tunic, with white facings on the cuffs. He had a sword on his hip and carried a wheel-lock musket in both hands; as he passed the tree he blew on the glowing slow-match.
‘Roundheads,’ Titus whispered. ‘Cromwell’s men.’ He pointed across the vegetable garden. More soldiers emerged from the forest, crouched low and converging on the cabin. ‘A company, at least.’
They’ll find Murrell, Hazel thought in a panic. And without him I’ll never be able to get into the Underworld. Without thinking, she lunged forward.
Titus grabbed her waist and pulled her back behind the tree, clamping his hand over her mouth again. ‘Don’t be stupid,’ he hissed. ‘There’s nothing we can do, there’re too many of them. Count yourself fortunate that you’re not being collared as well. Just as well I hid the wagon in the forest, or they’d be all over that too. Now keep still.’ He leaned forward. ‘Wait a minute – who’s this?’
Hazel stopped struggling as a man in black trousers, shirt and muddy boots stalked out of the trees by the cabin, resting a heavy wooden club over his shoulder. Despite wearing no armour, it was clear by the way the soldiers regarded him that he was in charge. She shivered at the brutal strength packed into his limbs, and the way he walked – like a dog used to winning its fights.
‘Captain John Stearne. The Witch Butcher himself,’ Titus muttered. ‘Of all the scoundrels . . .’
‘We can’t let them take Murrell,’ Hazel begged.
‘We must,’ Titus said.
Stearne stopped by the cabin, close enough for Hazel to see his flattened nose and dark eyes. He nodded to the Roundheads, who knelt in front of the cabin and trained their muskets on the windows. Four more stood with their backs to the wall next to the cabin door, and two others readied themselves by the outhouse.
They waited, eyes on Stearne. At his signal the soldiers kicked the cabin and outhouse doors open and then plunged inside.
‘How did they find us?’ Titus muttered. ‘Why are they even looking?’
Hazel watched as the soldiers dragged Murrell from the outhouse. Stearne strolled up to him and threw a mallet-like fist into his stomach. The demonologist dropped to the ground, doubled up, fighting to breathe.
A soldier poked his head out of the upstairs windows. ‘Place is empty, sir,’ he called down.
‘No sign of the girl or the drunkard?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Drunkard indeed . . .’ Titus grumbled as he pulled Hazel deeper into the thicket.
Stearne turned to one of his men. ‘Get the cage, and you might as well bring the songbird round as well. I’ve got some more questions for him about this merry little band.’ The soldier nodded and jogged up the track into the forest.
Stearne surveyed his men as they searched the cabin and garden, clattering up and down the stairs and trampling over the vegetable patches. For the whole time he kept his foot on Murrell and thumped the gnarled end of his club into the palm of his hand.
There was a rumble from the forest track as an enclosed cart hauled by two horses approached the cabin. It was built from heavy timber and had only one barred window. The crossed-hammer symbol of the Order of Witch Hunters was emblazoned on the side.
Titus’s beard scraped Hazel’s cheek as he leaned over her shoulder. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It can’t be.’
Following his gaze, she saw a shaggy dog trotting down the road behind the wagon. Her eyes widened. ‘Is that . . . ?’
‘It’s Samson,’ Titus said.
‘If they’ve got Samson,’ Hazel said, ‘they must have . . .’
Samson stopped and turned back towards the forest, ears pricked. His tail wagged as David rode out of the trees’ shadow, into the dappled sunlight. Two cavalrymen rode on either side of him with matchlocks over their shoulders.
‘They’ve got him prisoner,’ Bramley squeaked.
‘Wait a minute,’ Hazel said. The sun glinted on something at David’s hip. It was his pistol. ‘He’s still armed.’
Hazel and Titus stared as David reached the cabin, dismounted and shook Stearne’s hand.
‘Well done, lad,’ Stearne said. ‘You’ve helped us catch the most wanted man in England, and that will certainly please the General. As for the other two – well, I’m sure we’ll find them soon enough.’
When the crashing, shouting and bellowing finally stopped, Hazel cautiously opened the door to Mary’s cabin and peered inside. Her eyes were red but she had wiped away the last of her tears.
No more crying, she had told herself, while she listened to Titus venting his fury on the contents of the cottage. Not any more.
Stearne and his men had left hours ago, taking Murrell and the vital knowledge he possessed with them. Now, Titus stood alone, chest heaving, in the middle of the kitchen. Broken dish fragments and the splintered remnants of the rocking chair lay scattered around him. The heavy oak table rested on its side against the fireplace.
‘Have you finished?’ she asked.
Titus turned his stormy glare on to her, fists bunched. ‘He betrayed me. The little turd betrayed me!’
‘I know,’ Hazel said. ‘Perhaps we should have seen it coming.’
‘The bond of loyalty between Witch Finder and apprentice is unbreakable.’ Titus shook his head as if trying to recover from a punch.
‘Evidently not,’ Bramley said.
‘He even took my dog, damn his eyes,’ Titus grunted.
Hazel picked up a fallen chair and sat down. ‘What will happen to Murrell?’ Her voice sounded far off, as if spoken by someone else.
Titus slumped into a corner and rested his head against the wall. ‘They’ll take him to London to face the Witch Hunter General. He’ll be interrogated, then they’ll probably make a big show of his execution.’
‘I need to talk to him before that happens,’ Hazel said. ‘If I don’t, my mum stays trapped with that demon forever.’
‘London is crawling with Witch Hunters and informants – you won’t last five minutes,’ Titus said with a wave of his hand. ‘And how are you going to get to him? He’ll be kept in Hunter’s Tower, the most secure gaol in England. And even if by some miracle you do get to speak to him, what makes you think he’s going to help you?’
‘I’m going.’
He looked at her with sad eyes. ‘Nothing I can say will change your mind, will it?’
Hazel held his gaze. ‘No.’
‘Then we’ll go together. After all, I’ve got my own score to settle.’ He clambered to his feet and looked down at her. ‘An old Witch Finder and a foolish witch,’ he said. ‘A strange pair aren’t we, slop-sprite?’
‘You can come on one condition,’ she replied, managing a small smile. ‘You have to call me Hazel.’
EPILOGUE
London, July 1655
Witch Hunter General Matthew Hopkins, the most feared man in England, beckoned the boy into his office with a smile. ‘You have a message for me?’ His voice was like unsheathed steel – smooth and cold.
The boy, about fourteen and wearing the scarlet uniform of a Witch Hunter’s apprentice, couldn’t stop a shiver running down his back. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘It’s from Captain Stearne. His rider arrived this morning.’
Hopkins gazed at the boy, letting the seconds drag in order to feed on his discomfort. ‘Proceed,’ he said, when he had tasted enough. The boy cleared his throat.
‘General,’ he read. ‘A stroke of fortune during my purge of the West. I’ve plucked a juicy apple for you to hang from the Witch Tree. You’ve taken a bite from it before – perhaps this time you’ll cut off more than just his thumb. I’ll be back in London soon. Captain John Stearne.’
‘Nicolas Murrell,’ Hopkins said with a smile on his liver-coloured lips. ‘At last – a worthy candidate to put in the Dark Room.’
He reached out a pudgy hand to a fruit bowl. The apples had been in there for weeks and were nicely brown and puckered. He chose one with a thick rind of mould and plucked it out.
Keeping his ice-pale eyes trai
ned on the messenger, Hopkins took a deep bite from the apple and chewed slowly. The boy’s attempt to hide his disgust was a gratifying failure.
Through a mouthful of rotten pulp, Hopkins said, ‘Don’t hover by the door, lad. Come in. Now, read it to me again. I want to savour every word.’
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Matt Ralphs was born in North Lincolnshire and grew up in Kent. So, by way of a median average, he’s from Cambridge. After completing his English Literature degree he was absolutely certain that he didn’t know what to do with his life. He eventually drifted into an editorial career in publishing.
After years of having the temerity to tell professional authors what they were doing wrong, he decided to put his limited knowledge to use and pen his own book. This book.
Matt lives and floats on a canal boat in London. Fire Girl is his debut novel.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Writing a novel is a task for one person. Turning it into a book takes a team.
Firstly I’d like to thank all the volunteers behind the brilliant Undiscovered Voices competition, and especially Catherine Coe, who suggested I enter. Being chosen as a finalist gave me a huge confidence boost and led directly to me finding a literary agent.
And that agent is tireless champion Madeleine Milburn. Thank you, Maddy, for everything you’ve done for me.
A big wave and a grateful grin to everyone at Macmillan Children’s Books! Rachel Kellehar, my patient and owlishly wise editor; Catherine Alport, promotions extraordinaire; Kat McKenna, mistress of marketing; and the design team who have made the book look so damn smart.
I owe a debt to my great friend Breege, whose sage advice still rings in my ears as I write.
And to my family, who supported me in all my wishful endeavours and who, most importantly, brought me endless cups of tea as I frowned and rewrote, frowned and rewrote.
Finally to all the authors – far too many to mention here – who inspired in me a love of words and stories: my eternal thanks to each and every one.