by Laura Powell
‘I shouldn’t think so. No. There haven’t been any witches in the family, except an aunt on my dad’s side – back in Victorian times. I heard Gran mention it once.’
‘Ah yes . . . your sorrowing relations. Your sister’s filed a missing person report, you know. But I’m sorry to say she doesn’t seem particularly anxious to find you.’
The Wednesday Coven’s investigations had been as thorough as WICA had suspected. They must have spies everywhere. ‘Emma will be glad to see the back of me.’
‘I don’t blame her.’ Charlie flipped through his notepad. ‘Suspensions, expulsions, brawls . . . a little dealing here, an assault there . . .’
Frank tutted. ‘“A born troublemaker and a bad influence”, according to my source.’
‘Who’s that, then?’
‘Daniel Law. Your friend Richard’s father. One of our associates had a chat with him after parents’ evening.’
This was exactly the sort of attempt to catch Lucas out that Zoey had prepared him for. ‘That ponce Rich is no mate of mine. And I thought his dad lived in Australia, anyway.’
And so it went on, back and forth with the questions and probing. It was the perfect demonstration of how the brothers worked as a unit: Charlie taking the lead, charming and bullying by turn; Frank supplying facts, figures and queries in support; Vince, exuding menace from the corner.
It was a test, but also a game – a game that Lucas was determined to win. He was nervous and fidgety, but if anything, the heightened risk sharpened his wits.
At last, the interview drew to an end. Charlie’s pager beeped. He glanced at it and frowned.
‘It’s from Kez,’ he said.
‘Trouble?’ Vince asked.
‘Could be . . .’ He sucked his teeth. ‘This is a bad time for our kind of business, Harry. Nobody wants to get in the middle of a witch-hunt.’
‘I can still be useful, can’t I? My abilities –’
Charlie smiled humourlessly. ‘You don’t read the papers. I guess you don’t follow the financial markets either. So let me tell you about toxic assets. They’re resources that start off highly prized, then suddenly lose their value. They become a liability instead. And when an asset goes bad, it gets dumped. You understand?’
Lucas gave an uncertain nod.
‘Hmph. Keep your head down and your hands clean. Then maybe we’ll see what kind of an asset you and your “abilities” really are.’
Charlie showed him to the door, and watched Lucas walk to the end of the passageway. The door to the room next door, which had been pulled shut on Lucas’s arrival, was now open. Glancing in as he passed, Lucas saw a bare table with an empty glass. There was nobody there.
To his surprise, Glory was alone in the lounge. When she saw him, she got up so suddenly her tea spilled. ‘All right?’ she said anxiously.
‘Fine. Where’s Troy?’
‘He had to take a phone call. Kez – his mum – rushed in just a moment ago, through the same door you did. They went off together.’
‘OK. If they come back, tell them I went to see if I dropped my lighter.’
‘What lighter? You don’t smoke. What’re you doing? Wait. It’s not –’
Lucas poked his head round the door he had just come through and looked down the passage. It was empty. Charlie had rejoined his brothers in the interview room. Nothing could be heard from inside. Lucas slipped into the room to its left, and picked up the glass.
As he’d suspected, it was a match for one of the tumblers on the table next door. A Wednesday Coven witch, presumably Kezia Morgan, had been listening in. She would have been spying on the colour of the thoughts and feelings behind his words.
Treating the meeting like an ordinary job interview had been a good strategy. He had used it to neutralise his emotions. Maybe that had been enough to conceal his contempt for the Morgan brothers and what they represented. He couldn’t be sure, though. As for the other feelings that Kezia might have seen – anxiety, hostility, self-satisfaction . . . Well, they were only to be expected, given the circumstances. Or so he hoped. This was not the time to worry about it. Kezia and Troy had clearly been called away on some emergency, but they might return at any moment.
Lucas had heard that using someone else’s witchwork was nearly impossible without their consent. Now he saw why. The tumbler vibrated at the touch of his fae, not welcoming it, but resisting. He ran a finger inside his ear, then began to circle the glass rim. It was even harder than working through iron. His head was shot through with pain and filled with a noise like fingernails scraping on a blackboard. Fighting past the distortion, he could just make out a few words here and there. None of them were coloured.
The first speaker seemed to be Frank. ‘. . . meeting . . . tomorrow night?’ he asked.
‘. . . The Radley . . . nine . . .’ answered Charlie’s voice. ‘. . . just the two of us . . .’
‘So . . . you don’t . . . why . . .’
‘. . . could be . . . trial . . . Stearne’s prosecution . . . sounded bad . . .’
Lucas’s eardrum felt like it was being scraped out with shards of glass. He couldn’t have held out for much longer, even if the situation had been less hazardous. Ears ringing, he put the tumbler down and hurried back to Glory.
Troy Morgan returned moments later. He looked round the room, and at the two of them, with obvious suspicion.
‘Where’s Kez?’ Glory asked.
‘Her brother’s been arrested,’ he said tersely. ‘On a train out of Newcastle – suspicion of witchcrime.’
‘God. I hope everything’s OK.’
‘We’re dealing with it. Now, isn’t it about time you kids got off home?’ Troy had seen Lucas smother a yawn. ‘Seems it’s past the prodigy’s bedtime.’
They didn’t immediately return to Cooper Street. Glory wanted food, and so they stopped by at a burger van down the road from the club. Lucas was getting accustomed to the coven’s timekeeping, where most activity took place late afternoon or at night, and the day was for sleep. He wondered how Glory managed during term time. She’d mentioned school and her mates there once or twice, so she must attend one. But it was hard to think of her as an ordinary schoolgirl, with homework and a uniform, and ordinary friends.
The chips were good: crisp and hot, glistening with salt. Lucas, however, didn’t have much of an opportunity to enjoy them. Glory was too anxious to hear about his meeting with the Morgans. He found this second interrogation almost as exhaustive as the first one.
‘Look, I didn’t mess anything up,’ he told her. ‘But I’m a long way from winning them over. Charlie reckons now’s a bad time for witchwork. I’m starting to think the Morgans really don’t know who’s responsible for the recent attacks.’
‘I told you that already. The Wednesday Coven don’t need witchwork to intimidate people. They’ve got plenty of other methods. It’ll be some lunatic, like I said.’ Glory licked ketchup off her fingers. ‘All right. I think it’s time you came clean about that lighter business. What did you really go back for? Because whatever you were up to, you took one hell of a risk.’
She was right. Just thinking about all the things that could have gone wrong was enough to give him a cold sweat. But when he explained about the glasses, she was evidently impressed.
‘Isn’t hijacking another witch’s work dead difficult?’
‘Yeah. Painful too. But I did find out that Charlie’s meeting someone important tomorrow, and I think it’s connected to the Goodwin trial. He mentioned –’
Lucas stopped, horrified at the mistake he’d almost made. He’d been about to say ‘my father’. He gulped, and pressed on. ‘Er, Charlie mentioned the Chief Prosecutor.’
‘That pricker Stearne.’ Glory spat in a puddle.
‘Right. Well, um, he’s meeting this informant, or whoever it is, at the Radley tomorrow night. Does that mean anything to you?’
‘At the moment it ain’t much more than a building site. North Hallam way.’
‘That sounds like a good place for a secret assignation. Especially if it’s with someone who shouldn’t be anywhere near the Morgans – like a tribunal member, for example.’
‘You don’t know that. Charlie could be meeting anyone.’
Lucas shook his head impatiently. Time was running out. The Goodwin trial only had a couple of weeks to go, and as Charlie had said he had no use for his witchwork, it could take several more weeks, months even, before Lucas got a chance of infiltrating the Wednesday Coven. The trial would be over and his father would haul him home long before that . . . with nothing to show for himself, and no options left. ‘I appreciate it’s a long shot, but I still want to follow it up. Will you help?’
‘’Course. I want to see the bloodsucker nailed even more than you do.’
He nodded – apparently not firmly enough. ‘What?’ she said, bristling. ‘Don’t you believe me?’
‘Absolutely. And I need your help. It’s just – well, it’s such a huge risk you’re taking –’
‘Listen here: my mum was brought up with Charlie and his brothers like their own sister. And they killed her in cold blood, just ’cause she got in their way. They’d do the same to me if it suited them. So I’ll see them rot in hell if it’s the last thing I do.’
Lucas had seen Glory angry before, but this was hate. He felt scorched by the strength of it.
Then she gave herself a shake and she looked different again; young and uncertain, her make-up smeared like a bruise around her eyes.
‘Never mind. It’ll be over soon. We just need to get through . . . keep going . . . get past the crap, you know?’
He nodded.
‘Come on, then. There’s a night bus we can take – the short cut’s through here.’
Glory’s route to the bus stop lay through a deserted marketplace. By day, Talbot Road market was full of bustle, its stalls heaped with colourful foods and eccentric fashions. At night, the only signs of life were the rats that scurried among the crates. The maze of walkways between the stalls was pockmarked with oily puddles. Plastic awnings sagged from their frames.
Glory and Lucas had just reached the drinking fountain that marked the centre of the square when a man stepped out of the shadows, blocking their path.
The main road was not far away. Lucas wondered if they should make a run for it, but Glory, in her teetering gold platforms, wouldn’t get very far. Instinctively they moved a little closer, held themselves a little straighter.
The man gave a hoarse chuckle. Five others emerged from the ranks of empty stalls.
All wore hooded tops. Nonetheless, Lucas recognised their leader. The sleeves of his white tracksuit were pushed up to reveal the tattoos on his sinewy arms: crucifixes, angels, crowns of thorns. He was the man Gideon had been talking to in the club.
Glory knew him too. ‘Striker,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘Crap.’
The tattooed man took out a box of long-length matches from his pocket and set one alight. He made a low hissing sound.
The five men behind him did the same. Their matches struck and spluttered into life. Ssssss . . .
‘What do you want?’ Lucas demanded.
The gold cross around Striker’s neck glinted in the firelight. The gold tooth in his smile glinted too. ‘To save your souls,’ he said. His companions laughed.
Striker turned to Glory. ‘Fooling around with witch-boys will only end in tears, Gloriana. I’ve heard the Devil’s Kiss is catching.’
‘You’ve got it wrong. I’m not –’ Lucas began.
But Glory got there first. ‘So you know who we are. Congratulations. That means you know who my family is. Uncle Charlie don’t take kindly to your kind of crackpot – specially when you start running riot on his turf.’
‘The Wednesday Coven may have the Devil in their pocket. But me and my boys are God’s own soldiers, and we know where witchkind belong.’ With a flourish, Striker lit a second match and grinned his gold-toothed grin. ‘For “all shall have their part in the lake which burns with fire and brimstone: which is the second death.”’
Lucas felt the hairs prickle on the back of his neck. Glory, however, laughed insolently.
‘Nice line. Bet you’ve got it tattooed across that puffed-up chest of yours. Keep navel-gazing long enough, and maybe you’ll learn how to read.’
She’d gone too far. Striker sprang forward to grab a fistful of her hair, and held his burning match to its tip. Before she or Lucas could react, both were seized from behind by Striker’s henchmen, who clamped their hands over their mouths.
‘Word is,’ Striker spat, ‘the Wednesday Coven is going down. And when that happens, the hags they’ve been sheltering will go down with them. There’ll be nowhere to run to then.’ Giving Glory’s hair a savage yank, he turned to Lucas, and pushed the still burning match up to his neck. Lucas had to twist his head away to avoid the flame. ‘So consider this a warning, witch-boy. Three strikes and you’re out.’
A car revved noisily, and jolted over the kerb into the marketplace. It was a silver Mercedes.
Lucas would never have imagined he’d be so glad to see Troy Morgan. His and Glory’s captors immediately let go, slinking back into the maze of stalls. Only Striker held his ground.
Though thick-set, Charlie was not a tall man. His son was. Troy towered in the headlights’ glare.
‘Messing about with matches again, Striker?’ he said. ‘Remember, kids who play with matches get burned.’
‘You think I’m scared of you?’
‘You should be. You know who I am.’
Striker sneered. ‘Daddy’s boy.’
‘Yes,’ Troy said. ‘I am my father’s son. That’s one of the many reasons why I’m stronger and smarter than the likes of you. I own these streets. I own you.’ Casually, he moved back to the car. ‘And if you get in my way again, hell itself will be a mercy.’
In the car, Lucas and Glory both tried to speak – to say thank you, to explain, to exclaim over what had just happened. Troy cut them off angrily. ‘I don’t want to hear any of it. Shut up and let me drive.’
They obeyed. For the next ten minutes, Troy drove in silence. The night-time streets slid past, slick with rain.
Then the car phone rang.
‘Hi . . . Yes – just had to take a slight detour . . . No, of course you should go, Mum. They need you . . . Mm . . . We’ll be fine. Promise . . . OK. Love to Auntie Ness. Bye.’
The silence broken, Glory began to ask something about Kezia. ‘Keep your nose out of it,’ Troy snapped. ‘This is a family matter.’ Then his exasperation got the better of him. ‘What the hell did you think you were doing, running round Talbot Road market at this time of night? It was a total fluke I drove past when I did. Bloody idiot kids.’
It had been a long and stressful night, and both Lucas and Glory were feeling the aftershock of their recent ordeal. Hysteria mounted. Troy’s Angry Dad act was the final straw. Back in the passenger seats, they caught one another’s eyes, and shared a terrible urge to giggle.
CHAPTER 23
Glory dreamed of the Burning Court again. This time Striker was there, holding a lit match to her throat. Her own eyes stared out at her mother’s reflection, and saw a second face in the glass: a boy with blue eyes and a streak of silver in his black hair. He was frowning at her. She woke up with a heart-thudding wrench. The dream always left her with dread but it was more intense today, like an omen.
Get over it, she told herself as she kicked aside the tangled sheets. Her sleeping brain had simply overreacted to the events of yesterday, as well as the problems ahead. Harry had told her that he’d seen Striker talking to an inquisitor in the club. It was not that surprising the Inquisition was supporting the vigilantes on the sly. There had always been rumours to that effect. Since the police weren’t doing much about the lynchings, it was going to have to be up to the covens to impose order. But, Glory thought uncomfortably, that wouldn’t be easy in the middle of an Inquisition crackdown.
&n
bsp; When it came to getting people’s fear as well as respect, the trick was to make them believe you were capable of anything. What was Troy capable of? He’d been a little kid when Edie Starling was killed, but as coven heir he should know about the bodies, and where they were buried. He had told Striker that he was his father’s son, and he had faced him down with his father’s menace. Yet the way he’d spoken to his mum in the car had been so anxious, affectionate . . .
Right now, Glory had her own responsibilities to attend to. Nate, jealous that she’d been the one to introduce Harry to the Morgans, had reasserted his authority by taking his protégé to an illegal dog-racing track on Sunday morning. It was up to Glory to do the recce for Charlie’s assignation in the Radley.
She had waved Harry off with a commiserating smirk. After last night, they finally felt like co-conspirators – allies, even. Holding his own with all three Morgans must have taken a lot of nerve. Then there was his spur of the moment hijack of Kezia’s listening talisman. It was just the sort of thing Glory would have tried. Imagine if he ever found out what she could do . . . ! The frustration of not being able to use her fae left her restless and twitchy, like having an itch she couldn’t scratch.
Auntie Angel was less impressed with their night’s activities. ‘I don’t wonder Charlie’s not rising to the bait,’ she said at the end of Glory’s report. ‘Harry’s getting above himself – all this bad boy posturing’s gone to his head. Behind that glamour, I shouldn’t be surprised if he’s just some nerdy clerk. That’s how the government likes to keep its witches, see: downtrodden and repressed.’
Glory kept quiet. Whoever the real Harry was, he didn’t have the appearance, let alone the manner, of an office drudge. But she wasn’t ready to produce his undone amulet. She was enjoying the novelty of keeping a secret from the old bossyboots.
‘Striker, now, is a menace,’ Angeline went on. ‘And one you’ll have to deal with once the Morgans are out of the way. It’s a pity really . . . He’d be a useful lad to have around, if only you could knock some sense into him.’