The Huntress

by Susan Carroll

  So much of the book was stored in her head and she was increasingly tempted to use her knowledge. If only she had been able to learn how to master the scrying ball. But she hadn’t.

  Now there seemed only one way to ever learn the truth about herself and her destiny. Necromancy. She would have to attempt the spell to raise the seer Nostradamus from the dead. Just the way Maman had done.

  Meg’s thoughts were disrupted as she heard someone emerge from the house. She glanced up eagerly, hoping it would be Cat, come to tell her poor Jem’s ordeal was over.

  To her astonishment, it was Sander hastening toward her down the garden path. The sunlight glinted off the damp strands of his blond hair, his handsome face sporting a fresh-scrubbed look as though he had just washed up in the kitchen.

  Somehow it only added to his charm. Meg’s heart lifted at the sight of him until she recalled the details of their last meeting at the theater.

  Her joy at seeing him subdued, Meg ducked her head. Her lack of warmth must have conveyed itself to Sander. He halted a foot away and asked hesitantly, “Do you mind if I bear you company awhile, Mistress Margaret?”

  Meg shrugged.

  “It is just that the barber has arrived. He is fixing to cut out poor Jem’s tooth with a most wicked-looking knife and I confess to being a bit squeamish.”

  Meg kept her gaze fixed on the buckles of her shoes. “Why are you even here? It is not the day for my lesson.”

  “I came to see your papa. I had a message for him.”

  “Oh.” Meg sniffed. “I suppose it was from your friend, Lord Lambert.”

  “Lord Lambert is my patron, Meg. I do my best to please him. When you are poor, it is the only way to get ahead in the world.”

  Sander hunkered down in front of her and reached for her hand. “But I have only one true friend and that is you.”

  Meg could scarce believe him. But when she risked a glance into his eyes, they were so open, so sincere, his smile so warm, she melted in spite of herself.

  Scooting over on the bench, she said, “You may sit with me for a bit if you wish.”

  But Sander only laughed and shook his head at her. “You astonish me, Mistress Margaret. I am surprised to see you so willing to idle here when there is such great excitement to be had.”

  “What excitement?”

  “The queen. She is going to honor the Lord Mayor and his council by attending a feast. There should be a grand procession through the streets at any moment. The whifflers are already clearing a path. Do you not want to finally catch a glimpse of Her Majesty? She will be on horseback. You shall not be able to miss her this time.”

  “Oh!” Meg leapt up from the bench in her excitement. But she sobered as she remembered. “Papa is not here to take me. And Cat is occupied with helping Jem.”

  “Poor devil. It is sure to be a gruesome business.” Sander gave an exaggerated shudder. “I should not care to be here to hear his shrieks. If you and I were to nip down to the end of the street, we should have a grand view of the procession and avoid all the unpleasantness.”

  Meg fretted her lip, the temptation overwhelming. She ruefully shook her head. “I can’t. Cat would not like it. She would be vexed with both of us.”

  “She’ll never know. It is only to the end of the street, Meg. We’ll be back in a trice.”

  As Meg continued to hesitate, Sander fetched a deep sigh. “It will be a wonderful opportunity to see the queen. I doubt you’ll soon have another as good as this.”

  Meg shifted from one foot to the other in an agony of indecision. A bloodcurdling scream from the kitchen tipped the scale. She glanced up at the handsome boy coaxing her with his smile and shyly slipped her hand into his.

  CAT STRODE OUT INTO THE GARDEN, TAKING A FORTIFYING GULP of fresh air. Her face streamed with sweat and her apron was spattered with Jem’s blood. She stripped off the apron, still feeling half-deafened by the young man’s roars of pain.

  The tooth had been rooted far deeper than expected. While Master Turner had performed the extraction, it had taken the combined efforts of Cat, Agatha, and Samuel to hold Jem down. Cat felt like she had been wrestling a bear until mercifully Jem had fainted.

  As stressful as the tooth drawing had been, at least it had provided a distraction from worrying herself to death about Martin.

  The extraction might have gone more smoothly if Master Naismith had made himself useful and remained to lend a hand, Cat thought caustically. But it had scarce surprised Cat when Sander had proved too fainthearted for the task and had slunk out of the kitchen to join Meg.

  Mopping the sweat from her brow, Cat headed into the garden to inform Meg that Jem’s misery was over. She drew up short when she realized the stone bench was empty. There was no sign of Meg or Naismith either.

  Cat tensed when she saw the garden gate ajar. But she sought to reassure herself. Meg must have wanted to return to the house, but to avoid the distressing scene in the kitchen, she had gone round to the front door.

  Cat hurried through the gate, emerging into the street. The narrow thoroughfare bustled with its usual afternoon activity. Vendors crying their wares, beggars pleading for alms, goodwives haggling for bargains, a burly drayman cursing and trying to clear a path for his cart laden down with ale barrels.

  Cat blinked when she caught sight of a familiar figure halfway down the street, Meg on the verge of disappearing from view, her hand linked with Sander Naismith’s.

  What the devil did the girl think she was doing? Cat bit back a vexed oath. When she caught up to Meg, she would give the girl a thunderous scold. As for Naismith, the lad would regret he still had an ear after Cat was done boxing it.

  Cat thrust her way through the crowd, ignoring the indignant protests and curses directed at her.

  “Meg,” she called, but she could scarce make herself heard above the din of voices and the heavy clatter of the cart horse’s iron shoes.

  Struggling forward, Cat collided with a tall, elegantly dressed man. Impatiently, she tried to shove past him, but the man deliberately blocked the path.

  “Get the blazes out of my—” Cat’s words choked to a halt as she stared up at familiar smooth features, the curling sandy beard and hair, the genial smile that did not match those cold eyes.

  “Gautier!” Cat reeled back in shock.

  “You know my name, mademoiselle,” he purred. “You have the advantage of me. But not for long.”

  As he reached for the hilt of his sword, Cat scrambled for her own knife. To her surprise, he only smiled and nodded.

  It never occurred to her that it was a signal until it was too late. She caught a blur of movement from the corner of her eye as the cudgel whipped down, colliding with her temple.

  She gasped, the street before her exploding in a blur of pain and white-hot stars. Staggering, Cat sought to remain upright even as blood streamed down her face, obscuring the vision of her right eye.

  She clutched at Gautier, tried to raise her knife only to have it easily knocked from her grasp. She attempted to shout but her voice was drowned out by his.

  “Help. This poor woman has been assaulted, her purse snatched. Someone look to her while I pursue the thief.”

  “No, he—he is lying. He’s the one…” Cat’s voice trailed off to a whisper, as her legs buckled beneath her. She tried to hang on to Gautier, but he wrenched away. Cat tumbled to the street, clutching at air as webs of darkness danced before her eyes.

  “Meg.” Cat made a frantic effort to crawl forward, regain her footing. She gained no more than a few inches. As darkness overtook her, she was dimly aware of the crowd gathering around her, the hubbub of voices growing ever fainter.

  Meg and Sander were nearly at the turn onto the next street when she glanced back in time to see Cat fall.

  “What?” The girl craned her neck. She tugged urgently at Sander’s hand. “Sander, I think something has happened to Cat. We’ve got to go back.”

  But to her surprise, Sander’s grip tightene
d on hers, a strangely exultant look on his face.

  “No, what Cat has done is delayed him, given us our chance.”

  “Delayed who? Our chance to do what?”

  “Escape.”

  Before Meg could protest, Sander wrenched her arm, all but yanking her off her feet. She tried to hold back, but he dragged her ruthlessly along, growling one urgent word in her ear.

  “Run!”

  Chapter Twenty

  THE THEATER WAS EERILY SILENT IN THE FADING LIGHT, THE actors and the servants who cleaned the Crown long ago gone home. Meg cowered against the tiring-room wall, her arms bruised and sore from Sander’s rough grip.

  They would be safe hiding at the theater, he had insisted when he had half-forced, half-coaxed Meg into fleeing to the Crown. But Meg had begun to fear that the one she needed saving from was the boy prowling the tiring-room like a caged tiger. The boy she had once trusted with all her heart, believing he was her friend, had abruptly transformed into this alarming stranger.

  Meg felt confused, frightened, and angry in a way that she had not since the days she had lived with her mother in Paris. Sander appeared as tense as she. He dragged his hands through his hair, starting at every sound like some harried beast.

  Meg eyed him reproachfully. “You have to let me go home,” she insisted for the tenth time. “I think Cat was hurt. I have to help—”

  Meg broke off, shrinking back when Sander rounded on her. He raised his hand. But when she braced herself for the blow, Sander lowered his arm with a frustrated sigh.

  “Damnation, Meg. Don’t you understand?” he pleaded. “I am trying to rescue you.”

  “Then why don’t I feel rescued?” she retorted. “I feel more like—like I am your prisoner.”

  And she well knew what that felt like, Meg thought bitterly. She had learned long ago from her own mother what it was to be held hostage to someone else’s schemes. But she had never imagined Sander to be scheming anything…until now.

  “You saw that man coming after us?” Sander demanded. “His name is Ambroise Gautier. He works for the Dark Queen. He forced me to lure you out of the house. I didn’t want to, but if I had not complied, he would have killed me and just found another way to get at you. I hoped to find some way for the two of us to escape and I did, thanks to Mistress O’Hanlon. If she had not provided a diversion, you would be in Gautier’s clutches by now.”

  “My fianna is not a diversion. What if Cat was—” Meg trembled. No, she refused to believe that Cat had been killed. Her friend was too fierce, too strong to be so easily bested. Even now Cat was likely searching for Meg. And no doubt her papa was, too.

  The thought heartened Meg enough to arch her head and challenge Sander. “You claim to be saving me. Why should I believe you?”

  “Because I was honest with you about Gautier. I explained everything.” Sander braced one hand on the wall above her head and leaned down closer to her. “And I know you can read eyes. What do mine tell you?”

  Meg stared at him fiercely, attempting to pierce those blue depths. She could see that he was partly telling her the truth, at least about not wanting to surrender her to Gautier. But the rest of his thoughts were so murky and—

  Meg caught her breath as she was struck by the realization that Sander had not explained everything.

  “How—how do you know of the Dark Queen? Or anything about reading eyes?” she faltered.

  “I know a good many things. Like who you really are.”

  Meg’s heart missed a beat, but she tipped up her chin. “What do you mean? I am Margaret Elizabeth Wolfe.”

  “No, you are not, Megaera.” He smiled and patted her cheek. “My Silver Rose. I am a member of your coven, one of your devoted followers.”

  “My followers were all women. I—I mean I don’t have a coven. I—I don’t have the least idea what you are talking about.”

  Sander laughed. “You require proof, my young queen?” He shrugged out of his doublet and shoved up the sleeve of his shirt, displaying his forearm. Meg stared at the scarred brand of the rose carved into his white flesh. She blinked, scarce able to believe her eyes.

  “No, it’s not possible.”

  “You give me little credit, Meg. I am a brilliant actor. I can play the role of a woman to perfection.” Sander coyly fluttered his lashes. “A pity you never had the chance to see me perform. There are some shrewd—or perhaps I should say were some—clever women in the coven, but none of them ever guessed I was born crested, not cloven.”

  Meg cast a dazed look up at him. “But why ever would you do such a thing?”

  “Why? Because I have been fascinated with the forbidden arts ever since I was a young lad. My parents apprenticed me to a blacksmith, but I had no liking for the trade. I saw quickly that it would be nothing but a lifetime of hard, backbreaking, sweaty labor. I realized I was meant for better things when a strange man passed through our village.

  “Master Gervais was a Frenchman by birth, what you would call a gitan. But certainly no ordinary gypsy. He was a man of many accomplishments, actor, musician, conjurer, and fortune-teller. He took a liking to me and I ran off with him to London. He taught me all that he knew of magic and performing, even how to speak his language. When we could not find work among any of the acting companies, we made a fair living with Gervais’s scrying ball, conjuring up the voices of angels to console poor grieving folk.”

  “You mean you cheated people,” Meg said indignantly.

  “Belike we did. But we were convincing enough to get accused of necromancy. Gervais was convicted of sorcery and hung. I was fortunate enough to receive a lighter punishment.” Sander laid sarcastic emphasis upon the word. “All they did was hack off my ear. That was when I realized something about justice. It is dispensed according to the size of one’s purse and one’s rank.

  “What is considered a crime in a poor man is often a mere eccentricity among the great. So I set about finding myself a more powerful patron.”

  “Lord Oxbridge.”

  “Yes, Ned. His lordship has a, er, penchant for handsome and clever young lads. When he realized I shared his interest in the occult, he became quite taken with me. Enough to let me accompany him on one of his journeys to France and that was where we first heard of your legend, Megaera.”

  “My name is Meg,” she insisted stubbornly, but Sander ignored her.

  “We stumbled upon the coven by pure chance when we were traveling through Brittany. Ned and I thought it might be amusing to pass me off as a woman and see if I could insinuate myself into the group.”

  “You would not have been so amused if those witches had discovered your secret. They would have torn you apart.”

  “No doubt. Most of your devoted followers are a trifle demented. Rabid man-haters, every last one of them.”

  “I begin to understand why.”

  “Nay, do not hate me, Meg.”

  When Sander tried to stroke her hair back from her brow, Meg shied away, glaring up at him.

  “My eyes never lied to you when you read my thoughts and I conveyed how much I admire you, how astonishing a woman you will be when you are grown. I joined your coven as a jest at first, out of mere curiosity. But I became more and more intrigued with what I heard about your powers and the Book of Shadows. When we learned that you had been brought to England, Ned and I resolved to find you.

  “You can’t imagine how astounded Ned was when you turned up here in London under our very noses. If your papa had wanted to keep you hidden, he should have been more discreet.”

  Sander chuckled. “But no one likes to perform at center stage more than Master Wolfe.”

  “Don’t you dare speak of my papa in that sneering tone,” Meg cried. “He—he has never been anything but generous and kind to you.”

  Sander shrugged. “He’s a fool for all that. He has no idea of the kind of power you possess, does he? I was not sure how much I believed myself. So I set about slowly to win your trust.”

  “Which I n
ever should have given.”

  “The more time I have spent in your company, the more amazed I am. You are so quick and clever. Your followers claim that only you could translate the Book of Shadows and I believe it.”

  “It hardly matters because I no longer have the book.”

  “Now that I don’t believe. You have had me procure some mighty strange things from the apothecaries, to say nothing of those precise instructions you gave me for acquiring those intriguing lenses. What did you do with those, I wonder? And what potions have you been brewing?”

  Meg compressed her lips and turned her head away, but Sander caught her chin, forcing her to look at him.

  “You also have the most extraordinary memory of anyone I ever met. I’d be prepared to wager you have most of the spells of that book stored in your head, hmmm?” Sander stroked his fingertips lightly over her brow. “And your father would have you waste your life embroidering samplers and playing the lute very badly.”

  Meg thrust his hands away. “What do you want from me?”

  “Why, only to help you become the powerful sorceress you are destined to be.”

  No, what he wanted was to use her, to acquire her power and knowledge for himself. Meg could read that much in his eyes. She wondered why she had not seen it sooner.

  A memory stirred, Cassandra Lascelles’s cold voice echoing in her head.

  “You have learned to read eyes well, Megaera. I sense that you have begun to fancy yourself very clever, my daughter. But there is a danger in waxing too smug, especially with a man. You can be tricked into seeing what you want to see in his eyes. What he wants you to see.”

  Her mother was right. Which left Meg tormented with the question: what else had Maman been right about?

  “I have no interest in becoming any kind of sorceress. I demand that you take me home. Right now,” Meg cried shrilly.

  But she was stilled when Sander clapped his hand over her mouth. He cocked his head to one side, listening intently. The sound of footsteps. Someone was crossing the stage, approaching the back of the theater.