The Midnight Witch

by Paula Brackston

  I look about but can see no corpse. “What hapless follower was prepared to die for you?” I ask him, shaking my head. “You are not fit to use the Lazarus Elixir, Sentinel. You and your kind never were. You never will be.” And in that second I send a spell of disturbance stronger than any I have attempted before. Stricklend is thrown backward, sent crashing against a tombstone, where he staggers, gasping for breath. “You are not fit to use any magic, for you wield it without mercy, without morality, without care for anyone or anything!” I am shouting now, and the power of my own voice amazes me. I keep a finger pointed at the dazed sorcerer, forcing him down to the floor. “I will send you to the Darkness to dwell with all the nefarious, cruel, murderous members of your society who have gone before you!”

  A shrieking to my left causes me to hesitate. A female wraith, long dead and clearly insane, is rushing at Louis. I see him work a spell of disturbance to halt her, so that she thrashes wildly against her invisible bonds. While Louis is occupied with her, two demons lumber toward us. Whether they are acting on the directions of Stricklend and Willoughby I have not time to tell, but soon they are upon us. I drop to the ground and spellcast to force one back, but the other reaches Bram before he can raise his rifle to his shoulder. The fiend snatches the gun from him and hurls it away into the shadows of the yew trees, before leaping upon Bram. A shot rings out and the thing falls still and silent. Louis stands, visibly shaken, his handgun smoking. During the commotion Stricklend has cast a spell of his own upon Louis. He cries out, clutching at his heart, and I know at once that he is suffering the same dreadful pain that the Sentinel inflicted on me.

  Louis drops his gun and falls to the ground. I call to my Cavaliers to protect him, as I ready myself to send another spell in Stricklend’s direction. But Willoughby is too quick for me. He belches forth a foul-smelling cloud that envelops me, filling my nostrils, making me splutter and cough, causing my eyes to stream. I hear yet another demon roaring and Stricklend barking orders at Willoughby. The poisonous mist threatens to choke me. Through it I can make out Bram snatching up the dropped pistol and firing at the Sentinel, who curses as he dives behind a headstone. In an instant he has flung further magic at Bram, who cries out but does not relinquish his gun.

  I can feel myself growing heavy, my movements slowed and weakened by Willoughby’s venomous miasma. It is difficult to think sufficiently clearly to spellcast. I can hear poor Louis gasping and I know that Stricklend will soon crush the life from him. Bram is doing his best to fight off demons and the blows of the Sentinel’s smaller spells. I must act.

  Mistress, let us help you!

  No, my captains, help Bram. He cannot save Louis alone. Help them.

  Stricklend laughs. “Your followers are no use to you now, Morningstar. Did you truly believe they could stand against a Dark Spirit, and against me? They are nothing but a drain on your own … disappointing talents. I have to say, I would have expected more from a risen witch.” He sneers. He increases Louis’s suffering and bids Willoughby drag Bram to him. My poor darling fires the handgun again and again, but his aim is skewed by Willoughby’s magic, and not a single bullet finds its mark, either in the demons or in Stricklend. Soon Louis lies terrifyingly quiet, and Stricklend stands behind Bram, an arm tight around his throat, while the Dark Spirit renders his captive too weak to fight his way free.

  “Face your failure, Morningstar. You have lost the Elixir. You have lost your precious lover. He must have seen you risen. He knows how it was done. When I have finished here—when you are finished—I think I will avail myself of his strong body and his unique knowledge. I believe he will provide me with the perfect volunteer for my next attempt to use the Lazarus Elixir. What do you think, Morningstar? Do you think I will succeed this time, hmm? Will he be raised like you, or will he suffer the same ghastly fate as my first revenant? Perhaps I will keep you with us long enough for you to witness his rebirth or to witness the flesh rotting from his bones before he is condemned to the pit.”

  I sense a shift in my own psyche. An alteration in my very self. The rage and frustration at what Stricklend is doing; the heartbreak at seeing my loved ones suffer so; the fury at what is being done with Lazarus magic—all combine to fire the transformation that had not yet fully taken place. I am revenant. I have been called back, taken from death, retrieved from the Land of Night to tread the earth again, and only now, now that the spark has been ignited, only now does the magnitude of what that truly means reveal itself. Deep inside me something stirs. Something ancient that has been awakened. It is the magic of hundreds of witches past, the enchantments of centuries. It is the wisdom of the sages who have studied arcane and long-forgotten arts. It is the strength of the skilled necromancer. It is the power of a risen witch. It is awe-inspiring and terrifying. And it is mine.

  I fling my arms wide and Willoughby’s toxic fog vanishes from me at once. My hair begins to fly wildly, and my nightgown billows about me as if stirred by a swirling vortex. There is the sound of wind rushing through the branches of the great cedar and the somber yews. My feet leave the ground and I travel upward until I am standing a yard or more clear of the dry grass of the graveyard. I can feel magic coursing through my veins. My breath is loud as a sighing giant. My heart is the drumbeat of distant thunder, audible to all. My skin glows, luminous in the caliginous night. My eyes flash bright as emeralds caught in supernatural light.

  Demons and ghouls stop their slavering and growling and cower before me, whimpering. With startling ease I push them back to the fissure, back, sliding across the gravelly ground, send them skidding and tumbling over the edge, returning them to the Darkness.

  Willoughby will not be so swiftly dealt with. The Dark Spirit bounds across the space between us, hurling his fetid spectral form at me, aiming to stifle my own magic with his vile presence. Before he can reach me I open my mouth and let forth a single, pure note of noise. A similar sound, some years ago, rendered Bram’s studio wrecked and singed, but that occasion cannot begin to compare with this. This sound, this solid, white-hot noise, stops Willoughby in his tracks, blasting his own protective magic from him. Headstones nearby are toppled. A stone angel explodes into smithereens. Stricklend, still clutching Bram, is thrown off his feet, the pair landing heavily upon my father’s grave. Tongues of fire catch the dry grass and the branches of the cedar tree, so that soon the entire graveyard around us crackles and spits as it burns. The Dark Spirit is unnerved and disoriented and I seize my moment.

  “You do not belong here!” I tell it. “Your time was long ago, and you used your magic badly. You will not return to cause more suffering. I will not allow it! Go back into the Darkness, where your wickedness can do no more harm.” So saying I sing out again, at the same time flinging at him a spell of destruction that has come unbidden, unknown, into my mind, the words foreign and guttural and torn from the archaic memories that are now mine. Willoughby roars and writhes, but he is no match for me. Not now. Not ever again. As he plunges into the pit his furious bellowing can be heard growing fainter and fainter the deeper he falls.

  Slowly, I turn my gaze upon Stricklend. At last, I see fear on the face of the Sentinel.

  “You are right to be afraid,” I tell him. “You have abused the Great Secret; you have shown yourself to be unworthy of using the Lazarus Elixir. You have already done such harm. You have hurt those I love for the last time, Sentinel.”

  “No, wait. Listen to me.” He crawls backward, struggling to maintain his spell over Louis and another to weaken Bram, who still fights against his stranglehold. “Think, Morningstar. Think what we could achieve together, you and I! A risen witch and a Sentinel … we would wield untold power. There is nothing we could not do. Nowhere we could not rule.”

  “I have not come here to listen to you, Stricklend,” I state calmly. “I have come to finish you.”

  I will the flames on the burning tree to grow hotter, fiercer, wilder. Suddenly the heavy bough above us cracks and falls, blocking Stricklend�
�s retreat. He casts around for another escape, but to his right is the rupture into the abyss, and in front of him I stand. He tightens his grip on Bram, whose strength is slowly returning the more alarmed and agitated Stricklend becomes. Louis is silent now, and I pray to the spirits I will not be too late to save him.

  “Let Bram go, Sentinel,” I command, but he shakes his head. I narrow my eyes. “I said, let him go!” My words are accompanied by more leaping flames that catch Stricklend’s sleeves. He is forced to relinquish his hold on his prisoner. Bram slumps forward, clambering to his knees, gasping for breath, as the Sentinel beats furiously at his clothes to put out the fire. I begin to force him back toward the brink of the pit. He snatches at the gravestone, and then at Bram, grabbing hold of his ankle. Bram is still too groggy to fend him off, so that he too begins to shift toward the hole. For a dreadful moment I recall Violet at my inauguration and how I lost her.

  “I will take him with me, witch!” There is a hysterical edge to Stricklend’s voice now. “I will drag him down into the Darkness with me!”

  I pause, halting the magic that is moving the men across the graveyard floor. Turning, I see a strong ivy that twines its long way up one of the tallest yew trees. I open my palm toward it and bid it come into my hand. As I watch, the glossy green vine uncurls itself from the trunk of the tree and travels toward me. It snakes its way around my arm and into my hand. I close my fingers about it and draw a deep, refreshing breath. As I breathe I close my eyes and picture the leaves of the ivy shimmering and shivering as they change from green to black to silver. Only when I know the magic has taken hold do I open my eyes. The plant is transformed, so that now I have my own, pulsating, enchanted Silver Thread.

  I raise my arm, drawing it slowly back to its full extent. Then I flick my wrist and fling my arm forward with all the strength I can muster, and the Silver Thread flies out, with a fearsome, singing whip-crack. It finds its mark. Stricklend yells. As the thread returns to coil around my arm I see blood bursting from a deep line across the Sentinel’s face. Again I draw back my arm, and again the shining ivy whips forward, this time curling around Stricklend’s throat. With a swift yank, I haul him sideways. His cry is throttled as he at last lets go of Bram, scrabbling at the thread, unable to pry it off. In desperation he throws a spell of his own, causing a piece of burning branch to fly at me. It strikes me upon the shoulder, the heat melting my nightgown, searing it into my skin. I cry out, but I do not flinch or falter. Not for one second do I take my eyes off my foe.

  “Your time is at an end, Sentinel. You will not tread this earth again, in body or in spirit. I curse you and condemn you to the Darkness for all time!”

  He opens his mouth to scream, but there is not time enough for him to do so before the Silver Thread tightens as I pull it, unraveling from his neck, sending him spinning over the edge of the crater, and finally, into the pit. I whip back the thread and stride forward, all the while chanting the words that I know will close the rupture and seal Stricklend’s fate.

  At last I come to stand upon the very ground that was only moments ago rent open and spewing such evil. There is a rumbling, as if the earth itself is reluctant to accept all the wickedness it must hold within it. I fight to steady my own galloping heart and ragged breathing. Slowly, the cemetery begins to quiet. The flames I created shrink and disappear. The air settles to its more normal, nighttime stillness.

  Bram staggers to his feet and hurries to me.

  “Lilith! My God, Lilith…” He wraps his arms around me, holding me close, even though I still fizz with magic, and must feel strange and more than a little frightening in his embrace.

  “Bram! You are safe.”

  “Your shoulder—you’re hurt.” He tenderly looks at the burn that has seared my skin.

  “It is nothing, merely a memento. Oh, but Louis…!”

  We run to where he lies. Bram helps me turn him over. His face is so very pale.

  “He is breathing!” Bram tells me.

  I place my hand on his brow, letting whatever magic I might possess, magic that I as yet do not even begin to comprehend, magic that might counter Stricklend’s spell, letting it help him if it can.

  “Wake up, Louis,” I say softly, then again. “Wake up.”

  He gasps, a shuddering breath, and then his eyes open. I let out a cry of relief.

  Louis takes a moment to come to his senses, and when he speaks, his voice is cracked and hoarse. “Good grief, Lily.” He surveys the devastation around us. “Remind me not to make an enemy of you.”

  I smile at him. “You could never do that, dear Louis.”

  I become aware of shifting shapes behind me. The others sense them, too, and appear alarmed.

  “All is well,” I promise them. “We are among friends.”

  Slowly, cautiously, the spirits begin to reveal themselves. My faithful Cavaliers. Amelia. Many spirits known to me, and others new, but all come willingly, happily, in friendship. I stand up to greet them properly, and am astonished when they kneel in front of me. They whisper their thoughts and praise.

  We are here to serve you, mistress.

  Spirits bless you!

  Welcome, Queen of the Night.

  Bram helps Louis to his feet and they stand beside me.

  “Well,” says Louis, who can hear every word, “it seems you have been elevated.”

  I find myself, ridiculously, blushing. “I do not deserve such a title. I have not earned it.”

  “What title?” Bram wants to know.

  Louis explains, grinning, “Our little Lily is a risen witch now, Cardale. No longer Daughter of the Night, she is Queen of the Night.”

  Queen of the Night, Queen of the Night!

  The spirits echo my new name over and over.

  Bram smiles at me. “It suits you. I have never seen anyone look more regal than you do at this moment.”

  I meet his gaze.

  “Can you love me still?” I ask him. “Can you wish to be a part of … of all that you have seen? You know what I am become. You have witnessed the danger that surrounds me. I was so afraid for you … Are you certain you still want to be with me? I mean…”

  “Hush.” He puts a finger to my lips. “Where else would I be?”

  High up in the branches of the cedar, a blackbird begins its tuneful song, starting up the chorus to herald the morning, as a thin, silvery light begins to lift the night from the city.

  I take Bram’s hand in mine.

  “Well then, my love, a new day is dawning,” I tell him. “Shall we face it together?”

  Acknowledgments

  The Midnight Witch presented all manner of interesting challenges for me. I wished to immerse myself in a time and place that is extremely well documented, so that my first task was to present it anew. I also wanted to create a complex tale, with story layers that reflected the strata of the era, and that would at the same time reveal a hidden seam of magic and witchcraft. If I have succeeded in my aims, it will be due in no small part to the guidance and hard work of my editorial team, Peter Wolverton and Anne Brewer. I am hugely grateful.

  Thanks also, as ever, to my long-suffering and supportive family, and particularly on this occasion to my mum—beta reader and cheerleader combined.

  Also by Paula Brackston

  The Witch’s Daughter

  The Witches of the Blue Well

  The Winter Witch

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PAULA BRACKSTON is the New York Times bestselling author of The Witch’s Daughter and The Winter Witch. She has a master’s degree in creative writing from Lancaster University in the UK. She lives in Wales with her family. Visit her online at www.paulabrackston.com.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  THE MIDNIGHT WITCH. Copyright © 2014 by Paula Brackston. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth
Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.thomasdunnebooks.com

  www.stmartinspress.com

  Cover design by Elsie Lyons

  Cover photographs: shoes © Sandra Cunningham/Trevillion Images; gems © Dr. Margorious/Shutterstock.com; sparkle © nikkytok/Shutterstock.com

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

  Brackston, Paula.

  The Midnight witch / Paula Brackston.—First Edition.

  pages cm.

  ISBN 978-1-250-00608-0 (hardcover)

  ISBN 978-1-250-02296-7 (e-book)

  1. Witches—Fiction. 2. Fantasy fiction. 3. England—Fiction. I. Title.

  PR6102.R325M53 2014

  823'.92—dc23

  2013033245

  eISBN 9781250022967

  First Edition: April 2014