The Witch Hunter

by Virginia Boecker

  I yank my arm from his grasp and lunge for the stairs. I make it to the bottom step before Nicholas and Fifer appear, closing the door from above and bolting it shut. I’m plunged into darkness, the dank smell of earth and decay surrounding me.

  Immediately, I’m transported back to that last day of training as a witch hunter. The day I should have died. But somehow, miraculously, lived.

  I sink to the ground, press my head to my knees, and try to stop the memories.

  It was our final test, our final challenge as recruits. If we succeeded—the eighteen of us who had made it this far—we would receive our stigmas and become the most elite of the king’s guard: a witch hunter.

  None of us knew what awaited us, what we’d have to fight. Frances Culpepper thought witches. Marcus Denny was hoping for demons. Linus Trew guessed we’d have to fight one another. Only Caleb thought it would be more sinister than that. I saw the look on his face as Blackwell delivered his final speech, when he gave us the barest hint of what was to come.

  “You’ll be fighting whatever frightens you the most,” Blackwell said. “In order to succeed as a witch hunter, you must learn to face your greatest fear and control it. Then—and only then—will you realize that your greatest enemy isn’t what you fight, but what you fear.”

  Caleb betrayed no emotion—almost none. Only I knew him well enough to see the way he pressed his lips together, the set of his jaw, and recognize what it meant. He was afraid. And if Caleb was afraid, then I had cause to be very afraid indeed.

  Guildford, one of Blackwell’s guards, led me to my test. I couldn’t speak, could barely breathe, terrified of what awaited me. My greatest fear. What could it be?

  “We’re here,” Guildford’s voice broke the silence. We stood at the edge of the forest, dying trees all around me, crackling leaves under my feet, the sound of water rushing somewhere in the distance. The shadowy, predawn light made everything feel all the more ominous.

  Guildford bent over and unearthed an enormous brass ring. It was attached to a narrow wooden door set into the forest floor. He tugged once, twice, and on the third pull it opened to reveal a narrow wooden set of stairs. At the bottom was another door, as rickety and rotten as the stairs. There was no handle, only a smattering of iron nail heads, rust staining the wood like blood.

  I started down the stairs, counting as I went. Two. Four. Six. When I reached the bottom, I placed my hands on the door, looked over my shoulder at Guildford.

  He nodded.

  With a shove, the door creaked open, the rusted hinges shrieking in protest. I could see nothing on the other side, but there was a smell: something sharp, rancid, rotting. I buried my head in my sleeve and started through the opening. I was halfway in when Guildford spoke.

  “When you’re down there, try to remember what you’re fighting.”

  I paused for a moment, then slipped inside. The door slammed shut by itself, fast and hard, as if it sensed my hesitation, as if it knew I might try to escape.

  Darkness descended on me like a shroud. I took a tentative step forward, then another, my hands held in front of me, palms outstretched. I touched something soft, crumbling. Dirt. I felt around me. Above, around, below. Dirt was everywhere. Where was I? A cellar? A tunnel, maybe? I started back toward the stairs when suddenly, inexplicably, the world turned upside down.

  I pitched forward and landed on my stomach, hard. As I rolled onto my back, wiping dirt from my mouth, I saw it: the outline of a door far above me, ringed by the sun that had just cleared the horizon. And it was no longer that rotting, rusted, bleeding wooden door missing its handle. It was a stone slab.

  I was inside a tomb.

  I scrambled to my feet just as the first clumps of dirt fell on my head. And I started to scream. This was magic, I knew; Blackwell had used it in our tests before. But this time something went wrong. This was a mistake; it had to be. He didn’t mean to put me in a tomb. Blackwell wouldn’t try to bury me alive.

  I was sobbing then, trying to get out. But the dirt was too soft to get purchase on, the walls too unstable to climb. Every time I tried, the dirt fell faster, harder. There was a way out—I knew there was. I just couldn’t see it.

  I heard Blackwell’s voice in my head: Your greatest enemy isn’t what you fight, but what you fear.

  What was I afraid of? The falling dirt that now reached my waist? The magic that turned an ordinary tunnel into a grave? I didn’t know. But if I didn’t figure it out soon, I would die. The realization stopped me cold. As the dirt swirled around my face, sticking to my lips and eyelids, I just stood there, frozen with fear, as I contemplated dying there, in that way.

  Alone, forever.

  I thought of my mother. Of the lullaby she used to sing to me when I was a little girl. When I was frightened of thunderstorms and make-believe monsters under the bed, not dirt and tombs and magic and death. What use was a lullaby against those? But it was all I had. So I closed my eyes and began to sing.

  Sleep and peace attend me, all through the night.

  Angels will come to me, all through the night.

  Drowsy hours are creeping; hill and vale, slumber sleeping,

  A loving vigil keeping, all through the night.

  The dirt continued to fall. It crept past my lips now; I stood on my toes, wiped clumps of it out of my mouth. I kept singing.

  Moon’s watch is keeping, all through the night.

  The weary world is sleeping, all through the night.

  A spirit gently stealing, visions of delight revealing,

  A pure and peaceful feeling, all through the night.

  Finally, the dirt slowed, then stopped. But I didn’t dare stop singing.

  To you, my thoughts are turning, all through the night.

  For you, my heart is yearning, all through the night.

  Sad fate our lives may sever, parting will not last forever,

  A hope that leaves me never, all through the night.

  The dirt began receding around me, trickling down past my shoulders, my waist, my legs. I moved down with it, crouching lower and lower until the dirt was nothing more than a floor, me curled into a ball on top of it.

  When Guildford finally came for me, he had to fetch another guard to pull me out. As he carried me across the grounds in his arms, I was still curled in a tight, little ball. My hands clapped over my ears, my eyes clamped shut. I kept singing. All through the night. Over and over. I couldn’t stop. I was far beyond fear now, and I didn’t want to come back.

  A pair of hands encircles my wrists. Gently, they try to pry my hands from my head, but I jerk away. I hear voices. They’re faint, far away. I press my hands harder over my ears to block them out. I don’t want to hear anything but that song.

  Hands slip around my back, under my knees. I’m being lifted up, carried. It can’t be easy, holding me when I’m balled up like this. I’m deadweight. But the guard is strong. I bury my head in his uniform, grateful to breathe something other than earth and decay. He smells good. Clean, like lavender. Warm, like spices. I tuck my head against his shoulder and breathe it in.

  I’m still singing, but my voice has dropped to a whisper. I’m so tired. I rub my cheek against the soft linen of the guard’s shirt, wishing it were my pillow. His arms tighten around me, holding me close.

  Finally, I feel safe.

  VINES. THEY’RE THE FIRST THING I see when I wake. They trail across the ceiling and loop down the walls, their edges blurred in the room’s dim light. I frown. My room at Blackwell’s doesn’t have vines. I blink once, twice. Then the memories come crashing down and I remember everything. Veda. Her prophecy. The test, the dirt, the darkness.

  I take a breath and push the memories away, as far back as they’ll let me. It’s never far enough. They’re always there, lurking in the corner of my mind like a cat in the dark, waiting for a chance to strike.

  Caleb would tell me to think of something happy, to remember something good. But all my memories are about him. And right now, t
hinking of him doesn’t make me happy. It makes me think of Blackwell. Of his determination to find me, of his using Caleb to do it. Of how I’m not sure what will happen if he does.

  Nicholas seemed as surprised as I was that Caleb found us. But if anything, it’s further proof he needs my help. Further proof I need his. On my own, with no weapons, no money, no way to get out of the country, I will certainly be caught. I escaped a burning once. I don’t think I’ll be so lucky a second time.

  I feel a soft rustling by my feet and realize George must be here. Again. This time I don’t mind. Maybe he can help me persuade Nicholas to let me stay. I fling off the sheets and bolt upright, a persuasive argument on my lips. But it isn’t George.

  It’s John.

  He’s sitting in a chair at the foot of my bed, fast asleep. His head and chest are draped across the mattress, one arm curled over his head, the other stretched out to the side, fingers clenching and unclenching the blanket as if he’s grasping for something. That was the rustling I felt. Next to his hand is an open book, the pages lying facedown. What is he doing here?

  Of course.

  It wasn’t a guard who carried me; it was John. My stomach twists when I think about being curled up in his arms. Smelling his shirt. Tucking my head into his shoulder, then falling asleep. I flush a little at the memory.

  He must have brought me up here and for whatever reason decided to stay. Why? After all of Nicholas’s talk of my being a danger, why would he allow his healer—or for that matter, Peter his son—to be in a room with me? Alone?

  I climb out of bed—John doesn’t even stir—and walk to the window, twitch open the curtains. It’s nearly morning now, the sun stretching rose and cream across the horizon. I consider the possibility Nicholas has decided to wait until today to deal with me, but it still wouldn’t explain why John is here. Or why he let me spend the night in a warm room and a comfortable bed instead of tying me up, throwing me in the larder, and letting Hastings torture me all night. It’s what I would have done.

  Unless Nicholas hasn’t told them about me. That after seeing Caleb and the witch hunters come for me, he came to his senses. Realized that if he dies, Blackwell will come for them next. And the only way to stop it is to hire me to find his tablet.

  Maybe it’s not over for me after all.

  I turn from the window and start toward the door, eager to find Nicholas, eager to start planning. Then I stop.

  Even if Nicholas does need me to find his tablet, it won’t do for me to be too agreeable. I need things from him, too, and I don’t want to sell myself short. After what happened last night, it’s going to be harder to evade Blackwell than I had previously thought. It won’t be enough just to go into exile. I’ll need a way to keep moving, a way to stay one step ahead of him. I can never stop, never rest. Not if I want to live.

  Both of us have our lives at stake here, only Nicholas is a lot more willing to sacrifice his than I am mine.

  I crawl back into bed, careful not to wake John. He’s still sprawled across the mattress, still sound asleep. Healing must be exhausting; I wouldn’t know. He seems too young to be doing it anyway. My guess is he’s around nineteen, but he still seems very boyish. Maybe it’s because he’s always so rumpled-looking. Like right now.

  His white shirt is a wrinkled mess, unbuttoned too low at the top, the sleeves shoved up past his elbows. He still hasn’t shaved. And his hair. It’s completely wild, those soft dark curls sticking up everywhere, falling across his forehead and into his eyes. He’s about six months past due for a haircut, obviously forgotten.

  I always had to remind Caleb to cut his hair, too. I don’t know what it is about boys, but unless there’s a girl around to remind them, they forget even the simplest tasks. Like cutting hair. Or shaving. Or changing their damn clothes. I guess John doesn’t have anyone to remind him about those things, either.

  His hand shifts across the mattress then, and I spot a tattoo on the inside of his forearm. A black circle about two inches in diameter with a cross inside it: a sun wheel. The circle represents life, the cross triumph over death.

  I start tracing the shape of it along the bedcovers with my fingertip. Watch the lines press into the blanket, then disappear. I do this over and over. Then I move to the shapes of the vines on the ceiling. The heart-shaped leaves, the long, looping vines that wind and curl down the wall. I’m so absorbed in what I’m doing that when John’s finger reaches over and touches mine, I gasp. I didn’t realize he was awake.

  “Hi.” He looks at me through one half-opened eye.

  “Hi.”

  “You all right?” His voice is quiet, deep.

  I shrug. “Fine.”

  He blinks, but he doesn’t take his eyes from me. He’s probably looking for an explanation for what happened last night. Why I collapsed as I did, why he had to carry me back. Just thinking about it makes my cheeks blaze.

  “I don’t like enclosed spaces,” I say, finally. “Childhood trauma.” It’s true enough, anyway.

  He props himself up on his elbow. “No need to explain. I was just checking.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Well, thank you for bringing me back. And I’m sorry, I guess.” I duck my head to hide the burning in my face again.

  “No need to apologize, either. It’s not every day I get to carry a girl fifty miles through an underground tunnel.” His voice sounds serious. But when I look up, he’s smiling.

  “It wasn’t that far.”

  “It was. Plus, you’re really heavy,” he goes on. “You know. Like a sack of feathers.”

  I shake my head, but I can feel myself start to smile.

  John leans back in his chair, runs a hand through his hair. “Anyway, I’m the one who should apologize. I didn’t mean to stay, at least not all night. I was waiting for George to come back, started reading, and”—he gestures at his book—“fell asleep.”

  I glance at the cover. Praxis Philosophica: Alchemical Formulas for Transformation.

  “I can’t imagine why,” I say.

  He laughs. “I don’t know why he didn’t come back. I guess I should find out.” He gets to his feet just as there’s a knock at the door. It’s George. He steps into the room, his usual carefree expression replaced with something far more solemn.

  “I was just coming to find you,” John says. “What’s going on?”

  George jerks his head at me. “Nicholas needs her.”

  My stomach flutters with anxiety.

  “And he needs you, too. He’s not well. Last night took a toll.”

  John swears under his breath. “I’ll go now. Can you take her?”

  George nods and they both start toward the door. “We’ll go when you’re ready.”

  I still have on the clothes I wore last night: the dark green trousers, the white shirt. The velvet coat is draped across the back of John’s chair, the boots underneath it. I draw them on, run my hands through my tangled hair, pinch some color into my cheeks. I was feeling confident about Nicholas, that he wouldn’t throw me out of his house, that I’d get another chance. But now I’m not so sure.

  George waits for me outside the door. He gives me a quick nod, and, without a word, he starts down the hall, the opposite direction from the stairs.

  “What’s happening?” I hurry to keep up with him.

  He doesn’t reply.

  “He knows about me. Veda told him. Did you know that?”

  George still doesn’t reply. We walk along the hallway until we reach the double doors at the end.

  “George, what’s going on?”

  “It’s not my place to tell you. You’ll find out soon enough anyway.” He gives a quick, staccato knock. My heart is beating a little too fast, my palms a little too damp. I swipe them against my trousers.

  “How is he?”

  “Cursed,” George replies shortly. Then he opens the door.

  Inside is an enormous bedchamber. It’s dark, and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. When they do, I see Nicholas sitti
ng in a chair next to the fireplace, John leaning over him, speaking to him in a low voice. Nicholas looks so frail, so fragile, and even from here I can see he’s trembling. My stomach gives an uncomfortable twist.

  “Please, come in,” Nicholas says. His voice is hoarse, thin. George steps aside to let me through. John straightens up and makes his way to the door. He stops in front of me.

  “He wants to see you alone,” he says quietly. “It’s important, I know, but try to keep it quick, all right?” He and George leave then, the door closing behind them with a quiet thump.

  Nicholas beckons me to the chair opposite his. “Come. Sit.”

  I cross the vast bedroom. It’s decorated entirely in shades of red: red carpet, red walls, red bedcovers. Even the candles are red, their flames flickering rhythmically off the walls. I feel as if I’m inside a beating heart.

  I settle into the chair. Up close, Nicholas looks even worse. His skin is ashen, his hair is grayer than it was last night, even his dark eyes seem gray. For a moment, he just stares at me.

  “I’d like to talk to you about what happened last night,” he says, finally.

  “Okay.” I take a breath. “Which part?”

  “About Caleb and the others showing up.”

  “How they found us, you mean?”

  He nods. “How they found us, how they knew we were there. That was not guesswork, nor was it an accident. They knew the location down to the village, the time down to the hour. How do you suppose they knew that?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “But Blackwell always seems to know everything. As for how, it could have been as simple as using a spy, or as complicated as using magic.”

  “As complicated as using magic,” Nicholas repeats. “Has it ever occurred to you how odd it is that the Inquisitor—former Inquisitor, rather—a man who spends his life rooting out magic and punishing those who practice it, uses magic himself?”

  “Blackwell doesn’t use magic himself,” I say. “He… employs the use of magic, if and when it suits his needs.”

  “I fail to see the difference.”