The Witch Hunter

by Virginia Boecker

  We step into the jostling crowd and make our way toward it. We’re about halfway there when someone bumps into me, knocking my bag off my shoulder. I stop to adjust it. In that moment, one man’s heavy shoulder slams against mine as another man steps in front of me, and I lose sight of the others.

  The sunlight bounces off the water and into my eyes, so bright I can’t see where they went. I spin around in a circle, searching the crowd. When I still can’t find them, I feel a little jolt of panic until a hand lands on my arm. I turn around, thinking it’s George, maybe John. But it isn’t.

  It’s Caleb.

  “Hello, Elizabeth,” he says, as calmly as if we’d met at the palace grounds, or the World’s End, or any place besides this dock, the last place on earth I’d ever expect to see him.

  “Caleb,” I gasp. “What are you—how did you—”

  “How did I find you?”

  I nod, too stunned to speak.

  “It was difficult—I won’t lie. Easier, perhaps, once we found the dead guards in Stepney Green. As soon as I saw them, I knew it was you. I’d recognize your handiwork anywhere.” He smiles then, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

  I start to shiver. “Caleb, I—”

  He holds up a hand. “I need to talk to you, and we don’t have a lot of time. Marcus is here; so is Linus. They haven’t seen you, at least not yet.” I whip my head around, searching the crowd for them. What if they found the others?

  “Don’t worry, they’re not here for your friends. I told them specifically to leave them alone.”

  I freeze.

  “Don’t look that way. I’m glad you made friends. I’m happy to see you were taken care of. The tall one, in particular, seems as if he’s taking very good care of you.”

  I let out a strangled gasp.

  “Elizabeth, I want you to come back with me.”

  It takes a moment to find my breath.

  “What?” I say finally. “No, I can’t go to prison, Caleb. I won’t—”

  “You’re not going to prison,” Caleb says. “I’m the Inquisitor now, haven’t you heard? What I say goes. I want you to come back and be a witch hunter again.”

  “What?” I say again. I can’t believe I’m hearing this. “No, Caleb, I can’t do that.”

  He frowns. “Why? What else are you going to do? You can’t tell me you want to stay here”—he waves his hand dismissively—“with them?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know.” I realize then I don’t know what I want to do. Or what I can do.

  “What has he told you?” Caleb reaches for me, takes my arm. “What did Nicholas Perevil tell you to make you think you would be safe with him? Safer with him than with me? What makes you think he won’t kill you once you’re done doing… whatever it is he’s got you doing?”

  I wrench myself from his grasp. “It’s not Nicholas. It’s you.” I feel a sting of tears behind my eyelids. “You didn’t come back for me. At Fleet. You left me there to die. You left me with no other choice but to do this.”

  “Says who? Nicholas?” Caleb says. His blue eyes flash with anger. “I was coming back for you. I told you to wait for me. You promised me you’d wait.” He takes my arm again. “But when I came back, you were already gone.”

  The tears are threatening to break now. I don’t know who to believe. I don’t know what I want to believe.

  “I almost died in there. Did you know that? I caught jail fever, and I almost died.” I think of John then, how he saved my life. Of Caleb, how I’m not sure he would have done the same. “If you really were coming, why did it take you so long?”

  “Because we knew Nicholas would show up for you,” Caleb says. “Blackwell’s seer told him he would. The whole thing was a setup. Your arrest, everything. It was to get you in jail to lure Nicholas in. Blackwell told me when I went to plead for you.”

  My stomach gives a sickening lurch at his betrayal.

  “And you went along with it?” I whisper. “You must have known how scared I was. I almost died, Caleb.” I repeat it because it needs to be repeated. “You almost let it happen.”

  “I did what Blackwell told me to do,” he says. “I’m your best friend. Do you really think I’d leave you to die?”

  I don’t reply.

  “Are you saying you don’t believe me?”

  I look at him. He’s the same Caleb I’ve always known. Restless, ambitious, always yearning for more. It’s only now I realize how deep that plague of ambition has spread inside him. Like a disease, it rules him now: his thoughts, his actions, the things he chooses to see, the things he chooses to ignore. And, like a disease, one day it will be the death of him.

  It was very nearly the death of me.

  “I believe you,” I say. “But I don’t believe Blackwell.”

  “What are you talking about?” Caleb says. “We’d be nowhere without him. We’d still be in the kitchen, or God knows where else. He gave us a chance when no one else would.” His voice rises with conviction. “You owe him your life. We both do.”

  I shake my head. I don’t want to think about what I owe Blackwell.

  “Why did he make you Inquisitor?” I say instead.

  Caleb doesn’t answer, not right away. He turns away from me for a moment, but not before I see something flicker across his face, an expression I recognize but haven’t seen in a long time: uncertainty.

  “He made me Inquisitor because I’m his best witch hunter,” he says finally. “Because he knows he can trust me. Because…”

  “Because he knew if he made you Inquisitor, you’d be able to find me.”

  Caleb throws me a look, but we both know it’s true.

  “There are things about Blackwell—things you don’t know,” I say. “Things that, if you knew, might make you change your mind about him—about what you’re doing for him.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about Blackwell’s being a wizard.”

  Caleb goes still. Then suddenly, inexplicably, he starts to laugh.

  “You don’t really believe that.”

  “I didn’t. Not at first,” I say. “But it explains so much. It explains everything. About our stigmas, about training, about his plans.”

  “And what plans would those be?” He’s still laughing.

  “He plans to take over,” I say. “To overthrow Malcolm and take the throne for himself. And he means to use magic to do it.”

  Caleb abruptly stops laughing. “That’s treason,” he says. “Nicholas has got you talking treason. What you just said could land you on the pyre before sunrise.”

  “Blackwell already tried that, remember?”

  Caleb scoffs. “I told you already, that was just part of the plan.”

  I shake my head, but he continues.

  “Come back with me.” His voice is low, persuasive. “We could be back at Upminster by morning, and it’ll be just as it’s always been. Just you and me.”

  “No.”

  “What?” His eyes go wide, stunned. It’s the only time he’s asked me to follow him and I’ve refused.

  “I can’t go back,” I repeat. “And I don’t want you to go back, either. I’m afraid for you, Caleb. I’m afraid of what Blackwell is doing and I’m afraid of what he’s doing to you.” I swallow. “I’m afraid you’re in danger.”

  “I’m in no danger,” Caleb says. “But you will be, unless you come with me.”

  The warning is clear, but I back away anyway. For a moment I think this is my real test: a test of strength and will and a command of fear, every bit as real as the test in the tomb. A test not of Blackwell’s design but one he contrived anyway, to make me choose between my best friend and my freedom, my family and my life.

  “If you don’t go back with me, I can’t help you,” he says, his voice tight. “No matter what happens, I won’t be able to save you. Not this time. Do you understand?”

  I nod. I do understand.

  He steps forward and grasps my forearm for
a moment, then quickly lets his hand drop, almost as though it’s not his place to touch me anymore. And it’s this: this small forfeiture of custody that makes me realize he’s releasing me. Letting me go. That now, after spending half our lives together, we’re going to spend the rest of them apart.

  He backs away from me, nods his head in a little bow. A good-bye.

  “I’ll tell the others I lost you.” His voice is gruff, and in it I can hear all the emotion he despises, all the emotion he’s trying so hard to contain. “And it won’t be a lie.”

  THERE ARE PEOPLE ALL AROUND, pushing into me. But I’m so stunned, I don’t move. I’m so stunned, I don’t do anything. I just stand there. Staring unseeing at the crowd around me, Caleb’s words echoing inside my head.

  I feel a hand on my arm and jump.

  “There you are.” It’s George. He’s standing in front of me, John and Fifer beside him. They’re frowning. “What happened? We turned around and you were gone.”

  “I—I’m sorry, I—” I shake my head, still unable to think. “It’s bright out here,” I finally manage. “I guess I just got turned around.”

  George tuts. “Well, come on, then. We’ve got a ship to board.” He and Fifer set off down the dock. But John just stands there, looking at me, brows raised. A question.

  I could tell him that Caleb showed up, what he said to me. But what’s the point? It doesn’t change that I said good-bye to my best friend. Most likely forever. Tears fill my eyes again, and this time I don’t bother to push them away.

  John’s eyes widen in sudden understanding.

  “He’s here, isn’t he?” He spins around, searching the docks. “Was he alone? Are they sending more?”

  “Yes. But they’re not—he didn’t.” My voice breaks. “He let me go.”

  He turns back to me, surprise etched on his face. After a moment he nods.

  “Let’s go.” He touches his hand to the small of my back and guides me through the crowd to the gangway, where Fifer and George are waiting. They give us both a curious look but say nothing.

  The four of us start up the narrow wooden bridge. A bearded, heavyset pirate stands at the top, sword in hand. “Stop right there,” he commands. He aims the blade at John’s chest.

  “I want to speak to the captain,” John says.

  The man laughs. “They all want to speak to the captain. I tell them all no. What makes you any different?”

  “Because this is my ship,” John replies. I shoot a surprised look at George; he shrugs. “I assume that makes me different enough?”

  The man peers at John. Then his eyes widen and he lets out a sudden bellow.

  “John Raleigh!” He grabs John’s arm and hauls him onto the deck. “I should have known. You’re the very spit of your father. What are you doing here? Don’t tell me you’ve decided to trade a life of virtue for a life of debauchery?”

  John smiles. “Not quite. My friends and I need a lift into Upminster. Greenwich Tower?”

  The man raises his eyebrows. “I hope you came prepared.”

  John pulls a sack from his bag and gives it a shake. By the heavy, dull clank I can tell it’s full of coins. “Of course.”

  The man turns around and motions for John to follow. “Come on. You can plead your case yourself. Your friends can wait here.”

  John follows the man to the upper deck of the ship, into the captain’s quarters. We wait by the railing, trying to ignore the overly interested stares of the other sailors.

  Finally, John emerges. He looks furious, and my heart sinks. The captain must have refused us passage. I don’t see how it’s possible, especially if this really is John’s ship. I step forward, ready to find the captain and force him to let us on, when I see why John is so angry.

  He exits the cabin behind John, a boy dressed entirely in black; shaggy blond hair, bright blue eyes, wicked grin.

  Schuyler.

  He’s come back for the sword, and Blackwell sent him. It’s the only explanation for his being here. I spin around, snatch the Azoth by the hilt from under Fifer’s cloak, and advance on him, pointing the blade directly at his throat. Behind me, Fifer gasps.

  Schuyler doesn’t even flinch. “Ah, my little mouse, my bijoux. I knew we’d meet again someday. Though this is not at all how I hoped it might go. I imagined less weaponry, less hostility, less clothing—”

  “Shut up,” I say. “Turn around and walk away. If you can do it without opening your mouth again, I might let you keep your head.”

  “Elizabeth, put it down,” John says.

  “No!” I say. “That’s what he wants. He wants the sword, and he can’t have it. He’ll take it to Blackwell. We can’t let him have it—”

  “He’s not here for that,” John interrupts. “He’s here because Fifer called him. Last night. Told him to meet us here.” He gives her a furious look. “He stole a crate of lemons from Humbert’s and bribed his way on board with it.”

  George chokes back a laugh. “Lemons?”

  Schuyler shrugs. “Scurvy.”

  I keep the sword on Schuyler’s throat, my eyes on his face. “Fifer, why did you call him here?” I think a moment. “And how? Revenants have to be close to hear someone’s thoughts. If he was in Stepney Green last night, he couldn’t possibly have heard you all the way from here.”

  John makes a face and spins around, as if he can’t bear to hear what’s coming next.

  “He—well, he didn’t hear my thoughts as much as he, uh, felt them,” Fifer finally manages. Her face turns as red as her hair. “We have a connection.”

  “A connection?” At once, I remember the way they looked at each other inside the knight’s tomb. The way she almost kissed him, the way he looked as though he’d eat her alive. My face goes as red as hers. “Oh.”

  Schuyler shakes his head and tsks. “How you belittle our love.”

  “Shut up or I’ll let her run you through with that sword,” Fifer growls. Then she turns to me. “I called him here because I think he can help you get the tablet.”

  “I already told you—”

  “I know what you told me,” Fifer says. “But there’s something we need to tell you.”

  “So tell me,” I say.

  George steps forward. “Might I suggest we do this somewhere else? Perhaps somewhere where we don’t have half the ship watching?”

  I turn around and see at least two dozen sailors clustered around us, clutching handfuls of coins.

  “Don’t stop,” one of them says through a mouthful of broken black teeth. “I’ve got ten crowns that says the revenant rips your arm off.”

  “Double that says she takes his head.”

  “A sovereign says the revenant rips her arm off first, then she takes his head.”

  They start cheering and throwing more coins around.

  “Come on,” John says. “I had to give the captain nearly everything I’ve got just to let us on board. If we keep this up, he’ll throw us right back off.” He looks around. “Let’s go to the back. You”—he points at Schuyler—“if there’s even a hint of trouble out of you, I’ll throw you off this ship myself. Got it?”

  “Always so pleasant, John,” Schuyler mutters. “No wonder she likes you so much.”

  A flicker of surprise passes over John’s face. Then he scowls. “Go.”

  I pull the sword away from Schuyler’s neck and the five of us thread through the men, who boo and catcall after us, around crates and cannons until we reach the back. One by one we climb the narrow wooden stairs to the upper deck. It’s quiet back here, nothing but piles of rope, more cannons, and barrels of gunpowder.

  I look around at all of them. “What is going on?”

  Fifer sits down on a coil of rope. “It’s about your test.”

  “What about it?”

  “That night after you told us about it, and after you went to sleep, Humbert, John, George, and I talked about it. How it works, the magic of it.”

  “And?”

  “Well
, from what you’ve told me, the test sounds like a combination of spells. Rather, a spell within a spell. The first was concealment, obviously: hiding the tablet behind a simple wooden door. Then there was the illusion.”

  “It wasn’t an illusion,” I say. “It was real.”

  “It was an illusion,” she says. “But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t real. You saw it, felt it, reacted to it. That’s what made it real. Your fear is what made it real.”

  “Then there’s no difference.”

  Fifer shakes her head. “Yes, there is. There’s a big difference. Because when you’re inside an illusion, you can—if you’re very skilled or very lucky—make yourself believe it isn’t real. By doing so, you eliminate the fear, which eliminates the illusion. Wasn’t that the point of the test? To eliminate your fear?”

  “Yes.”

  Fifer nods. “That’s what happened when you sang. You calmed yourself down long enough to see it wasn’t real. That’s why you saw the tablet instead of the door. You saw through the illusion. You’re going to need to do that again.”

  “Okay,” I say. “So I do the exact same thing I did before, only now I do it knowing how the spell works.”

  I look around at the others. George is sitting now, knees tucked under his chin. John is staring out at the water, arms folded, jaw clenched. Schuyler looks from Fifer to me, his eyes going wide.

  “Is there something I’m missing?”

  Fifer takes a breath. “Do you know if the other witch hunters had the same test as you?”

  “I—no. Everyone had something different.”

  None of us talked about our tests, but it wasn’t hard to figure out what they were. The things people screamed in their sleep, the things they avoided when they were awake. Caleb never told me about his, but I guessed it had to do with drowning. It was a solid month before I could get him to bathe, and even now he cringes when it rains.

  “That means the test is a spell that responds specifically to a person’s fear. That’s really advanced magic, you know. Blackwell must be extremely powerful—” She breaks off with a grimace. “What was yours? Your fear, I mean?”

  “I already told you.”

  “I know, but… are you really afraid of being buried alive?”