The silver blade sings against the stone, the sound echoing through the tomb like a scream. I can feel the power of it crawling through my limbs, filling my heart, my head, so strong I’m drunk with it. I swing again, and again, and again, the impact of silver on stone sending sparks that ignite the darkness.
“Elizabeth!” Schuyler’s voice cuts through the clatter. “Can you hear me?”
“Schuyler!” I call back. “I’m here! The door—it’s the tablet now. Help me break it, okay?”
There’s a pause, then an enormous, resounding thud that shakes the tomb, showering me with dirt. There’s another thud, then another.
I swing the Azoth, over and over, until a narrow crack appears in the center of the tablet. It’s beginning to break. I keep swinging; Schuyler keeps kicking. The split grows longer, wider, until a bright green light issues from its center, snaking through the opening in tendrils: down the tablet, up the walls, across the ceiling, squirming and undulating as though it were alive. I step back, away from whatever magic the light possesses, but it’s no use: The trickle of light grows until it’s nearly blinding. Then with a rush of wind and a shattering noise—like ice breaking across a frozen pond—the tablet crumbles.
I leap out of the way, but I’m not fast enough. Pieces of the broken tablet fall on top of me, and the weight of them throws me on my back, knocking the breath from my lungs and the Azoth from my hand and burying me in a heap of rubble and stone. I wriggle under the debris, shifting the stones off my stomach and limbs.
“Schuyler.” I cough, my voice raspy from the dust. There’s no answer. “Are you there?” I wait for him to reply. But there’s nothing. Just the sound of my own ragged breathing and a soft, steady rushing noise. It sounds almost like… almost like rain.
I feel a sudden chill. It wasn’t raining when I went into the tomb. And there was no sign of it, either; the sky was crisp and black and full of stars. What does that mean? It could be that I’ve been in here longer than I thought. It is Anglia, after all, and the weather changes fast. But it could mean something else, too.
I’m still in the illusion.
I get to my feet. Retrieve the Azoth from beneath the dust. Step carefully over the debris, make my way up the stairs and through the trapdoor until I’m outside again. It’s pouring. Icy rain is coming down in sheets. There are puddles everywhere. It’s been raining for a while. And Schuyler—whose voice I heard just seconds ago—is nowhere to be seen.
I feel a rush of disappointment, then terror. Because if I’m still in the tomb, still inside the illusion, it means I didn’t really destroy the tablet. Worse than that, it means whatever my biggest fear is, it’s still to come. And if my biggest fear isn’t dying alone, or watching John and everyone else die in front of me, then what is it? What could be worse than that?
It also means I was tricked into using the Azoth when I didn’t need to. I can feel the power of it still thrumming through me, whispering to me. Wanting me to use it. To take the power it offers me: to destroy, to break, to kill.
I thrust it back into the scabbard, exchanging it for a pair of serrated knives. Then I step into the rain.
I’m still at Blackwell’s, I can tell that much. I can see the flag-topped spires on the towers, the looming stone walls. A jagged flash of lightning brightens the sky. Thunder rumbles in the distance. I take a few tentative steps, my feet sinking softly into the mud. I scan the grounds carefully: the hedge maze in front of me, the trees that surround me. Something is out here, waiting. I know it; I can feel it.
Finally, I see it: a pair of yellow lamp-like eyes staring through the trees ahead. Then with a rustle of leaves and the snap of a branch, it comes for me.
The creature lumbers into the clearing, a huge, ratlike thing, the size of a horse but with six legs instead of four and a long, barb-tipped tail, filled with poison. Another of Blackwell’s creations. I’ve seen it before, in training. It’s slow and clumsy, but what it lacks in speed it makes up for in numbers. It travels in packs, as rats do. Which means there are more of them.
I send both knives flying, aiming directly for the eyes. That’s the only way to kill it, to put out both of its eyes. I manage to hit one but miss the other, and the rat stumbles onto its side and lets out an ear-splitting shriek. It’s calling the others. I pull out another knife and run toward it, leap over the whipping tail, and plunge it into the other eye. The rat shudders and dies, but I feel the ground trembling and know more are coming. I whip around to see three of them heading right for me.
I’ve got four knives left. I hurl them at the rats. And even though it’s dark and still pouring, I manage to hit each one in the eye. Not enough to kill, but enough to slow them down. I snatch the ax from my belt and rush to them as they lie flailing and shrieking on the ground. I get hit several times with their barbed tails, and although the wounds heal instantly, I feel the effect of the poison anyway. It makes me see double. And through the dark and the rain, I can’t tell one rat from another. I follow their shrieks and keep hacking away at them and getting hit with their tails over and over until, finally, they go still.
I collapse on the ground, letting the rain wash over me, shaking and dizzy from the poison. I consider for a moment that the poison may not be real, that it may be part of the illusion. I suppose it doesn’t matter. Because, like any illusion, it’s real enough. And either way, I need to move. If there are more creatures around, they’ll come for the dead rats. Blackwell could never figure out how to feed these things he created, so he simply allowed them to feed on whatever it was we killed. I asked Caleb once what happened to the bodies of the witch hunters who were killed in training, but he said it was better not to know.
Through the rain, I spot the outline of the hedge maze. I don’t want to go there. I’ve been through it once and almost didn’t make it out. But I also know that if I go inside, whatever else is out here won’t follow me. They’re scared of what’s in there, too.
I roll onto my hands and knees and start crawling along the edge of the forest near the trees, where I won’t be so easily spotted. Finally, the tree line ends at a stretch of open ground that leads to the maze on the other side. I huddle there a moment, shivering and soaking wet, my head still swimming. I need to stand. I need to run. I need to make it into that maze before anything else finds me. But I’m so tired. I lie back in the mud and go still, just for a moment, my breath coming in deep, heavy gasps. Close my eyes against the freezing rain that splashes around me.
“Elizabeth.”
When I hear his voice, deep and quiet, I think that’s the poison, too. That it’s worked its way into my head and is making me hear things that aren’t there. But when he says my name again, I sit up so abruptly my head spins. And I see him, standing in the clearing next to the hedge maze.
John.
I get to my feet, stumbling a little.
“You’re hurt,” he says, a frown crossing his face. He sounds so real.
He’s not real.
Is he?
I make my way toward him. As I grow closer, he flinches at the sight of me: tattered trousers, torn shirt, covered in mud and blood and God knows what else. My hair unpinned and falling in tangled knots around my shoulders.
He’s dressed as he was at the masque: white shirt, black pants, black jacket trimmed in red. Tousled hair, hazel eyes that look at me so intently. He looks so real.
He’s not real.
Is he?
“It isn’t really you,” I say. It comes out a whisper. “I know that.”
John—the illusion of John—glances over his shoulder, a brief shadow crossing his face.
“It is,” he says, turning back to me. “It is me. Why would you think it isn’t?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. Maybe because it’s raining. I’m soaking wet and you’re completely dry.”
“It was raining, but it stopped.” I look up. Illusion John is right. It has stopped raining. “And I’m not wet because I just got here.”
I brush
this off and continue. “Fine, then. I know you aren’t you because you left. Schuyler told me. You’re on a boat with Peter and everyone else, and you’re going home. You left.” I swallow back the lump in my throat.
“I never left.” His voice is as quiet as mine. “You left me, remember? You ran away and I didn’t want you to go. So I came to find you.” He glances behind him again.
Something seems to bother him, this illusion John. He keeps looking over his shoulder as though there’s something there. Something lurking in the shadows, waiting to attack him. I ignore it. It’s not real.
Is it?
“Why would you leave the others to come after me?” My voice rises, angry because I want it to be true, angry because I know it’s not. “Why would you do that?”
He steps toward me. “Don’t you know?”
I shake my head.
He looks at me. Dark eyes, moonlight. “Because I’m in love with you.”
I close my eyes, the fight draining out of me. I’m so tired. Tired of this illusion, tired of the truth, tired of the lies. Blackwell is a wizard. Because I’m in love with you. I don’t want any more. I want to wake up.
I open my eyes. Snatch the last remaining knife from my belt and drive it, hard, into my leg. “Wake up!” I scream, not at John, or his illusion, but at myself.
He’s in my face before I can finish pulling it out. Yanks the knife from my hand, flings it to the ground. Then he’s got both of my hands in both of his, pinning them behind my back. He leans in close. I can feel his breath on my cheek.
“Stop.”
I struggle in his arms. Try to get away before this illusion changes and he disappears or dies or turns into anything but what he is, dark eyes and soft curls and warmth and safety.
But when he pulls me back to him, I let him. And when he dips his head and brushes his lips against mine, I let him do that, too. They’re warm and soft, as I remember. Slowly, he moves his lips from my mouth across my cheek, then to my ear, lingering there. I can feel him and hear him and smell him, and it’s all so real. For a moment I close my eyes and give in to it, in to the shivers and the thrill he gives me, until I hear his hoarse, ragged whisper.
“Run.”
I yank away from him with a gasp; and when I do, I see Blackwell standing beside John, slowly pulling a knife out of his side.
“THAT WAS A VERY TOUCHING SCENE,” Blackwell says. He wipes a handkerchief across the blade and slides it back into his belt. John lets out a muffled groan and staggers backward, pressing his hand to his waist. Blood pours between his fingers.
“No,” I whisper. “This isn’t real.”
“Oh, it’s quite real, I assure you.” Blackwell steps toward me. I look at him, hoping to see something that will show me he’s just part of the illusion. But he looks the same. He’s wearing the same clothes I saw him in at the masque: dark trousers, red brocade jacket embroidered in gold. His chain of office is gone, but then that belongs to Caleb now.
“You did destroy the tablet,” he continues. “And you dispatched my hybrids quite handily, too.” He gives a low chuckle, like an indulgent father. Only I know better. A chill races down my spine. “I taught you well. You really were one of my best witch hunters.”
I shake my head. This isn’t real—it isn’t. I turn away from him then. Look around, search for something—anything—to show me what’s really happening. Where I really am. I see the broken tomb, the dead rats. The rain is gone, the sky is clear, my clothes are wet, and here I am.
At Blackwell’s. Right where I started.
It’s all real.
“John!” I lunge for him just as Blackwell lunges for me. Quick as a snake, he snatches the Azoth from my scabbard. I reach out a hand to stop him, but it’s too late. He holds it up, the emeralds in the hilt glinting menacingly in the moonlight.
I start for John again, but Blackwell stops me, thrusting the blade against my chest.
“You can’t help him,” he says. “He’s got thirty minutes at most. He’ll know it, too. He’s a healer, isn’t he?” John is on his knees now, still clutching his side.
“Why?” I shriek. It’s all I can think to ask.
Blackwell shrugs, indifferent. “Why did I stab him? I assume you need a better reason than his trespassing on my property? Or do you mean why did I try to kill Nicholas Perevil? I assume you need a better reason than his being a Reformist, a traitor, and a threat to my kingdom?”
“Your kingdom?”
“Yes. My kingdom. My fool nephew may be king of this country, but I am the one who rules it. I work while he plays. Gather armies while he hunts, deploy them while he dances. I set policies and enact laws and plan rebellions while he drinks and gambles and wastes his time with women.” He gives me a terrible, hard look. “You of all people should know this.”
It takes a moment to find my voice.
“You knew,” I finally manage. “You knew and you didn’t stop him.”
Blackwell gives my arm a rough shake. “Of course I knew. Malcolm was married at sixteen to a woman twice his age. He was bound to fall in love but never with her. When he took a liking to you, I used it to my advantage. I encouraged him. Told him you liked him back.” He shrugs, dismissive. “I knew where it would lead.”
Behind him, John makes a noise halfway between a growl and a groan.
“You were meant to do your duty—to do what I trained you to do—and kill him,” Blackwell continues. “I needed him gone, and you were meant to do it. Caleb all but told you to do it.” His voice rises. “How many times did he have to point out the ways Malcolm was losing control of the country? How many times did he have to tell you we’d be better off without him?”
“And I was supposed to take that as instruction to kill the king?” I say, incredulous. “That’s insane. You’re insane.”
“Manners” is all he says in reply.
“You can’t kill Malcolm,” I say. “You can’t.”
Blackwell shrugs. “It’s done. At midnight tonight, it’s done. The mask will finally be lifted and I will unveil myself as the new ruler of Anglia.” He smiles. “It’s a bit theatrical, I know. But I really couldn’t resist.”
“It will never work,” I say. “The whole country is in revolt against you—”
He laughs, a deep, rumbling laugh that stuns me to hear it. I’ve never heard him laugh before.
“The country is in revolt against Malcolm. I was simply carrying out his orders. He is king, as you pointed out.”
“But you created the laws!” I say. “You were Inquisitor. They were your rules—”
“I created the laws Malcolm commanded I create.” He spreads his arms. “I was a victim of his treachery as much as anyone. Perhaps more, as I was commanded to put hundreds of witches and wizards—my own kind—to death.” He shakes his head in mock sorrow. “But tonight all of that will end. I will take the throne, and I will do it with an army so powerful no one will dare stop me.”
“Army,” I breathe. “What army?”
“The army you built for me, of course.”
I let out a gasp. Then I realize. I realize what he’s been doing all along, what he’s done.
“I trained you to hunt witches and wizards,” he continues. “Hunt them and bring them to me. Didn’t you wonder why I never wanted you to kill them?”
“But you did,” I say. “You burned a dozen a week. I was there. I saw it.”
“I had to burn some of them,” Blackwell says. “Malcolm would have been suspicious had I not. But surely you noticed the only ones on the pyre were healers and kitchen witches? I had to sacrifice someone, and I had no use for them. They’re about as useful as he is.” He waves his hand dismissively at John. “But the necromancers, the demonologists? The wizards practicing black magic? I had use for them, certainly. I do have use for them.”
“You can’t do it,” I say.
“I can, and I will. There is no one to stop me now. And with this”—he holds up the Azoth—“I will be invinc
ible.”
“Nicholas,” I blurt. “He’s going to live. He can stop you.…”
“Oh, I think not.”
That’s when I hear it. A girl’s choked sob, a boy’s muffled groan. It makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
Caleb comes into view then, followed by Marcus and Linus, and I see where the noise is coming from. It’s Fifer and George, both of them bound and beaten. Linus leads Fifer by the hair, and it’s clear she’s fighting to stay conscious. George’s eye and mouth are bruised, and there’s blood running down his cheek.
I let out a gasp.
“Did you really think you could get away with it? Did you really think you could simply walk away?” Blackwell advances on me. Grabs my shoulders and looks down on me; his black eyes boring into mine. “Did you really think you could stop me?”
I look at Caleb and he looks back, his face impassive. “I warned you,” he says to me. “I told you what would happen if you didn’t come back with me. I told you I wouldn’t be able to protect you.”
There’s a terrible silence as we stare at each other; I can feel everyone’s eyes on us. I search his face for something—a hint of sympathy, a shade of compassion—anything that shows that my friend is still there. But I see nothing. And I know—with painful certainty, I know—I’m on my own. That in this, his final test, when faced with the choice between family and ambition, Caleb chose ambition.
I turn back to Blackwell.
“What are you going to do?” I whisper.
Blackwell releases me then, so abruptly I stumble. “Bring me the girl.”
Linus steps forward with Fifer, pushing her roughly in front of him. I can hear John’s weak protests and George’s muffled shouts, but they barely register. I can’t take my eyes off her. Her dress is torn along the top; it keeps slipping over her shoulders. Her shoes are missing, and she’s trembling so hard her teeth are chattering.
I turn to Linus. “What did you do to her?”
“Nothing.” Linus gives a terrible smile and runs a finger down the back of her neck. Fifer and I both shudder. “Yet.”
The Witch Hunter Page 27