by Matt Ralphs
To Mum and Dad,
for everything
CONTENTS
Prologue
1 Witch’s Glade
2 A Demon at the Door
3 Bramley Mouse
4 The Border Hedge
5 Beyond the Hedge
6 Wychwood
7 The Woodsman
8 A Town in Torment
9 Mr David Drake, Witch Finder’s Apprentice
10 The Bear and the Slop-Sprite
11 The Wagon
12 Demonology
13 Silk and Poison
14 Lilith and Spindle
15 Nicolas Murrell
16 The Witch Finder
17 Back in the Forest
18 The Cabin in the Woods
19 The Poppet
20 Mortal Remains
21 A Glint of Silver
22 Blind Mary Applegate
23 Secrets and Lies
24 The Syphon
25 The River Winding
26 Rivenpike
27 A Sticky End
28 The Church and the Belfry
29 The Magic Circle
30 The Summoning
31 Demon Blight
32 A Poor Man’s Luck
33 Wraiths
34 The Castle
35 Don’t Look Down
36 Dark Descent
37 An Unexpected Reunion
38 Old Acquaintances
39 Fiery Death
40 Blind and Lost
41 Demon Food
42 The Voice of Baal
43 Flesh-Bound
44 Soul Sacrifice
45 Gathering Flowers
Epilogue
About the Author
Acknowledgements
FIRE WITCH
Pull the rope to ring the bell,
Chase the devil back down to hell.
Set the trap with loop and wire,
Drive the stake in the vengeful fire.
Catch her soul in a silver sieve,
And suffer not the witch to live.
Traditional English nursery rhyme
PROLOGUE
Wychwood Forest, England, 1656
Twelve years after the end of the Witch War
Mary Applegate awoke with a lump of fear lodged in her throat.
There’s someone in my room.
She lay still as a corpse, sensing for the presence – the thing – she felt sure was watching her, but all she heard was the whisper of trees and the distant screech of an owl. There was nothing to explain the sense of unease plucking at her nerves. Nothing except a faint coppery smell, like warm blood.
Her elbows cracked as she sat up in bed. ‘Foolish old woman,’ she muttered to herself. ‘It’s just a dream.’
Cold air prickled her skin. Grumbling to herself, she wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, struggled out of bed and limped down the stairs. Her old bones ached with every careful step.
The front door creaked on its hinges, letting in the smell of rain and wet leaves. Wondering whether she’d forgotten to lock up before going to bed, Mary pulled it closed and slid the bolt home.
The wood-and-plaster walls felt rough under her fingers as she hobbled around the kitchen to the fireplace. Flames crackled when she stirred the embers and threw on a few logs.
‘Oh, Gander,’ she sighed, holding her cold hands over the flames. ‘Were you but here, you silly old thing.’
Since the death of her goose-familiar, Mary’s dark world had become darker still. She missed Gander’s voice and company so much. Sometimes she fancied that she heard his webbed feet slapping on the floorboards behind her, but it was only ever an echo from her fading memory.
Shaking her head, she hung a saucepan of spiced mead over the hearth and settled down to wait for it to warm up. Its sweet smell soon filled the kitchen, lulling her into a restless sleep.
A furious hammering at the door woke Mary. She jerked her head towards the noise, her heart fluttering like a trapped moth. No one visited her any more, especially not at this time of night.
‘Who’s there?’ she called, creeping towards the door. ‘What do you want?’
There was no reply.
Taking a deep breath, she drew back the bolt and opened a crack in the door. The air was brittle with frost; birds fidgeted in the trees, their wings rustling like parchment.
‘Cold as the grave tonight.’ A man’s voice, soft and deep as quicksand. ‘May I come in?’
He pushed open the door and strode past Mary without waiting for a reply.
‘Who are you?’ she cried, turning on the spot to follow his movements.
‘Just a traveller seeking shelter from the cold. Did I startle you?’ He was close enough for Mary to feel his breath on her cheek.
‘It takes more than a late-night visitor to startle me,’ she muttered, masking her fear with a frown.
‘Is that so?’ The stranger sounded amused. A chair creaked as he sat down at the table. ‘My, what a lovely fire.’
Mary felt a stab of annoyance. Coming here uninvited, and in the middle of the night no less, she thought. The cheek!
‘Is that mead I smell?’ the man asked. ‘I’d appreciate a cup to warm me.’
It was customary in Wychwood to help those in need, no matter how inconvenient the time. Mary gritted her teeth. ‘Very well,’ she said.
‘I don’t suppose you get many visitors, living so deep in the forest.’
‘None at this hour, certainly.’ Mary carefully placed the saucepan on the table, gathered two cups from a shelf and sat down opposite the man. ‘So, are you lost?’
‘Lost?’ The man chuckled. ‘No. I know exactly where I’m going. Shall I pour?’ The aroma of mead drifted between them as he filled the cups.
The silence extended until Mary snapped, ‘So where are you going?’
‘Rivenpike.’
‘That dreadful place? You won’t find anything there except shadows and ghosts.’
‘Nevertheless, to Rivenpike I am bound.’ The man shifted in his chair. ‘Although I took a small detour to visit you . . . Mary Applegate.’
‘How do you know my name?’ she spluttered, nearly choking on her drink.
‘Oh, I know all about you. I know why you live out here alone. I know who blinded you all those years ago, and why they did it. I know exactly who and what you are.’
Fear tightened around Mary’s throat. ‘Are you . . . a Witch Hunter?’
‘On the contrary.’ The man chuckled again. ‘You really don’t recognize my voice? Well, it has been some years, I suppose.’
Mary searched her memories . . . his voice did sound familiar. ‘No,’ she breathed. ‘It can’t be. Nicolas?’
‘Yes, I am Nicolas Murrell, our former King’s Chief Minister of Magic and Witchcraft.’
‘But . . .’ Mary shook her head in confusion. ‘I thought you’d been captured and taken to the Tower?’
‘So I was, Mary, so I was. And there I remained in Lord Cromwell’s . . . care . . . for far longer than I’d like to remember. But I escaped, and now the hunt is on to find me again.’ A note of satisfaction entered his voice. ‘You are playing hostess to the most wanted man in England.’
Mary’s legs wobbled as she stood up. ‘I want you to l-leave,’ she stuttered. ‘Now.’
‘But I’ve only just got here. Please, sit down.’ He rapped his knuckles on the table. ‘Sit.’
Frightened, overwhelmed, Mary obeyed.
‘So tell me, Mary, why have you hidden yourself away in Wychwood?’
‘I fled after we lost the Witch War,’ she replied, fiddling nervously with the silver bracelet around her wrist. ‘The forest is the only place I’m safe now.’
‘Not for much longer. The Witch Hunters are widening their nets. Cromwell wan
ts you disposed of, once and for all. There are no safe places for witches, or those who sympathize with them, any more.’
Mary picked up her cup with trembling fingers. ‘I’ve heard that the Coven is fighting back in the North.’
‘They are, but their campaign is faltering.’
‘I’ve prayed for their success,’ Mary said.
‘Yet you’ve stopped short of joining their ranks?’
Mary shrank from the contempt in his voice. ‘I’d be no use to them. Besides, I’ve seen enough war to last a lifetime. I want no part of it.’
‘So what do you want?’ Murrell asked.
Mary seized her courage, leaned forward and said, ‘To be left alone.’
‘I’m afraid that’s just not possible.’ Murrell’s words oozed into her ears like syrup. ‘I want you to help me.’
‘What can a blind old hedge-witch do to help someone like you?’
Murrell laid his cold hand over hers. Mary flinched when she realized that his thumb was nothing more than a blunt stump.
‘I want information,’ he said, squeezing her fingers.
‘Why should I tell you anything?’ Mary whispered, wishing she could control the tremor in her voice.
‘Because I’m going to give you something in exchange.’
The chair scraped as Murrell stood up and strode around the table to stand behind her. Mary froze as he grabbed her head with both hands and pressed his fingertips against her eyelids. He muttered under his breath and a bright white pain stabbed into her skull.
‘Stop,’ Mary choked, trying to push his hands away. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I am giving you a gift,’ Murrell said, letting her go. ‘Open your eyes.’
Mary blinked. Colours swirled in front of her eyes as the blindness that had veiled her sight for decades began to lift. Shapes swam into focus: the stained dining table, the glowing hearth, and shelves lined with jars, pots and copper pans.
‘What have you done?’ Mary cried, wishing she had the courage to turn around and face him. ‘You’re not a Wielder – you shouldn’t be able to cast magic. What dark witchcraft is this?’
Murrell’s shadow loomed over her. ‘I think you know.’
‘Demonic magic?’ Mary gasped. ‘Oh no . . . You were always reckless, Nicolas, but to consort with demons . . .’
‘Needs must in these dark days.’
‘You cannot trust a demon – you know as well as I do that they’ll betray you in a heartbeat. Tell me, what did you give up in order to gain this magic?’
‘I am prepared to make any sacrifice to save our people,’ Murrell said. ‘Unlike you.’
Mary breathed deeply, fighting to slow her heartbeat. She looked at the winding blue veins and the shape of finger bones visible through her tissue-thin skin. ‘I look so old,’ she said.
‘Time has less mercy than I do,’ Murrell said, resting his hands on her shoulders. ‘And to prove it I’m going to give you a chance to atone.’
‘Atone for what?’
‘For abandoning your people and giving up the fight against the Witch Hunters,’ he replied. ‘Now, quid pro quo, Mary. I have only one question to ask you. If you answer truthfully, I will leave you alone. But if you lie—’
‘Spare me your threats,’ Mary said, sounding braver than she felt. ‘Just say it.’
Murrell bent down so his mouth nearly touched her ear. ‘Where is she?’
Mary squeezed her eyes shut, knowing who Murrell was asking about. Not that, she thought. I can’t tell you that.
Murrell leaned more heavily on her shoulders. ‘Well?’ he said.
Mary tried to sound nonplussed. ‘Where’s who?’
‘Now, Mary, you know better than to play me for a fool. I know you know who I’m looking for.’
‘I have no idea who or what you’re talking about,’ Mary spat. ‘You are not welcome here. Get out of my home.’
‘I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this,’ Murrell sighed. ‘But I think it’s time to introduce you to your second house guest. Rawhead, come out and greet our hostess.’
The door to the cupboard under the stairs creaked open, unleashing the same coppery scent of blood she had sensed in her bedroom.
‘Come here, Rawhead,’ Murrell said. ‘Come and sit at the table.’
A shadow moved inside the cupboard, and then a bone-coloured head, smooth and featureless except for two gaping nostrils, emerged into the flickering firelight of the kitchen. A skinless beast of flesh and sinew loped towards the table, its black-clawed feet and hands scratching the floorboards.
A demon, Mary thought. It was watching me while I slept. It’s been here all this time!
Murrell picked up his cup. ‘Delicious mead. Most refreshing.’
Mary pointed a shaking finger at the demon. ‘By the power of the moon goddess, I command thee to leave this place.’
The demon yawned, exposing even ranks of wicked teeth. Its serpentine tongue quivered across the table, tasting the air.
‘Your feeble magic won’t have any effect on Rawhead,’ Murrell said. ‘You should count yourself lucky, witch. Few people get the chance see such a powerful demon; fewer still survive to speak of it.’
Mary shrank back as the beast leaned towards her, hot breath jetting from its nostrils. ‘Summoning demons breaks the laws of magic,’ she said.
‘I’ve chosen to overlook them.’
‘You have no right. What if the binding spell fails? What if you were to die and this . . . abomination was allowed to roam free with no master to control it?’
‘We are at war, Mary. We need weapons with which to fight. Now – to business. Where . . . is . . . she?’
Mary steeled herself. ‘I don’t know who you’re talking about.’
‘Liar.’
Mary stared at the table, lips pursed together.
‘Rawhead’s hungry,’ Murrell said. ‘Perhaps he’ll start with your feet?’
The old witch closed her eyes as the demon champed its drooling jaws.
‘I’ll give you one last chance, Mary Applegate,’ Murrell continued. ‘Where can I find Hecate Hooper?’
1
WITCH’S GLADE
Witches are wise, cunning folk, clever with herbs
and healing. The most skilled – known as Wielders –
harness magic to cast spells and charms.
Notes on Witchcraft and Demonology by Dr Neil Fallon
The Glade, Wychwood Forest, three days later. . .
Hazel Hooper strolled along the orchard path, whistling quietly and enjoying the sun on her back. Beams of light slanted through the trees, turning the floating cherry blossom into flakes of gold. It was a perfect summer’s day in the Glade, the only home she had ever known.
She plucked an apple from her basket and took a huge bite, letting the juice dribble down her chin. Just right for a pie, she thought.
She froze, mid-munch, as something large and orange burst out on to the path in front of her. It was Ginger Tom, her mother’s bad-tempered cat-familiar, with whom Hazel was in a perpetual state of war. Something small and furry dangled in his jaws.
‘Tom!’ Hazel shouted. ‘What have you got there? Oh, you horrible creature – it’s a poor little dormouse.’
Bursting with rage, she hurled her apple as hard as she could. It flew over Tom’s head and exploded against a nearby tree, showering him with sticky pulp.
‘Pick on something your own size,’ she said as he dropped the mouse and disappeared yowling into the undergrowth.
Dropping her basket, Hazel picked up the limp dormouse as gently as she could and enfolded his shaking body in her hands. She closed her eyes, searching for a spark of magic and muttered a healing spell painstakingly memorized from her mother’s books.
‘Magia-mus-sanaret,’ she whispered. As usual, nothing happened.
‘Hold on, little mouse,’ she said, pushing her disappointment aside. ‘Ma will set you right.’ She scampered out of the orchard into a well-tende
d vegetable garden. At the end of the path was a cottage with a sagging thatch roof and flowers rambling around the door. Hazel dashed breathlessly into the kitchen. ‘Ma, look what I—’
A foul smell stopped her dead. Barely visible through a veil of greasy steam stood Hazel’s mother, Hecate. She was staring into a simmering cauldron with one hand on her hip and the other stroking her chin.
‘What is that smell?’ Hazel gasped, fighting the urge to choke. ‘More Boggart repellent?’
‘Mmm, it needs something to liven it up, doesn’t it,’ Hecate murmured. ‘Be a love and pass me some briar-wort, would you?’
‘In a minute, Ma. First, look at what Tom did.’ Hazel held out the dormouse. ‘All your good-for-nothing familiar likes to do is torment animals smaller than him. He’s such a bully.’
‘He may be my familiar, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t still have his animal instincts,’ Hecate said. She frowned at the mouse. ‘His leg’s broken and he’s had a shock, but I think I can help him.’
Hazel watched transfixed as her mother muttered an incantation – ‘Magia-mus-sanaret’ – touched her lips to the mouse’s nose and exhaled a silver mist. A few moments later, the dormouse opened his eyes and sat up, brushing his whiskers with a newly healed front paw.
‘I tried that spell, but it didn’t work,’ Hazel said, carefully setting the mouse on the table-top.
‘I’m sure you did your best,’ Hecate said, putting a lid on the bubbling cauldron. ‘Perhaps we should open the windows . . .’
‘But shouldn’t my magic have appeared by now? I’m old enough, aren’t I?’
‘Well, yes. But . . . we’ve talked about this, Hazel. The chances of you becoming a Wielder are very slim. We’re a rare breed.’
‘But I want to be like you,’ Hazel said. ‘To have my own familiar, and heal things and . . .’
‘I know you do.’ Hecate sighed. ‘But believe me, it’s much safer if you remain an ordinary, un-magical girl.’ She patted down Hazel’s tangled red hair. ‘You could run a comb through this every so often. And I see you’ve been climbing trees in your best dress again. Look, the stitching’s coming undone.’
I wish you wouldn’t treat me as if I was a little girl, Hazel thought, her temper flaring.
