Burn Mark

by Laura Powell

  Firstly, Edie was Type E, not Type A. Type E was the highest known ranking – the same as Lucas’s. By her own admission, she had turned witchkind at the age of thirteen, though it was not until the age of twenty-seven, when her daughter Glory was three years old, that Edie was formally tested and registered. This was the same year that she disappeared. Yet there was no mention of a feud with the Morgans or a coven hit. And now Lucas understood why Edie Starling was unbridled, and had a fake profile in the Cooper Street file – she too was an undercover agent. Not for WICA, though. She was working directly for the Witchcrime Directorate.

  Current Status: Operation Swan. Missing in Action. The last sighting of her had been five years ago.

  Lucas stared disbelievingly at the screen. It was impossible, but true. Glory’s mother was – just maybe – alive. The photograph of her didn’t much resemble her daughter. She looked to be a natural blonde, with thin, fine features and startled eyes. He scrolled down to the names of the officers supervising her case, and his heart almost stopped. One of the four was Ashton Stearne.

  There was no time to absorb the impact of this discovery. Something at the corner of his eye tugged his attention away. The monitor at the door, which was currently trained on the entrance gate, showed a blonde struggling with a suitcase. Marisa and Ashton had returned.

  Lucas didn’t think he’d ever moved so fast in his life. He shut down the computer, brushed off the dusty keyboard with his sleeve, and grabbed the printout of Angeline’s profile, all in less than twenty seconds. Then he sprang out of the room and locked the door behind him. A few moments later, the key was back in its hiding place and the printout stuffed behind a sideboard. Meanwhile, Kip was barking. ‘Oh shut up, you stupid mutt,’ said a familiar petulant voice. Not Marisa, but Philomena. Lucas waited until the banging in his ribs had calmed, counted to ten, and walked into the hall.

  ‘Hi, Philly.’

  She gave a theatrical start. ‘Lucas! What are you doing here?’

  ‘A flying visit. I just had to collect some . . . stuff.’ He picked up the rucksack with the inquisitor’s cloak and keys.

  Philomena edged around him, hugging the walls as if he was suddenly going to blast her with a thunderbolt.

  ‘When are you coming back?’

  Good question. ‘Soon, probably.’

  ‘Well, it’s been absolutely horrid here. Your dad’s in a permanent grump and Mummy’s not much better. There’s no one to talk to about what I’m going through.’

  ‘I’m sorry if you’ve been suffering.’ He couldn’t keep the sarcasm from his voice.

  ‘God. Why doesn’t anyone take me seriously? It’s still all about you. How you must be feeling. What you’re going to do. Same old, same old.’

  Lucas moved to the door. ‘When you see my dad, will you tell him I’m fine? And . . . and I’ll talk to him later.’

  ‘I’m not a bloody answering machine.’

  ‘Just do it, Phil.’

  She stared at him. ‘You cause all this trouble,’ she said, ‘and yet you still think you’re so hexing special.’

  CHAPTER 28

  Mindful of Troy’s instructions about blending into the background, Glory kept her make-up to a boring minimum. Mascara, eyeliner, clear lipgloss, a touch of blusher. Sighing, she pulled on the shoulder-length brown wig. Just because it was close to her real hair colour didn’t mean it suited her. At least she was coming round to the dress. The deep purple was nice, and the material clung in all the right places. She was rather disappointed when Troy’s only comment was ‘Good’.

  Troy wore his tuxedo in the same effortlessly casual way he wore his suits. He accessorised it with a gun holster under the jacket. She watched him adjust the shoulder straps and wondered what he’d used it for before.

  ‘You think we’ll need a gun?’

  ‘I think it’s best to be prepared. Witchwork can only get you so far.’

  They spent the drive out of London with the radio on, each lost in their own thoughts. However, they paid more attention when it came to the news. The police had made a statement that no witchwork was suspected in Charlie’s car-bomb. All bar two of the Roma migrants who’d escaped from their detention centre had been found. Another top footballer had been caught in a sex and drugs scandal. Another witness had withdrawn from the Goodwin trial. But the focus was mostly on Helena Howell’s efforts to rush a raft of new witch-terror legislation through parliament. Her gratingly sweet voice sounded entirely reasonable as she outlined why Britain was ‘on the brink of a public emergency that threatened the life of the nation’. Troy switched the radio off with a snap.

  ‘Are you nervous about tonight?’ he asked Glory.

  ‘No,’ she lied.

  ‘You should be. We don’t know how Lady Merle will react to us or what might kick off. This isn’t nicking a flashy necklace out of a shop window. We’re meddling with matters of state.’

  ‘Yeah, well, that’s why me and Lucas asked you to help. You’re good at meddling.’

  They had reached the turning for Arden House. The mansion rose up at the end of a tree-lined drive: three storeys of worn rosy brick, the entrance sheltered by a portico on two round columns. Glory almost laughed. It was very similar to Charlie Morgan’s house on Cardinal Avenue. Just bigger, older, grander. The real thing.

  Their first setback was the discovery that the event wasn’t actually taking place in the house. Instead, a pavilion marquee had been erected on the front lawn. Both the entrance to the marquee and the house were supervised by men who looked less burly than the bouncers Glory was used to, but nonetheless had a forbidding air about them. Taking a look around the place was going to be even harder than anticipated.

  ‘Them tickets cost three hundred a pop. And they’re fobbing us off in a tarted-up tent!’ she grumbled as she got out of the car. ‘I thought this was meant to be a ball, not a night at the circus. Hey – what are you doing?’

  Troy had taken the keys to his hired car and casually scratched a long line in the paint along the passenger side. He grinned. ‘You never know when we might need to cause a diversion.’ Then he keyed his neighbour’s Porsche too.

  A group of polished young women were waiting to check tickets and direct guests to the cloakroom facility. Their desk was adorned with tasteful black-and-white photographs of the hospice kiddies who would benefit from the money raised. ‘Oh dear, Mr Morgan,’ said their ticket girl. ‘Your and Miss Brantly’s names don’t appear on my list.’

  ‘But we have our invites,’ said Troy, presenting the fascinations.

  The girl typed into a laptop. ‘Well, yes; you’re certainly on the database. I’m so sorry. It must be some glitch in the system.’

  ‘No problem at all,’ Troy said smoothly.

  Glory had to admit the marquee was impressive inside. The ceiling was swathed in gold and purple awnings from which chandeliers twinkled, and there was a working fountain in the centre of the parquet floor. Floral arrangements of irises and yellow roses continued the colour scheme; the grandest display was a gilded tree from which jewel-coloured Easter eggs hung. Glory peered this way and that, hoping to catch sight of their hostess.

  ‘Stop goggling,’ Troy told her. ‘She’ll be here soon enough. No doubt there’ll be speeches and so on before things really get under way.’

  It wasn’t just their task that was making her twitchy. The whole set-up was unnerving. Glory thought Troy could have been less of a spoilsport about her outfit when she surveyed the other ladies, who were dripping in jewels as well as all sorts of unlikely furs and feathers. Everyone had the same way of talking as Lucas did. This was his world, she realised suddenly. People like this. Houses like this. Parties like this. She looked at one of the few guests near her own age, a brunette in a backless peach silk gown. Her face was peachy too, and she had a sweetly tinkling laugh that set Glory’s teeth on edge.

  Waiters glided through the throng, bearing champagne and platters of canapés that were flourishes of garnish, an
d not much else. Glory tried a tiny biscuit topped with a curl of pink mousse. She expected it to be sweet, but it tasted fishy and horrible and, when she thought no one was looking, she spat the remains into one of the flower arrangements.

  To wash away the taste, she helped herself to some champagne. Troy promptly confiscated the glass and presented her with an orange juice instead.

  ‘Dear me, that’s not the way forward,’ a balding, red-faced man remarked to him jovially. ‘There’s nothing like a spot of bubbly to soften the ladies up! Half a bottle, and she’ll be all yours.’

  Troy gave him the Morgan stare. ‘That is a disgusting insinuation.’

  Red-face got redder, and moved on. The next moment Lady Merle arrived, and took to the stage at the far end of the marquee, where the band was sitting.

  She was wearing a billowing violet gown the same colour as her eyes. Her curves were billowy too. The dark bridle looked more of a mutilation than ever against the pale skin. Lucas had described his first meeting with her to Glory, but she still found it hard to reconcile this person with the desperate yet focused woman in the Radley basement. Her voice was slurred and her face slack.

  As far as Glory could make out, the gist of Lady Merle’s speech was that they were wonderful, wonderful people for supporting this wonderful cause. There would be a charity auction later, full of wonderful, wonderful gifts. She hoped they all had a wonderful time.

  Lord Merle then said a few words about being delighted to be able to welcome people to his home. He did not look delighted. He looked bored and contemptuous. Glory thought he had the appearance of a fat speckled toad.

  ‘Did you know Serena was one of your dad’s sources?’ she asked Troy, under cover of the party’s social roar.

  ‘I knew of her, but not her identity – only her code name. The Pearly Queen.’

  ‘Why d’you think a babe like her got hitched to a pig like him?’

  ‘Money. Connections. Desperation. Whatever.’

  Glory watched Lord Merle fondle his wife’s waist with a pudgy hand, and shuddered. Not all the mansions in the world could make up for that.

  Troy had seen the shudder. ‘Marriage is a contract like any other. As long as both parties know what’s expected of them, and agree to stick to it, there’s no reason they can’t make it work.’

  ‘I bet that ain’t the kind of marriage you’d want for yourself,’ she said unthinkingly.

  ‘Well, that would depend. On you . . . as it happens.’ He turned and looked at her, eyebrow cocked. ‘How about it?’

  The world stood still. ‘Mab Almighty. Is this is a proposal?’

  Troy laughed. ‘I’m no cradle-snatcher. You’ve got a hell of a lot of growing-up to do first.’ He spoke with the effortless assurance of someone who had always looked and acted much older than his age. ‘Several years of it, in fact. C’mon, Glory – I can’t believe this is a total surprise. The idea must have crossed your mind before.’

  But to spring this on her now, at such a time and place! Torn between outrage and incredulity, all possible responses stuck in her throat.

  ‘But – but you’ve already got a girlfriend,’ she said at last, clutching at straws.

  ‘So? That’s hardly an issue now.’

  ‘It might be later.’

  ‘Not if we both set some ground rules. I’m not a hypocrite. I’ve seen what works in my parents’ marriage, and what doesn’t. We’re the next generation, we can do things our own way. I want an equal partner at home as well as at work.’

  ‘At work . . . in the coven?’

  ‘Obviously.’

  Anger flared. ‘And obviously we wouldn’t be having this conversation if I weren’t a witch.’

  ‘Ah, but you’ve always wanted to be a witch, haven’t you, Glory? A head-witch in a powerful coven. It’s in your nature and it’s in your blood. But talent can only get you so far. You need connections as well. I can give you all that.’ Troy smiled, an easy, rather charming smile that she hadn’t seen before. ‘Who knows? I think you’re a pain in the butt now. I’m sure the feeling’s mutual. But with time, we might even find ways to like each other.’

  The first time Glory had got wind of the Morgans’ marriage scheme, the idea had repulsed her in every possible way. But she was beginning to see that there was more to Troy than she’d realised. He had made her a fair offer.

  She tried to consider it practically. Even if Charlie survived his hospital stay, his recovery would be slow and difficult, and Kezia would have to devote herself to looking after him. Vince Morgan was a feral thug and Frank a prissy old pen-pusher. They’d let Troy run the Wednesday empire how he liked. And if – if – he was serious about wanting Glory to be her own person, and an equal power in the coven, then she could find other ways to make Charlie pay. Maybe the saying was true: ‘living well is the best revenge’.

  ‘There’s no hurry,’ Troy said softly. ‘This is a long-term plan. I’m just asking you to think about it. Because we both know it makes sense.’

  It did. Like any good business deal.

  Glory looked around at the elegant crowd. The air smelled of roses, the champagne sparkled, the fountain splashed. The band had just struck up a waltz. Most people would think it a dream setting for a proposal. The brunette in the peach dress whirled by, going to kiss her boyfriend. Her eyes were shining, their embrace carefree. Glory felt a tightness in her chest, something sharp and squeezing, that also pricked at the back of her eyes. I’m not living in a fae-tale, she thought. Those stories are never about girls like me.

  Troy touched her arm. ‘Look – Lady M’s on the move. Now’s our chance.’

  CHAPTER 29

  Lucas approached Outer Temple with an ache in his chest. For as long as he could remember, the historic headquarters of the British Inquisition had been as much a part of his future as his family’s past. The stately buildings loomed behind the iron wall, their aged stone warmed by the glow of Victorian street lamps. The windows of the surveillance block glittered high and bright. All through the night, inquisitors would be at work there, watching and listening to keep the nation safe. Or so Lucas had always believed.

  At the security check, the guard’s face split into a grin of welcome. ‘Stearne the Younger, as I live and breathe! It’s been a while since we’ve seen you round here – they’ve been working you too hard at that school of yours, I reckon.’

  Jeff Buller’s father, uncle and grandfather had also guarded the gates of the Inquisition, and he took a personal interest in all the staff there, from the lowliest assistant groundskeeper to the Witchfinder General himself. It wasn’t Jeff’s fault that he was about to let loose an unregistered Type E witch on the premises.

  ‘I’ve been ill,’ Lucas said. ‘So no school for me. Would you mind paging Rory Dixon? He’s supposed to be taking me to the Hammers.’

  Jeff checked the computer for Rory’s application for a visitor’s pass for Lucas Stearne, and compared it with the printed documents in his file. ‘Here you go, young sir,’ he said, passing Lucas a form to fill in. ‘Got your ID with you? That’s right. Look straight into the camera. And a thumbprint, if you don’t mind. Better safe than sorry, eh?’ He chuckled.

  The Home Office’s Identity and Passport Service was responsible for issuing national ID cards and collecting biometric data. Lucas’s was stored under the name of Harry Jukes for the duration of his cover. In recent months, however, the Home Office’s system had been plagued by technical glitches and security scares, and so the Inquisiton had decided to issue its own cards and collect its own data for staff and regular visitors to the Inner Temple compound. As a result, this was the only security check in the UK where Lucas’s thumbprint and iris-scan wouldn’t show up as Harry’s.

  ‘Now, you take it easy tonight,’ Jeff told him ‘Some of those Hammer shindigs can get a bit rowdy for my liking, though I know their hearts are in the right place. Raised over two grand in their last fundraiser, bless ’em.’ He patted the collection tin on his desk.
It bore the badge of the Inquisitorial Widows and Orphans fund.

  Lucas shoved in a couple of quid. ‘By the way, is Jonah Branning on duty?’

  When he’d spoken to Jonah, the warden had been at home. Still, he’d like to be sure.

  ‘Let me check the log . . . No, Officer Branning’s on leave today. Did you have a message for him?’

  ‘I’m actually trying to avoid him, to be honest.’ Lucas lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘Dad’s nagging me to set up some work experience in the Assimilation Bureau.’

  ‘Work? In the “Hug a Harpy” gang? Dear-oh-dear. I’m sure we can find you something a bit more exciting than that.’ This was from Rory, who was striding importantly towards the gates. His face was pale and baby-fattish, with a smile as oily as his hair.

  ‘Hello, Rory. Awfully good of you to let me tag along, especially at such short notice.’

  ‘No worries at all. We’ll make a night of it, eh?’

  While Rory finished off the paperwork, Lucas composed a text to Jonah. Here’s the info u need. Pls make sure Z sees it. G and I will find out more tonight. Spk later. Then he typed in the email account and password that Jonah needed to access the Radley recording. He pressed ‘send’, deleted the copy of the text in the sent messages folder, and switched his phone to silent.

  Job done, Lucas put on his cloak, and sent his rucksack through the X-ray machine. He had already added the keys to the catacombs to his set of house keys, which he dropped into the tray for pocket items, along with his wallet, mobile phone and watch. His possessions passed through the scanner without alarm, and so did Lucas. He walked into the heart of the Inquisition.

  The cloak was musty and heavy, and Lucas had to keep hitching it up so that it wouldn’t drag on the ground. But the hood was a comfort, hiding his face from view as they crossed Kindle Yard. Even if Jonah did turn up, he was very unlikely to spot him.