by Laura Powell
Gideon, meanwhile, sat on a chair nearby and fiddled with his phone. Maybe he was sending urgent communications to the other conspirators. Maybe he was posting the pictures of Lucas’s ducking on his Facebook page.
‘People will be looking for me,’ Lucas said eventually. His voice was scratchy and thin, and hard to steady. ‘My father, my warden, WICA . . . they won’t rest until they know what happened.’
‘That’s simple enough,’ Gideon drawled. ‘You were caught breaking into a High Inquisitor’s office, where you used witchwork to attack an inquisitorial employee. You tried to feed us some garbage about being a secret agent, yet there’s no record of you in any official file. Your detainment and interrogation is entirely legitimate. Really, Stearne, you’ve only yourself to blame.’
‘Keeping me down here won’t do any good. Someone on your team has already leaked the plot to the Wednesday Coven. WICA have the details; the Inquisition too.’
‘Funny. You’re so full of righteous certainty, you say you have all this support . . . and yet you decided to burgle the Inquisition by yourself. That seems pretty desperate to me.’
Gideon tilted back on his chair. ‘Besides, the covens aren’t in any position to cause trouble. Not after Charlie Morgan’s unfortunate accident. And, as we know, WICA’s credibility is about to be shot to pieces.’
‘Not all inquisitors are like you,’ Lucas said quietly. ‘They’ll know something’s up. They’ll start to ask questions.’
‘I’m sure they will. Such as “what strings did the Chief Prosecutor pull to keep his witch-spawn off the register?”, for example. You see, it’s starting to look as if the Stearne family have cut a lot of rather dangerous corners. Important security procedures have been breached. The fact that a handful of Inquisition officials have colluded in this only confirms how deep the corruption goes. Once Colonel Paterson and his team have swooped in to arrest Rawdon and save the day, I think a lot of people will be calling for regime change.’
Lucas was finding it increasingly difficult to keep up. He looked at Gideon tiredly. ‘How long, really, have you known I’m a witch?’
‘Ah . . .’ Gideon pulled a sorrowful face. ‘Let’s just say that your stepsister has been having a very difficult time. Poor Philly feels that no one ever listens to her.’
Philomena. Of course. Not that it had made any difference in the end. Gideon was right: he’d brought this on himself. Lucas closed his eyes, let the world fade.
He might even have dropped off for a moment or so. Sheer exhaustion had overwhelmed everything else. But he snapped back to wakefulness when he realised Striker was in the room.
‘Fine,’ Gideon was saying. ‘I’ll talk to her. Stay here, and keep an eye on our friend.’
Striker squatted down on his haunches and regarded Lucas. His lean, bony face had a hungry look. ‘Ssssssss,’ he whispered, and sucked his gold tooth. Lucas kept his eyes on the floor. He was trying to listen to Zilla and Gideon’s conversation on the other side of the door.
‘. . . Helena on the line . . . There’s a problem . . . blaze . . . Can’t . . . get hold . . . Nobody’s seen . . . I’m sure . . .’
But then they moved away, and he couldn’t hear anything more, except for Striker’s soft hiss.
After only five minutes or so, Gideon returned. He didn’t look quite so sleek, or so sure. Something was wrong. Lucas felt a flicker of hope. Then he saw what Gideon was holding.
‘Zilla and I have some business to attend to, so we’ll have to say goodbye for now. Striker here will look after you. I’m sorry about the bridle, I really am. But we can’t afford you trying any witch-tricks while we’re gone. As an inquisitor’s son, I’m sure you’ll understand.’
He passed the witch’s bridle to Striker. It was the same one he’d used to muzzle Nell Dawson.
Lucas lifted his head. ‘Aren’t you going to stay and watch? That’s what you really like to do, isn’t it, Gideon? Isn’t that why you took my photograph?’
If Gideon felt his contempt, he didn’t show it. He paused at the door, and smoothed down his hair disdainfully. ‘I like to see justice done. That’s what the public wants too. Once the Inquisition’s powers are restored, we’ll start to see more punishment, less witchcrime.’
Once Gideon left, the room felt even colder. It was not the witch’s bridle that Lucas was most afraid of. It was being alone with Striker.
The fire in the west wing of Lord Merle’s mansion had spread from the attic to the upper floors. As Glory followed the others out of the main entrance, she could see thick red flames gushing like blood from the side of the house. The mill of firefighters, medics and gawping onlookers reminded her of the aftermath of Charlie’s car-bomb. But with all the activity and excitement, their own exit passed relatively unnoticed. A black van was waiting for them outside the door with its engine running. Without further ado, Colonel Paterson was bundled into the back and she and Troy clambered into the passenger seats, next to Jonah. Agent Connor sat up with the driver.
Jonah was already on the phone to the Inquisition. ‘They say Lucas left about an hour ago,’ he told Glory. ‘He’d been drinking apparently – was in quite a state. An old school friend by the name of Gideon Hale was taking care of him. It sounds like a set-up to me.’
Glory looked at her watch. The meeting between Silas and Serena, the fire and their escape, the confrontation in Merle’s collection room . . . it had taken just over half an hour. And all this time, Lucas had been in the hands of the enemy.
‘How d’you get here so quick?’ she asked, as they sped out of the avenue and back to the city.
‘We have Matt to thank for that.’ Jonah indicated the driver. ‘He works for the police, in the armed response unit. We sort of . . . well, requisitioned his vehicle.’
‘Jonah is my sister’s witch warden,’ said Matt, a middle-aged man with a stocky build and quiet manner. ‘She’s bridled, and last year some yob threw a stone at her in the street. It missed Stacey, and hit her little girl instead. Blinded her in one eye. It was Officer Branning who brought the man to justice.’ He shrugged. ‘Breaking a few traffic regulations is the least I can do.’
Agent Connor turned round from the seat next to him. ‘Sorry. There hasn’t really been time for introductions, has there? I’m Zoey,’ she said. ‘We spoke on the phone.’
‘Yeah, we’ve met before.’ This, then, was the true face of the redhead who’d accompanied Lucas to the safe house. ‘Um, thanks for the rescue.’
‘Don’t thank us yet,’ she said crisply. ‘We’ve illegally abducted a High Inquisitor. Our troubles have hardly started.’
Glory had wanted to get straight to the Lucas issue, but this brought her up short. ‘I thought you got a warrant?’
‘Not yet. Jonah has informed the Chief Prosecutor of the situation. He’s on his way home from abroad, and is in contact with the Home Secretary and Police Commissioner, not to mention the Witchfinder General. But in the meantime, we’re operating outside the law.’ Zoey shook her head. ‘It’s damn lucky we found you when we did. We had no idea what we’d be dealing with . . . How’s your friend doing, by the way?’
Troy had his eyes closed. His red hair was rusted with blood from where the rim of the scrying-bowl had cut him.
‘I’m fine,’ he muttered. ‘Bit of a headache, that’s all.’
‘Looks like a nasty blow,’ Jonah said. ‘You should see a doctor.’
‘I said I’m fine.’ Troy’s mutter deepened to a growl. Glory could sympathise. A road trip with an inquisitor, a policeman and an WICA agent would give any Morgan the jitters.
Glory looked down at the box she’d carried out of Lord Merle’s collection. It had seemed so important at the time, but away from the witchwork display, the contents could have been any old junk. ‘We need to find Lucas,’ she said. ‘Now the prickers know we’re on to them they’re probably chucking out all the evidence. Even if we get warrants and suchlike, it’ll be too late.’
‘Paterson won�
�t cooperate,’ said Jonah. ‘He’s tough, he’s clever, and he knows his rights. Until he sees a warrant, we won’t get anything out of him.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ Troy said.
‘No.’ Jonah frowned. ‘I won’t sanction any physical coercion.’
Troy laughed weakly. ‘That must be an inquisitorial first. You’re in the wrong job, mate.’
Zoey shook her head. ‘Jonah’s right. No more violence. Too many lines have been crossed already.’
Glory still didn’t see why a witch would choose to work for the government, and against the covens. She almost felt like saying, ‘See? See where it’s got you?’ She wanted Agent Connor to spit and swear, to pound her fist in rage. Her cool professional front wasn’t something Glory could understand.
‘I can get Paterson to talk,’ she said abruptly.
‘And how will you do that?’ Jonah asked.
‘Feminine charm.’
Troy laughed again.
But Agent Connor had turned round from her seat, and was regarding her seriously. Perhaps she’d already guessed what Glory planned, and what it meant. In response to the question in her eyes, Glory gave a very slight nod. Face to face . . . witch to witch.
‘Let me try,’ she said. ‘I know how to get through to him. No aggro, just chat. I promise.’
Agent Connor looked at her again. Another silent understanding passed between them.
‘OK,’ Zoey said. ‘Five minutes.’
The van pulled up in a lay-by. Glory went round to the back. The inquisitor, hooded and gagged, was attached to one of the built-in benches by the cuffs on his wrist, and a second set around his ankles. Matt the policeman stood on guard outside as Glory got in and closed the doors behind her. Then she pulled off the prisoner’s hood and – with a satisfying rip – the tape.
He didn’t look afraid; she’d say that for him. Instead, he let out a sigh of weary scorn. ‘Is this where you bring out the knuckledusters?’
‘Oh, I’m just a coven slut, remember. I’m sure there ain’t nothing I can do to scare a big strong inquisitor like yourself.’
She leaned across and brushed the shoulder of his suit. ‘You’ve got dandruff,’ she told him. Then she sat back on her heels, and unwrapped the wad of tissue she’d brought with her. It contained a scoop of earth from the side of the road. A tiny grub wriggled in it, which she carefully removed and put aside on a scrap of paper.
Colonel Paterson was already pale, but he grew paler.
‘Do you know what I’m doing?’ she asked, casually rolling the ball of mud and dandruff back and forth in her hands. The grub squirmed on its paper nest.
He didn’t answer.
‘Ain’t you guessed yet? Ain’t you worked out what I am?’
He swallowed. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is exactly why I and my colleagues have been forced to take the action we have. If tonight’s events prove anything at all, it’s that witchkind are as irredeemably unstable and vicious as we’ve always feared.’
‘Well, seeing as you’re such an expert on us,’ said Glory, ‘I’m sure you know what I’m crafting.’ She spat on her palm and began to shape the mud into a little figure of a man. ‘I’m a strong witch, you see. One of the strongest. And I know how to hex a bane that lasts. You understand?’
He didn’t say anything. He was absolutely still, mesmerised by the lump of mud in her hands.
She made her voice gentle. ‘So I’m going to put a worm in your brain. No one but you will know it’s there. Only you will hear it, as it whispers and gnaws . . . only you will feel it slither through your skull . . . It’ll grow bloated in there, and rotten. Your brain’s going to rot too. And there is nothing, nothing in the whole world that can help you.’
She cocked her head at him and smiled. The trick was to make people believe you were capable of anything.
‘. . . Unless, of course, you can tell me what you’ve done with Lucas.’
CHAPTER 37
The bridle wasn’t as painful as Lucas expected. As the metal curb closed on his tongue, and the iron clenched his skull, he felt a rush of weakness. Pins and needles prickled all over. But after a while the iron’s effect was merely numbing. All his senses were deadened. His vision was dimmed, his hearing muffled. Even his thoughts slowed. He was cold, cold to the bone. It felt like he had been cold for ever. He didn’t notice it much now.
Time passed. He didn’t know how long. He was vaguely aware of Striker moving about but he wasn’t particularly worried. He drifted in and out of a disembodied limbo.
Something flickered into the haze. His bleary eyes took a while to identify the brightness. Not matches, this time, but a lighter. Striker was flicking it on and off, up and down. The spark of it danced in his eyes.
‘You’ve soaked up a lot of water, witch,’ he murmured. ‘Maybe it’s time to dry you out. Maybe it’s time to heat you up again . . . to shine some light . . .’
He began to hiss.
‘Ssssssssss . . .’
Glory was adamant they shouldn’t pass on the information she’d got from Paterson to the authorities. Lady Merle had said the police were implicated in his plot. The five of them had to get to Lucas before anyone else did. They couldn’t risk the enemy alerting his captors. However, Jonah insisted that Ashton Stearne be informed. He phoned as they entered the outskirts of London. It was a necessarily brief conversation; Ashton was on a call to the Witchfinder General at the time.
They parked in a side street a little way down the road from the address Paterson had given them. Since the place wasn’t an official Inquisition facility, they hoped the security measures would be minimal. In fact, Number 26a looked to all intents and purposes like a normal residential flat. The basement area beneath it was boarded up and the building as a whole had a neglected air. Glory wondered if Paterson had lied to them after all. This was not the setting for the high-tech evil inquisitorial lair of her imagination.
Zoey did the initial reconnaissance, and reported that there was a second entrance to the ground floor flat via the back of the building. It was agreed that Troy and Matt would cover the main door, in case any escape attempt was made, while the other three went in through the back. Paterson, meanwhile, would remain locked up in the van.
A builder’s skip eased their scramble over the wall. In spite of everything, Glory felt a shiver of excitement as she dropped down into the enclosed yard. The overlooking windows were dark and silent. Zoey had clearly had more experience than Troy at breaking down doors, for she despatched it in three swift kicks, driving the heel of her boot into the area just below the handle. Jonah stood behind her, covering her with the gun.
No inquisitors lay in wait. No alarms were activated or weapons deployed. They found themselves in an ordinary if dilapidated kitchen. Underwear dripped on a clothes rack, dishes soaked greasily in the sink. In the inner doorway a woman with a thin sallow face and tousled hair was standing in her dressing gown, hand on heart. A child squirmed at her side.
‘Please,’ the woman said in a thick Eastern European accent. ‘I have visa.’ Her voice trembled. ‘Papers, visa. Everything. The man say. He promise.’
Her little boy had a snotty nose and big brown eyes. The broken lock, the night awakening, the hard-faced strangers with guns . . . It was how Glory had imagined the Inquisition coming for her. But he stared back at them solemnly, unafraid.
‘We’re not from immigration,’ said Jonah, showing his badge. ‘We’re the Inquisition.’
The woman seemed, if anything, relieved. At any rate, she nodded vigorously. ‘Yes. British Inquisition. Yes, they who promise. They have our papers. They arrange all.’
The child wriggled away from his mother, and ran towards the front room. The carpet was sprinkled with coloured pencils, and lines of toy soldiers arranged on the floor.
‘This is the witch,’ Glory said slowly, wonderingly. Jonah and Zoey turned to scrutinise the woman again. ‘No,’ Glory said. ‘The kid.’
Lord Merle’s box of w
itchwork made a new kind of sense. The red whistle, the toy train, the doll with scribbled spots on its face, the plastic horse . . . They were playthings turned into weapons; childish props for adult nightmares. It was the toy soldiers that made her see it. Zoey had talked in the car about the army parade that Jack Rawdon had been going to attend.
The boy’s mother shook her head. Her eyes darted, fearful and quick. ‘No understand. No possible.’
‘Not possible,’ Jonah echoed, though he knew that it was. He guessed too who these people were. They were the last of the detention centre runaways, the missing Roma who’d broken out in hope of a better life. The words of his boss came back to him. Juvenile witches can be a valuable asset.
‘Where is he?’ Glory demanded. ‘Where’s Lucas? What have you done with him?’
The woman stared hopelessly. No understand.
But Zoey had already pushed ahead into the hall. There was a door at the end, down to the basement. Glory started after her, though Jonah tried to pull her back. ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘It’s not safe. Let me –’ She twisted free and ran down the stairs. She saw a man in a white tracksuit, sprawled on the floor with Zoey on his back and a cigarette lighter by his side. She saw a tank. A puddle of water. A boy, caged in iron.
Crashes and shouts sounded all around. Armed officers had arrived. Troy and Matt came with them, the Chief Prosecutor was close behind. Glory barely noticed.
Lucas’s skin still had a faint stain around his eyes and mouth, the tips of his fingers. Not a bruise, but a bloom, paler than violets. When she lifted the bridle off, she felt the cold of the metal pass through her, like an echo of remembered pain.
What did Lucas know of it? A smell of burning, and the bright flare of Glory’s hair. The smoke on her skin, the salt of her tears. Her light and fire.
