Crow Heart (The Witch Ways Book 4)

by Helen Slavin

  She was not hurrying, though her heart was. It would not do to be seen scurrying away, and so she kept her stride long, graceful as she headed away from Shot Yard towards Moot Hall Lane. The footpath cut through the back of the terrace of small houses. Ivy draped over some fences; others were sappy and new. Here were iron-like spears. There, chain link, and a view down a bare garden, the house gutted and awaiting refurbishment. Nuala saw none of this. Out of sight, her footsteps rushed her forward, her mind a storm of thought.

  A turn here, a turn there, and she was stepping from Weaver Lane onto the unmade track, and the small gate in the hedging appeared. She touched the gate, feeling the dankness of the old wood under her fingers. She pushed through, pushed it shut behind her.

  Here, in the overgrown haven of her garden, she breathed free at last. She had not been aware of the fact that she was gasping. She clenched her fists. This was wrong, in all ways and manner. She should not have to scurry and scuttle in her own town. She should not be afraid. It was wrong.

  At the small oak door, she reached up onto the lintel for the key. As she did so, her sleeve slid back, and she was all too aware of the red marking burnt around her wrist. It was scarred over, and yet it was not. She fumbled the key in the door. Slammed it behind her.

  She stood for a moment to try to gather herself. This was all Hettie Way’s doing, damn her. Nuala felt the itching burn of the red marking at her wrist and rubbed at it with her other hand, trying to soothe it. The mark flared and sent heat into her good hand. She slammed it hard on the table in fury and frustration.

  She needed to replenish herself. Not long ago this had been a simple, pleasurable task, but she had only herself to blame. She had been careless and greedy that day at the Castle when the schoolboy fell from the curtain wall. He had slipped and she had seen an opportunity. Or had she recalled that right? Didn’t he slip because she flicked an intention towards him? A hint to the mossy and wet castle stones that these footsteps belonged to an intruder? Nuala smiled at the memory, and the smile twisted to a sneer as she recalled how Hettie Way had seen fit to take her power that day in Havoc Wood. She had come for her, bound her with the Red Wrangle, a punishment that strangled and tamed her true self. Nuala understood the rule of Red Wrangle, that the twist of red thread was there to punish and diminish, but she fought against it, and she was losing.

  Every day she felt the lack, and she was growing desperate. Hettie had called Crow on her years since. The last time Thinne had come to collect, she had almost wriggled free of him. She had lighted on the plan that Halloween to rid herself of the tiresome debt. It was the perfect trap, to lure him with the promise of the souls of father and baby son. Hettie Way had meddled and sabotaged her efforts. Since that event, her power was worn thinner, rags and tatters she must constantly patch and repair. She had thought Hettie Way’s death would diminish the authority of the Red Wrangle. She was wrong. It was only a matter of time before Thinne heard of Hettie’s death and returned to claim his debt. If she had not replenished her powers by then… She shoved the thought away.

  Today could be viewed as a disaster. However, Nuala Whitemain had not lived this long by being a milksop, and so she brewed up some tea and sat in the chair by the hearth. She watched the flames of the fire dance and pulled the threads of her thoughts.

  She was in need. Today, at the market, she had intended to glean some refreshment from one of the townsfolk. It did not matter who. She’d been on the lookout, and then, unexpectedly, there had been a glimmer. It was old and it was weakened, but it was a glimmer that she might use. It had taken her some time to hunt it down. It had been like a firefly, flickering and enticing.

  Nuala had felt the magic crackling through Woodcastle in recent months. At the market, she could sense how the young woman held it and was unaware. There had been a surge, something old and wild that woke her one morning, fading down as the day passed. By Apple Day, it was white noise, the Red Wrangle itching with it. She took this as a positive, a step to losing the dratted stuff. It was a scab ready to be picked off.

  She had always scorned Apple Day, with its scent of burnt pork. This time she had come into town, kept to the sidelines, aware that some Trespasser was running the show. She had attributed this development to Hettie’s death, had felt a spark of hope. The magic rang out against the Castle stones. She snatched at scraps, drunk deep at something that was thick as blood, iron hearted, a rush of hatred and vengeance, self-pity, and jealousy. Wary of the Gamekeepers, afraid of the Trespasser, but she had needed more. More. Had to take more. She had skulked through town; this second-hand magic felt like home. She remembered herself. Only when she felt the sharp edge, the beady eye of the Trespasser searching, almost catching sight of her, had she stopped and fled.

  Afterwards, at home in her cottage, she had sat by the fire and felt where the Red Wrangle ate the old magic, denied her the power, the pleasure. If only she might have taken more of the poison, then she might have burnt back, scorched the Red Wrangle, turned it to ashes. Instead, she had felt drugged by sleep, dragged in her dreams to the stream’s edge in Havoc. The Red Wrangle burnt into her wrist over and over until the scar was vivid and crimson.

  So what had happened today? She had been so close to her quarry, the old Apple Day magic like an ember within the young woman. Nuala, greedy to grab it but unable. She needed more time, more focus. As she had reached out to offer the lipstick, the Red Wrangle scar blazed against her.

  Nuala arranged her thoughts like a hand of cards in her head. These Way sisters had power. That was very clear. She had thought, with Hettie dead, that any of her taboos and banishing might have broken or, at the least, weakened; but it was not proving so. The wrangle had tightened. She had kept away from the magic that burst out at Halloween. The Castle stank of it, like spent cartridges; she could only guess at how they had dealt with the Trespasser. These granddaughters were dangerous. She must be careful.

  These thoughts were not comforting. She must deal with Thinne, she must deal with the Witch Ways, and she had almost nothing left.

  She pulled on her coat and picked up the old basket. It might amuse the Gamekeepers to know that it was woven from elder whips stolen from Havoc. Nuala recalled the day she had wandered up to Hare’s Ell with her father’s knife and taken them, and how the venerable Granner Way had never known it. A small deception, but it strengthened her heart.

  As she wandered up to Cordwainer Street, a little seed of doubt grew in her mind. Had Granner Way been entirely unawares all those years ago? Before Hettie? Before Thinne? Nuala thought of the old biddy, her eyes watchful as an owl. She pushed the thought away and focused on the task ahead. The more stupid of the Cordwainer cats were already milling about her legs, but Velvet Joe, the hideous one-eyed chieftain, was leaping up onto the wall, and his throaty, yowled warning made her shudder.

  It was quick work to scrag the nearest cats into the basket, her fingers nimble on the fastenings on the little criss-cross door as it closed upon her prisoners. The wires and ties were fashioned from catgut sliced from their predecessors, stretched out and dried. Did they scent it out? Did they know? She relished the thought. The rest of the cats had drained out of the lane, like water pouring into the garden of No 9 Cordwainer Street, but the chieftain watched her, turning his head so that his clouded eye caught the streetlamp, reflected it bright as a searchlight.

  It was late when she returned to the cottage, and she made swift work of repairing any cracks in her boundary spell. The events at Halloween on the Knightstone Bridge when she last met with Thinne had made this necessary. This concealment and protection sapped at whatever power she could scrimp together. Bone magic was like a distress flare to the Gamekeepers, but the cats from Cordwainer Street held their own enchantment, something heavy and treacle dark that fed her energy and did not reveal itself. Ha, there was an endless supply of the creatures; pity the same must be said for Gamekeepers.

  Tonight she was frugal, cured the skins, boiled the bones. At t
he sink she washed her hands and, on a whim, took up the knife she had just used to skin the cats. Perhaps some of her workings lingered on its blade. She poked the tip at the red thread binding her wrist. The temptation to slide it between her skin and the Wrangle was powerful. As she tilted the blade, its surface caught the moonlight, bitter blinding white. Nuala Whitemain heeded the warning, put the knife back down on the draining board, and cursed Hettie Way.

  7

  Rabbit in the Headlights

  PC Williamson was wary of calling on the Way sisters. His last visit, brought about by the death of their mother, weighed heavily with him. He’d dreamt about that night, the terrible news he had to break, the three young women in his patrol car, the way the dark had seemed endless. It was not simply that he was sorry for their misfortune. It was, he confessed to himself, that he was afraid of them, as if they drew in darkness. It was irrational, and it was unprofessional, and now it was a nuisance, for he must talk with Charlie Way.

  It began yesterday morning with the discovery of Anthony Gamble locked into the old stocks outside the Moot Hall. His head was wrapped in a rabbit net, as if it was protecting his hairdo. Pinned to his chest was a note that said: STAY OUT OF HAVOC. Written in red marker — though Anthony moaned it was his blood.

  “See, where the pins pricked me…” He pulled at his t-shirt, showing a small speckle of blood where the safety pin attaching the notice had nicked the skin.

  “What were you doing in Havoc Wood?” PC Williamson asked, knowing the answer as he did so. It was rather like last month, when he’d asked Anthony why he was at the Rookery Allotments at midnight. He had declared he was gardening, but in reality he had been attempting to steal a chicken from Wanda Hough’s coop.

  “I was rewilding my life.” Anthony was pious and outraged. “I was getting back to nature, like they’re always saying you should.” Anthony nodded his locked-down head to his imprisoned hands. “Let me out. It’s your duty to let me out.”

  “I can’t tamper with a crime scene,” PC Williamson lied. He was not about to release him from the stocks. This too was unprofessional, how much he was enjoying Anthony’s discomfiture. He kept his expression stony.

  “This is assault.” Anthony adjusted his stance so that he could look up from his historic prison; his hands waved dramatically. “She wants seeing to, that Charlie Way. She wants teaching a lesson.”

  “And you just happened to be in the wood with a rabbit net? Hm? What was the net for? Your hair?”

  PC Williamson did not blink during the short silence. Anthony had the grace to look away, but not without making a protest at how the stocks were rubbing the back of his neck.

  “Let me out of here,” Anthony demanded.

  “I don’t have a key,” PC Williamson lied. “We have to hold on for Mrs Bentley.”

  It was early, and the first of the Woodcastle rush-hour commuters were queuing up at the lights; Dave Crackby in his up and over, Matt Woodhill behind in his van. The lights changed and the vehicles moved forward. Dave slid down the window.

  “Serves you right, you bell end,” he declared with a laugh and a toot of his horn.

  Mrs Bentley did not have a key.

  “It doesn’t lock. It’s just heavy.” Mrs Bentley glared at Anthony. The rusted lock flipped open at her touch, and with some help from PC Williamson, she lifted the top block. Anthony wriggled free.

  “Right… I’m going to see about this, you see if I don’t.” He was clenching and unclenching his fists to get the blood back in them. He looked angry.

  “This is a police matter,” PC Williamson growled. “Leave it with me.” He felt, as Anthony gave him a jaunty salute, that his statement covered all eventualities. Despite that, one way or another, he would have to speak to Charlie Way.

  Emz, Anna, and Winn pored over their marketing efforts in the office at Prickles. They had attempted fliers for the Pop-Up Tea Room, which had come up fine. Their more ambitious brochure for the upcoming wedding fayre was less successful.

  “It’s come out very yellow,” Emz said.

  Winn screwed her face up. “It’s not the best printer. That flashing light has been on for yonks.” She glanced over at the printer, still whirring from its efforts.

  “The café fliers are fine, but we can’t use these,” Anna said, and everyone’s shoulders sagged. Winn shuffled the paper together.

  “I can use them for paper in the cages in the infirmary. Waste not, eh.” She smiled.

  Emz screwed up the one she had and lobbed it at the waste basket by the door. It missed and hit Charlie on her way in.

  “Training for playgroup?” she asked, unfolding the scrap. “Ooh, colouring in,” she joked.

  “They’d have done a better job,” Anna said.

  Charlie rifled through their handiwork. “Don’t be so hard on yourself… This is good, and the photos are banging, onscreen. Just a printer issue.”

  They began to work together, Charlie in charge of the keyboard and the rest of The Orangery team commenting and vetoing. Winn put the kettle on.

  “Don’t fret. I can print this off for you at Drawbridge.” Charlie emailed herself the finished document.

  “Thanks,” Anna said, and there was a sudden and emotional silence.

  Charlie gave a wan smile and a shrug. “No problem.” Charlie fussed about with the USB stick, so that they wouldn’t have to talk.

  Anna gave it a try anyway. “How’s it going?”

  Charlie shrugged. “Good. Yeah.” Her smile this time was warm.

  “Sorry that we haven’t been…” Emz faltered.

  Charlie jumped into the gap. “You’ve been busy. No problem.” The smile tried to help, but Charlie could not stop the edge of her mouth wobbling.

  “No. Well, yes, but that’s not the…” Anna waded in.

  Charlie shook her head; her smile widened, brightened, held steady. “Yes, it is. You’re busy. It is my turn,” she said, and when Anna opened her mouth to reply, she put her hand up. “Yes, it is. This is like before. When I was breaking up with Aron, and I wasn’t there.” She let the thought filter through them. “You two patrolled then. Now, it’s my turn. Fair shares.”

  Silence rippled in like the wake following a swan at Pike Lake.

  “Any trouble?” Anna dared to ask after several moments of silence.

  Charlie shook her head, looking in charge and determined. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  Emz and Anna exchanged a look.

  “What, though? Exactly? What have you had to handle?” Emz looked panicked.

  Charlie was quick to reassure. “Nothing much. Couple of blokes from town poaching. Done and dealt with.” Charlie put the USB stick into her pocket and made a point of readying her car keys.

  “Was there something else, Charlie?” Winn asked. “You didn’t just come to help with the publicity stuff. Was there another errand?”

  Charlie shrugged. “Nothing special. Just thought I’d say hello.”

  The familiar silence rippled back and was broken by a voice from reception.

  “Hello? Anyone in? Hello?” The tall figure of PC Williamson loomed into the door. It was a coin toss who was more uneasy.

  “Can we help?” Anna asked.

  PC Williamson held up the STAY OUT OF HAVOC sign. “You can start by not putting any more poachers in the stocks.”

  It was easy to argue in the neutral territory of the Prickles back office.

  “I did what needed to be done.” Charlie was unrepentant, trying to reason with an irate Anna. Emz was keeping silent, sitting in the chair, arms folded tight.

  “You pushed it too far,” Anna said.

  “How?” Charlie raised her arms in a shrug. “They pushed it, Anna, poaching in Havoc.”

  Anna stumbled over this fact. “Well, yes, but… no. I mean, I get that…”

  “No. You don’t get it.” Charlie was severe. “No poaching. End of. It’s our job as Gamekeepers. It’s what Grandma Hettie would do.”

  An
na pinched her lips. “Nope. Wrong.” She shook her head.

  “No. You know Grandma would never have let a poacher get away with it, not someone from town.” Emz came to Charlie’s defence.

  Anna floundered under the two-pronged reasoning. “Yes. That’s true… but… not… There is no way she would have done something like this.”

  “She’d have done exactly that,” Emz said. She picked up the sign, the evidence that PC Williamson had so kindly forgotten to take with him. “Probably written it on his face and not the notice.”

  Charlie struggled not to grin at this. She cleared her throat in a bid to be more serious. “It makes it clear.” Charlie defended her action.

  Anna was white-faced. “It makes it a challenge.” Her voice was calm. “This is a red rag to some of the bigger twats in Woodcastle, Charlie.”

  Charlie stood her ground. “Yes. And now they know what they are up against.” Her voice was low and cracking with anger. “Red line.” She pointed at the sign.

  Emz nodded agreement. “I’m with Charlie,” she said.

  “I am not playing at this. I mean it.” Charlie said. Her face was so stricken, her voice so forceful, that Anna stopped. Charlie continued. “We know, now. We know what the job is and why we have to do it.”

  “Yes. Yes, I know, but…” Anna tried to cut in, but Charlie’s voice rose above her.

  “We know what can come out of Havoc, Anna. We’ve seen the monsters. We have no choice.”

  8

  Yes, But

  Roz Woodhill was regretting her decision to keep her gallery suppliers local and ask Aurora Foundling, the florist from Mimosa on Church Lane, to create a floral centrepiece for the opening of the Chapel Gallery.

  “I thought you wanted an installation?” Aurora’s tone was snippy.

  “Yes, but…” Roz glanced uncertainly at the vast compost heap of cuttings and branches that Aurora had systematically pruned from the chapel grounds.