Witch Fire

by Laura Powell

  ‘Smells like Christmas,’ she said, ‘but still good. Still very good . . . How long to last?’

  ‘Up to three hours,’ said Glory, with justifiable pride.

  Rona nodded briskly. ‘OK. Enough. Training, you start tomorrow in morning at ten, then you work tomorrow night. Don’t be late.’

  Glory left the club with a swagger in her step. She thought of Dr Caron’s bogus therapy talk and nearly laughed. Who needed the power of positive thinking when you had Esmerelda Thunderpants? But Candice was silent in the taxi back to the villa.

  ‘So you’re as good as my bro said you were,’ she said at last.

  ‘I have me moments.’

  ‘I thought he was exaggerating. To wind me up.’

  Glory shrugged.

  Candice looked at her sidelong. ‘He must be pissed you’ve given him the slip. If Troy shacked up with you, he’d be Mr Big and no mistake.’

  Glory shrugged again. She felt uncomfortable. Candice had said she didn’t want to work for the family coven; now she knew that even if she did, her place at the top table was no longer guaranteed. Glory’s fae was the stronger. If she chose to ally herself with Troy, the Wednesday Coven heir, and leader in all but name, then Glory would be head-witch. Candice’s boss.

  Yes, the baby cousin was all grown up.

  Chapter 19

  As soon as Lucas stepped off the plane at Heathrow, he was whisked away for a series of debriefs. The first one was the worst. Jack Rawdon looked grave, Guy Carmichael irritable, and Commander Hughes as if she’d swallowed a mouthful of wasps.

  Although various people kept telling Lucas he wasn’t in trouble, he still felt in disgrace. Over the following days, they took notes, and nodded thoughtfully, and asked questions in a quiet yet insistent manner. He was given very little opportunity to ask his own questions in return. He knew too how the process would end. His final interview with Rawdon confirmed this.

  ‘I know this has been tough on you, Lucas. Since the Paterson business, you’ve barely had time to catch your breath. You’ve more than earned a holiday. I want you to take a month or two off, and get away from it all.’

  Well, at least he wasn’t getting kicked out of the service outright.

  ‘But what about Glory?’ he asked, for what felt like the thousandth time.

  Rawdon looked at him carefully. ‘You don’t need to worry about her, Lucas. She’s a resourceful and well-connected girl.’

  ‘She’s gone to Cordoba, hasn’t she? What’s she doing? Who’s she with?’ Then, when Rawdon didn’t answer, ‘Aren’t you going to try and get her back?’

  ‘Sadly, I think events have proved that Glory is not right for this agency, and we’re not right for her. Not at this point in time. I regret how events have turned out, but what’s done is done. Glory is free to live her own life. We won’t intervene unless she gives us due cause.’

  ‘Cause for what?’

  ‘Alarm. If we were to suspect her of acting against the interests of this agency, for example. Or those of the nation.’

  Lucas frowned. ‘Glory wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right. But in any case, it shouldn’t be your concern.’ Rawdon’s smile was as frank and warm as ever, backed up with the friendly clap on the back. ‘Don’t think you haven’t done a good job. You’ve provided us with some very valuable information. Now it’s time for you to rest up, and move on.’

  Lucas got the message. Forget about Wildings and Cambion, Drs Caron and Claude. Forget about Glory.

  He left WICA in a fog of exhaustion. At least the nature of his work meant he hadn’t had any awkward questions to answer at home, though Philomena was sulking because he hadn’t brought her a souvenir from his trip. In his brief encounters with his father – usually as one or other of them was on the way out – Ashton looked at him searchingly, as if on the brink of saying something important, but always seeming to think better of it.

  In the three days Lucas had been back in the UK, he’d barely had time to unpack. Now he went to his bedroom and began pulling things out of his suitcase. Dr Lazovic had been informed that Lucas left the academy because his father had struck a deal with the Witchfinder General to keep his condition a secret. The principal had not taken the news well, and no wonder – he’d lost three students in two days.

  A postcard fell out of a bundle of shirts. Raffi had pushed the card under Lucas’s bedroom door before he’d left. He read the back of it idly. Good luck! Stay strong! Your amigo, Raphael . There was a scribbled email address and phone number too.

  Lucas turned the card over. Hola from Cordoba! was printed at the top. The subject was La Catedral de San Jerico. Incongruously, a babe in a bikini was posing on the steps. The pink-and-white baroque facade behind her was a maze of broken pediments, decorative shells and garland-draped columns. Something about it was familiar.

  He closed his eyes and pressed his knuckles to them, so the darkness sparked. The building was flanked by two bell towers, and he’d seen one of them before. He was sure of it. That time, though, it had been in black and white. Suddenly it came to him. It had been in the background of the photograph of Rose Merle, or her witchworked double, that he and Glory had found in Dr Caron’s office.

  Lucas sat down on his bed. The fog in his head had gone; the air prickled with possibilities. If what he remembered was correct, he had just found a possible link between Cambion and Cordoba. He reached for his phone, then stopped. He was off the case. He didn’t even know what WICA and their partners in the security services were going to do with the information he’d already provided. It was quite possible they’d hand it over to Section Seven, so Jenna White and Co could follow it up. And anyway, this wasn’t evidence. Just a memory backed up by a hunch.

  He looked at the other side of the postcard. Raffi had said he’d be welcome in Cordoba any time. Jack Rawdon had told him to take a break . . .

  ‘Absolutely not,’ his father said in the study later that night. ‘You’re staying at home, resting and catching up with your schoolwork.’

  ‘I was told to go on holiday!’

  ‘Cordoba is not a holiday destination. It’s where you go if you’re on the run from the Inquisition, or want to set up an international drug cartel.’

  ‘Well, I have friends there.’

  ‘You mean Glory.’ Ashton’s voice was steely. ‘Don’t think I don’t know what this is about.’

  ‘Then you should understand why I need to find her,’ Lucas retorted. ‘She’s been chucked aside like a spare part that doesn’t work any more.’

  ‘She deserted her post.’

  ‘Can you blame her? After what was done to Edie, to her family?’

  The unspoken words bristled between them: This is your fault.

  Ashton’s manner remained steady. Infuriatingly so. ‘You and Glory haven’t known each other for very long. Your time together has been intense. Dramatic. She is very different to the other people you know. I can see how that would be . . . attractive. But you need to take into account that your feelings for her might be clouding your judgement.’

  Lucas flushed angrily. ‘This isn’t about some stupid schoolboy crush. She’s my partner.’

  ‘If you want to be treated like a professional, then you have to act like one. Running off to some Third World hole out of a misguided sense of chivalry is not going to help. It could even mean the end of your career – have you thought about that? In WICA and anywhere else.’

  So he’d be like Glory. A liability, as Jenna had put it. Damaged goods.

  ‘I can’t just stand back and do nothing.’

  ‘And if I forbid you to go?’

  Lucas didn’t reply. Then I’ll go and see Troy Morgan, he thought.

  Lucas spent the next couple of days at home. If he gave his father and Rawdon any cause for concern, he was afraid he’d end up under house arrest, and maybe even bridled. He didn’t have his passport in any case. WICA were ‘looking after it’, as well as the spare emergency on
e.

  Lucas knew that he needed to do more than find Glory and persuade her to come home. She would still be in professional disgrace. So would he, probably. That was why the Cambion lead was so important. It gave him a chance of turning the Swiss failure into a Cordoban success. If Glory shared in that success – if it could be shown what a loyal and invaluable an agent she was – then everyone would win.

  Ambition motivated him as well as loyalty. Lucas was not used to losing or giving up. It was one of the things he shared with Glory. He wanted to find out exactly what Cambion was up to, and take back control of the investigation from Jenna White.

  It was no easy task to track Troy down. Finally, on Thursday, a week after returning to London, Lucas crafted an elusion and went to Glory’s father for help. It was a big risk. But he knew that Glory didn’t tell Patrick everything. It was his hope she hadn’t shared the secrets of Edie Starling’s double life, or Ashton Stearne’s part in it.

  As it happened, Patrick greeted Lucas warmly. He’d only seen Lucas without the disguise of a glamour once, but he recognised him immediately. He was less rambling, more animated, than Lucas remembered. Patrick gave nothing away about Glory’s doings or whereabouts, but after some deliberation, went to make a series of telephone calls. He came back with an address, and the news that Troy would see Lucas there at five. Then he hesitated.

  ‘Glory’s a, er, strong-minded girl,’ he said. ‘A bit wilful at times. Her mum was like that too. But her heart’s in the right place. It’s just not as tough as the rest of her.’

  Unsure how to respond, Lucas said his thanks and left as soon as possible.

  Charlie Morgan’s head office – Troy’s for now – was attached to a wholesaler in East Hallam. Lucas was led through the dusty packing area by the kind of over-muscled thug he remembered from his time in the coven. The upstairs office, though, belonged to a different world. Brocade curtains brushed the parquet floor, a rosewood desk nestled on the Persian rug.

  Lucas had always thought Troy had a lean, hungry sort of look. Wolfish, despite the designer suits and smooth veneer. But this afternoon, he looked sleek and relaxed. The heir to the empire, taking his ease on the family throne.

  ‘Well, well. It’s the Chief Pricker’s kid,’ he said. ‘Still fighting for Truth, Justice and the Inquisitorial way?’

  ‘I don’t work for the Inquisition.’

  Troy raised a mocking eyebrow. ‘That’s not what I heard.’

  Although he hadn’t been invited to, Lucas sat down. ‘I presume Glory’s talked to you, then. About Switzerland.’

  ‘She told me some of it. She wasn’t in a very conversational mood. All in all, I’m curious to hear your side of the story.’

  Briefly, Lucas explained about Wildings and Cambion and Jenna White. Then he moved on to Edie Starling. He tried to describe what had happened as dispassionately as his father had.

  Afterwards, Troy slowly shook his head. ‘Christ. And they call us gangsters.’

  ‘I’m not going to try and defend what went on –’

  ‘That would be wise.’

  Their eyes met. Troy’s were shards of green ice. Not so long ago they’d been allies. Lucas couldn’t imagine ever being friends with Troy. Yet it shook him, all the same, to think that they were bound – by family, careers, fate – to be enemies.

  ‘My father and his colleagues acted wrongly. But I’m not responsible for the decisions they made.’

  ‘Hm. “The sins of the father . . .”’ Troy glanced at a photograph pushed to the edge of the desk. ‘You don’t believe they’re visited on their sons?’

  ‘No. My mistakes and regrets are my own. One of those mistakes – a bad one – was with Glory. I want to make amends.’ He paused. ‘And I’ll need your help.’

  Troy folded his arms across his chest. ‘I’m touched. Really. Your starry-eyed selflessness is a joy to behold. But why would I want to coax Glory back to WICA? All things considered, I’d say she’s made a smart decision. It would certainly make my life easier if she sticks to it.’

  ‘So you think Cordoba is a good place for her? You think she’ll be able to make a decent life out there?’ Troy didn’t reply. With renewed confidence, Lucas said, ‘It’s not as if she can just slip back into your coven either. She’s a registered witch. As soon as she returns to the UK, the Inquisition will pounce. It will mean all kinds of harassment.’

  ‘I do hope,’ said Troy very softly, ‘that isn’t meant to be a threat.’

  ‘No. Of course not. I’m just stating the facts. But this isn’t only about Glory. I also need to talk about your other cousin: Rose.’

  Lucas described Dr Caron’s photograph and Raffi’s postcard, managing to present the connection between Rose Merle, Cambion and San Jerico as fact rather than supposition. ‘I think Cambion’s dodgy brain surgery clinic is very likely to be in Cordoba. Where else would people be able to get away with something like this? I don’t know exactly what’s going on with Rose, or what she’s doing over there. But it’s too much of a coincidence to ignore.’

  He added another small embellishment in support of his case. ‘Glory aroused Dr Caron’s suspicions when she left Wildings so abruptly. There were all sorts of rumours flying around. If Dr Caron thinks she’s a spy, and then runs into her in Cordoba, Glory could be in serious trouble.’

  ‘Serious trouble,’ said Troy wearily, ‘is what I’ve come to expect from the two of you. OK. What do you want?’

  ‘Glory’s contact details. A fake passport. And a smartphone – the signal on mine can be traced. Money.’

  ‘A coven loan!’ Troy’s mouth twitched. ‘I hope you’re prepared for our interest rates. Because I don’t think Daddy Stearne would be best pleased if you lost your kneecaps.’

  ‘I won’t need much. I’m going to empty my current account before I go, but I can’t access my savings without my father’s say-so. And if I try and use my bank cards, WICA will be able to trace me. Then there’s getting through immigration –’

  ‘Shut up a moment and let me think.’

  Troy swung round in his chair and regarded the scene outside. It was several long minutes before he turned back.

  ‘OK. Fine. I’ll get you what you need.’

  ‘That’s great. Thank you so m—’

  ‘Truth is, I was already thinking of sending someone to San Jerico,’ Troy said abruptly. ‘My sister Candice is living there and my parents are increasingly anxious about her. I’d like to get a first-hand report of her welfare and activities, as well as Glory’s, but for the moment I can’t spare the staff. Nor can I rely on my Cordoban contacts. This is a private family matter, and I want to keep it that way.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Then here’s something else you need to get into your head: whatever you find out there, whatever progress you make, you report it to me. Not WICA, not Daddy Stearne, definitely not the prickers.’ Troy fixed Lucas in his cold green gaze. ‘You’re on my payroll now. Don’t forget it.’

  Chapter 20

  Before her first night’s work at the Carabosse, Glory invested some of her dwindling cash in a trip to a hairdresser. She came out with her hair cut in a sixties-style bob, brown roots dyed a glossy platinum. With a picture of Granny Cora as her reference point, she bought some false eyelashes too. Her eyes were heavily rimmed in black and her lips were painted nude. If people were going to start talking about ‘the Starling Girl’, she wanted to look the part.

  The job, though, proved to be a disappointment. It didn’t take long for the novelty of performing witchwork in public to wear off, and there was none of the camaraderie she’d hoped for among her fellow witchworkers. Competition for tips and the preference of the regular punters was fierce. Inevitably, Glory’s age and abilities caused resentment. Even Candice took to arriving for work separately, and turning a cold shoulder to her in public.

  Glory’s signature trick was the rose fascination. For the right price, she would craft a rose in the colour of her customer’s c
hoice. For her own amusement, she’d experiment with the scent, dousing her tissue-paper blossoms with a spritz of mint breath-freshening spray or lavender perfume or lemon hand-sanitiser. At the end of the evening, the fascination would fade and the buyer would be left with a crumpled ball of paper, leaf mould and drawing pins. Which was, of course, all part of the fun.

  Glory would also spy in a scrying-bowl, and tell people what their friends were getting up to in other bars or hotels. A vanishing trick was equally popular. She would place a gentleman’s watch or a lady’s earrings on a pocket mirror, fogged with her own breath, which she proceeded to wrap in a black handkerchief and sprinkle with dust from the street. It was an amulet known as a shroud, because it ‘buried’ an object from view. Afterwards, she’d whip off the handkerchief to gasps of astonishment, as the customer prodded an object they could feel but couldn’t see.

  Most nights there was the additional entertainment of a cabaret singer or burlesque dancer. Only one witch ever took centre stage. This was a woman known as Sheba, whose handsome features suggested a mix of Amerindian and North African blood. She wore a costume of a silver leotard, and a decorative witch’s bridle made out of diamanté that covered most of her face and neck. Her act centred on her familiar, a big black cat. She and the animal would dance together, and it would spell out answers to audience questions by picking out letters on coloured cards. Then it would go and collect banknotes in its mouth as tips. It was controlled by the ring Sheba wore on her right hand: a circlet of cat hair braided with her own, sealed with spit and the animal’s blood.

  Glory would watch their show whenever her duties allowed. She had always been told that using a familiar regularly was dangerous. If you merged your mind with an animal’s too frequently, or didn’t have strong enough fae, you were at risk of blurring the boundaries between human and beast. Sheba certainly had a cat-like look, with her wide cheekbones, snub nose and slanting eyes. Glory had never heard the woman speak, only yowl and hiss and purr. Once she’d seen her lick her hands clean, as if they were paws. Maybe it was all part of the performance, but it gave Glory the creeps.