Witch Fire

by Laura Powell

  Lucas dutifully peered at the computer screen. He’d got what he needed, anyway. That night, he would go and find Glory at her club.

  The Carabosse’s door policy was highly selective, and punters required both cash and clout to gain admittance. Wayne Bond didn’t look as if he had either, but Lucas Stearne did. He checked out of his hotel, and destroyed the glamour by tearing up the little paper amulet he carried with him at all times. Hidden in his bag were the materials to craft two more from scratch: one to get him out of the country, and one spare.

  At the new hotel, a slightly less grotty establishment down the road, the receptionist tried to sell him a charm to protect him against witchwork. ‘Best quality,’ she assured him. ‘Very safe, for all your holidays. All the tourists get them. Blessed by La Bruja Blanca herself!’

  It was a clear plastic pouch to hang round his neck, containing a white feather, bits of dried leaves and hair and, for good measure, a tiny wire crucifix. Lucas doubted any witch had gone near it, though he’d seen quite a few people wearing similar things. Many houses had lucky talismans and bundles of amulets tied to their doorways, as well as the usual iron bells. Useless superstitious junk, for the most part. But with no Inquisition to protect them, what hope did ordinary citizens have?

  At night, the city turned from seedy to sinister. Away from the glitzy boulevards, the backstreets were so narrow and crusted they seemed subterranean. The humid air made his shirt stick to his back. He thought the people – from the beggars squatting in doorways to the Eurotrash types stumbling out of bars – had the same kind of slippery, greedy look about them. The sooner he got Glory out of here the better.

  He had no problems getting into the Carabosse. Rich foreign teenagers with more money than sense were always welcome. ‘Is the Starling girl working tonight?’ Lucas asked the woman in a pinstripe suit who was behind the ticket desk.

  ‘Si. She’ll be here at ten.’

  ‘Good,’ he said, in his most lordly manner. ‘I’d like to request a private performance.’

  The woman smiled slyly. ‘Gloriana is very popular. For this, you pay top price.’ She named a sum that made him inwardly wince, though he handed over a wad of US dollars without a murmur.

  Lucas was shown to the row of cells that had been converted into a VIP area for private partying. The walls in his cell were padded in purple velvet and the ceiling was studded with fairy lights. It was small and claustrophobic. He tried not to think of the room’s former use, but supposed that was meant to be part of its attraction. The illicit thrill.

  The curtain over the doorway was pulled back and Lucas felt his heart speeding; a thin, dry buzz. But it was just a waiter, come to take his order. He asked for a Coke and tried to keep calm. He knew he would only have a few seconds to persuade Glory to hear him out. Already, he was wondering if he was right to have come. The noise from the main club – thuds of music, laughter, squeals – made it hard to concentrate.

  The curtain twitched again, and he thought it was the waiter with his drink. It was Glory. She’d cut her hair and lost weight. Under the heavy sixties-style make-up, she looked tired, though her face was fixed with a professionally perky smile.

  ‘Good evening, sir. And what can I –’

  He leaned out of the shadows. ‘It’s me. Lucas.’

  She went very still. ‘You came after me,’ she whispered with a soft incredulous breath. ‘You –’ Then her expression reordered itself, snapped into angry strength. ‘You need to get outta here.’

  ‘Please. Give me five minutes, at least. Just to talk.’

  She looked back behind the curtain and he could tell she was thinking about calling for back-up. There were a lot of mean-looking bouncers in this place.

  ‘Did WICA send you? Or the Inquisition?’

  ‘Neither. I’m on my own.’ He thought it better not to mention Troy for the moment. ‘I’m AWOL, in fact. Like you.’

  ‘You ain’t nothing like me.’

  But she sat down – cautiously, at the very edge of the seat, and tensed for flight. Her flimsy dress kept riding up her legs, and she pulled it down with an irritable twitch.

  ‘I didn’t come here to argue. I came to apologise and explain, if you’ll let me. And – well, I need help, not for me, but for your cousin. For Rose.’ He paused for effect. ‘I have evidence she’s in Cordoba.’

  Glory didn’t react as he’d expected. She looked, if anything, amused. ‘Is that a fact?’

  He explained what he’d deduced from Raffi’s postcard. She listened without comment, her face an unimpressed blank. ‘Cambion could be a real danger to witchkind,’ he said, in a final attempt to rouse her. ‘This is our best opportunity to find out what’s going on, and maybe even put a stop to it.’

  ‘So you, what, want us to join forces? Do some freelance detecting? “Starling & Stearne: No Witchcrime Too Large”?’

  ‘There’s no need to take the piss. I just thought you’d want something better to do than – well – this –’ He gestured around the cell.

  She narrowed her eyes. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘C’mon. Performing fae-tricks for cash? You’re better than this, Glory. You know you are.’

  ‘I know I’m paying me own way. Earning a living at something I’m good at.’

  ‘Well, you’re certainly expensive . . .’

  She stared at him disgustedly. ‘And yet,’ she said, ‘you’ve gotta way of making me feel cheap.’ She rose to her feet. ‘I ain’t some damsel in distress. I don’t need you. I don’t want you. So stay away from me and my family. You Stearnes have already damaged us enough.’

  Chapter 23

  Lucas hated the thought of Glory in that trashy club, in that trashy outfit, being leered at by all those trashy people. Their encounter had ended badly, but he wasn’t about to give up. He kept returning to her first reaction; that hushed, incredulous breath. You came after me . . .

  As soon as he got back to his hotel, he emailed a report to Troy on where Glory was working and living. He concluded that while Todd might be a loser and an idiot, he was fairly harmless, and that Candice was managing to hold down a job. He finished by saying that Glory seemed well, and that he was ‘making progress’ with communications.

  He was increasingly curious about how Glory was spending her free time, and who with. The trouble was, now she knew he was in town, she would be more than usually on her guard. There was no point going back to the Carabosse; it was a safe bet she’d have told the staff not to let him in.

  He did, however, have a secret weapon: Glory’s hairclip that he’d stolen from the villa. He could use it to spy on her in a scrying-bowl.

  Scrying was dependent on a number of things. You needed a physical token of your target and it had to have been taken from them fairly recently. Within twenty-four hours was usually the limit for someone of Lucas’s powers. It didn’t work if the target was wearing an elusion, or was in an iron-proofed room. The greater the distance between you and your target, the poorer the result.

  The next morning, Lucas got up early, put the Do Not Disturb sign on his door handle, and filled a glass bowl he’d bought with water. Glory’s hairclip floated on the surface. He also crafted a second glamour for Wayne, so that there would be no delay in going after Glory once he’d found her.

  Taking slow, steady breaths, he began to sway gently so the water started to swirl and the hairpin to sink, as the Devil’s Kiss warmed his skin and his fae flowed into the bowl. He stirred the water with his forefinger, thinking of Glory. A stream of tiny bubbles began to form, rising to the surface in a silvery cloud. But there was nothing to be seen in them, and no corresponding image floated into his head.

  He kept trying at half-hour intervals. At eleven thirty, the bubbles, pinprick small, began to rise and fall with renewed energy. Glory must have moved into his area of vision. Nothing could be seen in the water, though. That meant she was wearing an elusion. But since an elusion only lasted for a single journey, once Glory was at
her destination the camouflaging effect of her witchwork would wear off. For the next twenty minutes, Lucas concentrated on the bowl, staring at the water until his eyes grew gritty and his head ached.

  At last he got his reward. The silvery bubbles grew denser, forming blurred patterns. He closed his eyes, and a picture foamed into his head. A blonde sitting at a table. The people around her were indistinguishable and the image as a whole was watery, probably because the hairclip had been away from its owner for so long. But he was just able to make out some lettering behind her. Café Grande. It was enough.

  Lucas opened his eyes and got to his feet, a little unsteadily. In moments, he had located the café on his smartphone, and was hurrying towards it, splashing through puddles left by the latest downpour. It would be too bad if, after all this effort, Glory had already moved on.

  No, she was still there. Sitting in the sunshine, drinking hot chocolate, checking her watch. She must be meeting someone.

  Damp and out of breath, Lucas positioned himself in the window of a neighbouring bar. Even disguised as Wayne, he had an irrational fear that Glory would see past the glamour. He ordered a coffee, pulled out his guidebook, and prepared to wait.

  It didn’t take long. Glory looked up and waved at a young woman walking across the square. The two embraced. Glory’s friend’s hair shone fire-bright in the sun, her face as pale and perfect as a princess’s in a fae-tale. Rose Merle, in the flesh.

  The impossible was true: the girl was cured. More than just healthy; radiant. No wonder Glory had been so unimpressed by his big reveal that Rose was in Cordoba! By the look of it, the two of them were already BFFs. He remembered her parting shot from last night: stay away from me and my family. She’d found her cousin, and she didn’t want Lucas to – what? Intrude? Endanger? Investigate?

  For the next forty minutes or so, the girls chatted together like old friends. Then Glory got up to say goodbye. Lucas wavered, unsure whether or not to go after her. For the moment, he was more curious about Rose. He thought of her mother; her fragile beauty and burning rage. At Wildings, Mei-fen had said that Rose cried all the time. She didn’t look unhappy now.

  And then, about ten minutes after Glory had left, Rose was joined by a new arrival: a tall, fair-haired young man who greeted her with a lingering kiss. The breath was violently knocked from Lucas’s body. It was Gideon.

  Gideon Hale. Tanned and debonair in a linen suit, sitting with his beautiful girlfriend, drinking hot chocolate in the sun. His laughter rang round the square. The last time Lucas had heard that sound, it had been in a basement cell. Rose laughed too, leaned her head on his shoulder.

  Anger rolled inside Lucas with a terrible energy; it demanded action. Its force propelled him out of the bar and round the corner into a deserted alley, where he ripped Wayne’s glamour in half. Suddenly, somehow, he was at the table where Gideon was sitting.

  ‘Hello, Gideon. Small world.’

  Gideon was more amused than shocked. ‘Good Lord. It’s Stearne minor.’ He pushed back a flop of gilded hair; Lucas remembered the gesture, just as he remembered the narrowing of his light grey eyes. ‘Rose, darling, this is my old school chum, Lucas. Lucas, meet Rose.’

  ‘How do you do,’ Rose said coolly.

  There was an excruciating silence. The blood drummed through Lucas’s head.

  Look at you. Look at the dirty hag . . .

  For the most part, Lucas had tried not to think about what might happen if he came face to face with Gideon again. Now the moment had come, he realised he didn’t even know what he wanted to do – confront him? Accuse him? Cage him in iron and drown him in ice?

  Gideon turned to Rose, who was nuzzling his ear. ‘Lucas works for the British government. Maybe that’s why he’s looking so down at heel.’

  It was true. Lucas was pale and haggard, in travel-stained clothes. He’d been skulking about in alleys and seedy hotel rooms, disguised in an even seedier glamour. He was AWOL from his job, subsisting on coven cash. Adrift and alone.

  Whereas Gideon, a debarred and disgraced inquisitor, sadist, conspirator and criminal –

  Gideon was clearly doing very nicely for himself.

  ‘We can’t all be on permanent leave.’ With great effort, Lucas kept his voice steady. ‘How’s unemployment treating you?’

  ‘Well, the Devil makes work for idle hands . . . and, as you know, I don’t like to be idle.’ He smiled. ‘This place isn’t called the New World for nothing. A land of sunshine and opportunity.’

  ‘For criminals, maybe.’

  ‘Oh, indeed. That’s why private law enforcement is Cordoba’s premier growth industry. Honest citizens are crying out for order, authority, discipline. And unlike their British counterparts, they’re not squeamish about what it takes to provide it.’

  So Gideon was a mercenary. It made perfect sense. The same powerful family connections that had kept him out of jail had no doubt helped ease his way into one of Cordoba’s militias. He’d probably got a crisp new uniform and shiny new gun out of it too.

  A waiter had arrived and was greeting Rose like an old friend. ‘I wouldn’t have thought she’s your type,’ Lucas hissed, while her attention was elsewhere. ‘Playing with fire, isn’t it – with her mother a witch?’

  ‘It’s not as if I’m planning to breed with her,’ said Gideon, amused. He’d barely bothered to lower his voice. When the waiter moved on, he put his arm around Rose’s waist. ‘Lucas was just saying what an adorable couple we make.’

  Rose smiled, then looked at Lucas doubtfully. ‘Aren’t you rather young, to be working for the government?’

  ‘He’s a child prodigy, darling. Whatever business he’s doing here, it will be very hush-hush. A secret mission in the mean streets of San Jerico. Am I right?’ Gideon held up a hand. ‘No – wait. You’d tell me . . . but then you’d have to kill me!’

  He laughed heartily. His eyes met Lucas’s. They were as chill and pale as glass.

  ‘You take care, Gideon.’

  Somehow Lucas managed to walk away.

  Icy bands squeezed his lungs. The breaths he took were bitter and choking. It was as if Gideon himself were a bane, something twisted and unnatural, which made the air sicken around him.

  Lucas had achieved nothing – Gideon’s composure was as unshakeable as his arrogance. But Lucas couldn’t waste time on regrets. His priority had to be finding out how Gideon, Rose and Glory were connected, and why.

  However angry Glory was with Lucas, she would never knowingly consort with the likes of Gideon Hale. He embodied everything she most hated and feared about the Inquisition. So either she didn’t know about Rose’s boyfriend, or else Gideon was keeping his identity from her. It wouldn’t be difficult: they hadn’t previously met. And if that was the case, then Rose must be in on it too.

  And if Glory thought she and Rose were friends, God knows what she might have told her; what secrets she’d confided or confessed.

  Or how Gideon would make use of them . . .

  And so one hour later, Lucas was standing outside the glittering high-rise that was home to Cordoba’s Chief of Police.

  ‘Welcome, welcome my friend!’ Raffi’s grin was as irrepressible as ever. ‘You are here for Glory, yes?’ He flung out his arms dramatically. ‘You are come to declaim your amor and do the grovel on her feet!’

  ‘No grovelling,’ said Lucas drily. ‘Or declaiming either. But I think Glory’s in trouble, and she needs our help.’

  Chapter 24

  Glory had enjoyed her second café-rendezvous with Rose. San Jerico was lonelier than Glory liked to admit, and getting to know Rose had given her a sense of purpose. But now it was becoming a distraction. She decided it would be better if she began to keep her distance.

  Finding out what had happened to her mother was Glory’s priority. But she wasn’t naive. She knew there was a good chance Edie Starling was dead. She’d give it her best shot, and if nothing came of it, well . . . she’d be no worse off than she’d been a few month
s ago.

  The obvious thing to do was to use the contacts she’d made at the Carabosse to get introduced to the Cordoban covens. Perhaps she’d hear about her mother that way. There would always be opportunities for a witch with her gifts. She was smart and talented. A good job in a strong coven was all she’d wanted, once.

  But then she thought of the bleeding beggar on the cathedral steps, the frightened citizens clutching their charms and saying their prayers, the little boy locked away behind iron doors. A life of witchcrime . . . Did she even have the stomach for it any more?

  Much as she hated to admit it, Lucas was right to say that working at the Carabosse was beneath her. She scowled at the thought of him lounging back on the purple velvet, looking down his aristocratic nose, curling his aristocratic lip. Judging her. As if she was some fallen woman in need of rescue!

  She had been training herself not to think of him. She needed to believe they wouldn’t meet again. Yet that first moment, when he’d leaned out of the shadows . . . Her insides still turned over at the thought of it. A deep, hot shiver of recognition.

  Glory thumped her pillow in annoyance. She was trying to have an afternoon nap, but couldn’t relax enough to drop off. She kept wondering how Lucas had tracked her down. It was possible WICA had somebody following her. Or, worse, the UK Inquisition. Not that any of them could touch her, not out here . . . The house throbbed with the sound of the TV blaring, dogs yapping, raised voices. Close her eyes, and she could almost be back in Cooper Street.

  Amid the racket, she heard her name. Todd was shouting for her from downstairs.

  ‘WHAT?’ she yelled back.

  ‘VISITOR!’

  Lucas, she thought, and her insides gave another jolt.

  She swung out of bed and reached for something to wear. A moment later the door to her room was pushed open by Todd.