Witch Fire

by Laura Powell

  ‘Don’t you knock?’ she growled, wrapping her dressing gown round her even more tightly.

  ‘Don’t you listen? You’ve got someone to see you.’

  ‘I know. I heard. I’m coming –’

  ‘Seems like your pal needs a shoulder to cry on. And I’d be happy to lend one . . . she’s hot, for a ginger chick.’

  So it was Rose then. With dragging feet, Glory went downstairs.

  Rose did indeed look as if she’d been crying. Her face was blotched and her hands were shaking.

  ‘Oh, Glory,’ she gasped, drawing her outside the front door. ‘Thank God you’re here. Something – something terrible’s happened.’

  ‘What’s wrong? Are you hurt?’

  ‘Not me. It’s Esteban. Esteban Vargas. The little boy – we – you – saw at the party yesterday –’

  ‘Has he had an accident?’ But even as she asked, she knew the answer.

  Rose spoke in a frightened whisper. ‘It’s witchwork. He’s been got at. We don’t know how. They called the doctor at first. And then a fae-healer, from one of the private hospitals. But neither of them can do anything. And then I thought of you. You’re powerful, aren’t you, Glory? And experienced. I thought – if you could just – just come –’

  ‘The kid’s been hexed?’ Glory sucked her teeth. ‘I ain’t got skills in that sorta thing.’

  But that wasn’t quite true. Auntie Angel had taught her banes. And WICA had taught her how to undo them.

  ‘Please. If you could just try. If you could see him . . . it’s so horrible . . .’ Rose’s eyes were welling with tears. ‘Vargas – he’s desperate, frantic. We all are. But I know I can trust you.’

  Glory had only seen Esteban for a few moments, but she had liked the kid. To inflict a bane on a child would be taboo for any witch that she could think of, criminal or not.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘I’ll come and see.’

  There was another limousine waiting to take her to the mansion. The closer they got to their destination, the more distressed Rose became. ‘He’s just an innocent,’ she kept saying. ‘I don’t understand.’ She rocked back and forth. ‘Such darkness. It’s like I can feel it . . . feel it spreading . . .’

  They passed through the same three checkpoints, the militiamen even more hatchet-faced than before. Rose said that nobody knew how the security had been breached. No bells had rung or alarms been activated; there was nothing untoward on CCTV. Disaster had struck at midday, when Esteban was in his playroom. He had pointed at the floor, and said there was a snake. His nanny could see nothing. Almost immediately afterwards, the boy had started banging his head against the wall. When he was forcibly stopped, he fell into a trance.

  This time, Glory was brought through the mansion’s main entrance, but there was little opportunity to take in her surroundings. Accompanied by three soldiers and with Rose at her side, she was taken up to Esteban’s bedroom. It was large and well-lit, despite the iron shutters covering the windows, and should have been a cheerful place; the colourful walls were lined with books, the floor littered with toys. Now it was hot, noisy and crowded with frightened people. A group of servants and family members took up most of the space; muttering and weeping, clutching charms. A doctor in a white coat and a woman in a green striped uniform, who was presumably the fae-healer, were huddled together in one corner. A priest was in the other, burning incense and intoning prayers. Nobody was bridled. After all, the damage had already been done.

  Before Glory crossed the threshold, her way was blocked by Vargas himself. His eyes were bloodshot, his breath sour with fear.

  ‘You are the girl, the witch-girl?’ he asked in heavily accented English. ‘The friend of Rosa, from England?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘You won’t hurt him?’ His eyes burned into hers. ‘You will do only good?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I won’t hurt him. I will – I will try to help.’

  ‘Swear it. I have to trust you, I have no choice. Swear.’

  ‘I swear.’

  Rose gripped Glory’s arm. ‘I know you can do it. I believe in you.’

  ‘I can only do me best,’ she said, and felt a shiver of apprehension. The pressure of Rose’s fingernails reminded her of last night’s warning to stay away. As she walked into the centre of the room, the people around her fell silent, and shrank back.

  She tried not to let it distract her. She needed to keep her attention on the child. Esteban was sitting bolt upright in the centre of the bed, which had been pulled into the middle of the room. As soon as she saw him, she could sense the fae rolling off him, like a toxic fog. His eyes were wide and unblinking. His body was shaken by shudders and pouring with sweat. She could hear the dull chatter of his teeth.

  Rose had said that Esteban thought he saw a snake. That made it a figment – the type of bane associated with hallucinations. It had put the boy into a literal trance of terror. All banes were very difficult to undo; if the witch who hexed it was as strong as Glory, it might be impossible. Yet the bells over the doorway were silent and still. However had it been done? It was a question that must be contributing to the tension in the room. People must be wondering about the interrogations to follow.

  Glory turned to the uniformed woman standing by the doctor and asked, in halting Spanish, if she was the fae-healer.

  The woman nodded, and nervously held out her hand. A little mud-man was there, wrapped in what looked like a bit of pillowcase from Esteban’s bed. It had been made in an attempt to draw the fae out of the boy and into a poppet. Glory would try the same thing, with a few amendments.

  She beckoned Rose over. ‘I’ll need to make a poppet of me own. With blood from Esteban, if that’s OK. Will you explain to his dad?’

  The necessary arrangements were made, and the doctor passed her a sterilised scalpel. Someone else was sent to gather earth from Esteban’s favourite play area in the garden, while Glory collected a marble from his toybox and dust from under the bed-frame. The earth was sandy, and the feel of it between her palms took her back to Dr Caron’s therapy sessions, and the long hours fiddling with the sand-tray. She used it to build a mud-man around the marble, mixed with dust and a smear of blood she took from the boy’s arm.

  He didn’t seem to notice her take it, any more than when she cut off a hank of his messy black curls. This she twisted into a strand of her own, moistened with spit, to make a bracelet. The audience watched intently, and in silence.

  Glory’s mouth was very dry as she climbed on to the bed to sit opposite Esteban. With the scalpel, she made a small nick in the centre of her forehead and then his. He didn’t flinch. In her right hand, she held the poppet. With her left, she took one of his, and slipped the hair bracelet over their interlaced fingers. His skin was icy, despite the sweat pouring from his body. She leaned in to press forehead against forehead, blood against blood, eye meeting eye. His pupils were dilated and oddly clouded.

  As her fae began to rise and tingle, warming the spot beneath her collarbone, she reached deep into her own dark secret heart. From here, the fae flowed out to the child; through the blood they shared, the ring of hair that bound them and the poppet she held. As she did so, she could feel the other witch’s fae resisting her. It was a creeping coldness and sickness; a fuzz in the brain.

  She stared deep into Esteban’s eyes, trying to get past the haze that clouded them. The cut on her forehead burned. And, just for a moment, she heard it: a rasping slither and hiss, a squirm of darkness in her head . . .

  She gasped, and flinched away. At the same moment, a scribble mark appeared on Esteban’s lower left arm. It was a serpentine scratch, where beads of blood formed. Vargas cried out in anguish, and the other onlookers rustled and hummed. Rose was twisting her hands together and murmuring, as if in prayer.

  Glory blocked them out. She took a deep breath and resumed her position. She didn’t know whether the appearance of the snake-mark was a good or bad sign, but she clutched the child’s hand mor
e tightly, and the poppet more firmly. She started to whisper his name, over and over. There was a bitter taste in her mouth. As she began to sweat and shake, and a fearful coldness crept over her skin, she began to realise this wasn’t something she could win. The bane was too strong for her. If she wasn’t careful, whatever had infected Esteban would start to infect her too.

  ‘I can’t –’ she choked out. ‘I can’t –’

  All of a sudden, the pressure vanished. It felt like a warm breeze blowing through her body. With a crack, the marble fell to the floor, for the mud-man built around it had crumbled into a vile-smelling greenish dust.

  Esteban gave a sharp cry. Then he blinked, and shook his head blearily, like someone coming out of a deep sleep. The bloody scribble on his arm had vanished. ‘Papá!’ he explained. ‘Vi una serpiente!’ Then he looked at the floor, clearly wondering where the snake had gone.

  His father rushed at him, weeping and babbling, crushing him in his arms. Other people crowded around the bed. Glory was happy to step back, feeling shaky and confused. Several people came and pumped her hand, asking questions she was too dazed to respond to. But others, including the fae-healer, kept their distance. They seemed almost more nervous of her now than when she’d first entered the room.

  Rose came and hugged her. Panic over, she was bright-eyed and pink-cheeked, almost giddy with relief. ‘Oh, Glory! Thank you so, so, so much. You were wonderful! Miraculous.’

  ‘I don’t . . . I don’t understand what happened.’ Glory frowned. ‘I thought I couldn’t do it. I was losing. And then, out of nowhere –’

  ‘Like I said, you’re a miracle-worker! I shouldn’t be surprised if you get a government honour out of this. Or a statue in the Plaza de la República. It’s the least you deserve. As I’m sure the Senator will tell you . . .’ She looked towards her boss, still cradling his son and barely visible through a knot of well-wishers.

  ‘If it’s OK with you, I won’t stick around. I mustn’t be late for work.’ Glory smiled shakily. ‘Could do with some fresh air too, if I’m honest.’

  Rose glanced at her watch. ‘Actually, I should be heading to the office too. I’ll walk you out.’

  ‘Bit past office hours, I’d have thought.’

  ‘The Red Knights are on duty twenty-four-seven.’

  ‘Wait – you’re in the militia? I thought you was working for Vargas’s campaign!’

  ‘Oh, I am. But I also do some of the admin for the Senator’s security detail. It’s how I met my boyfriend, as it happens. He’s a Red Knight lieutenant. I’ll have to introduce you next time around.’ Rose smiled. ‘Maybe he should bring along a friend for you. No girl can resist a man in uniform!’

  Raffi’s family was very welcoming to Lucas. A noisy tribe of sisters crowded round to greet him, while Senora Almagro didn’t stop beaming. The Comandante had the same small merry eyes and spiky quiff as his son.

  Bribery and corruption had certainly treated the police chief well. The penthouse duplex was stuffed with Louis XVI antique furniture and American pop art. Lucas and Raffi stretched out beside the swimming pool on a blue-tiled roof terrace, sipping coconut lemonade and eating savoury pastries brought out by the maids. The city sprawled below, rooftops shimmering in a smoky haze.

  Lucas, however, was unable to relax. He didn’t want to get Raffi too involved, yet needed his local knowledge and support. In the end, he kept Cambion out of the story, while explaining who Gideon was and why he was dangerous, particularly for a witch like Glory.

  Raffi’s response was not reassuring. He told Lucas that the militias were made up of ex-inquisitors and soldiers, mostly foreign, and all with shady pasts. The Red Knights were funded and administered by a consortium of Cordoba’s wealthiest families. He suspected that Senator Vargas aimed to take them under state control if he was elected and use them as a basis to re-establish the Cordoban Inquisition.

  It was no surprise Raffi distrusted Vargas’s ambition to restore order to Cordoba’s streets and integrity to its public life. His father owed his position to the current president, Ignacio De Aviles, a doddery old rogue who was embroiled in several lawsuits. This led Lucas to reconsider Raffi’s departure from Wildings.

  ‘You told me you were going home because the political situation had changed,’ he reminded him. ‘And that it would be safe for you here. But Vargas is ahead in the polls. He’s still the favourite to win, right?’

  Raffi smiled, and tapped his nose. ‘Ah, but my papá, he hears things. Whispers that bad things are to happen to Vargas’s campaign. Soon, he is to withdraw.’

  ‘Is the source of these whispers reliable?’

  ‘Some of them maybe yes, some maybe no. But one whisper is the most reliable of all.’ Raffi lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘They call her La Bruja Blanca.’

  La Bruja Blanca . . . the White Witch.

  ‘I think I’ve heard of her,’ Lucas said. ‘Somebody tried to sell me a charm she made.’

  ‘She is fighter-hero from the revolution, many years ago. An ancient lady, though it is said she can appear young and beautiful, because she is so strong in her fae. She is hiding in the mountains. The peasant people, they think her very good and very powerful, and they tell her things. She has spies in the city too. Sometimes, they cause trouble for my papá. La Bruja Blanca does not like him. But she hates the Inquisition worse, and also the militias.’

  Lucas dipped a hand into the gleaming water of the swimming pool. ‘Sounds like a useful person to know.’

  ‘La Blanca is no help to us here, though. If Glory gets in trouble with the militia, then that is very bad. Even my papá cannot control them. They make many witches disappear. You must warn her about this Gideon.’

  ‘It’s getting her to listen that’s the trouble. She’s . . . well, she’s very angry with me.’

  ‘Aha, but Glory is not angry with me. Tonight we will go party in the Carabosse, and I will talk to her. My family, we know the owner. So there will be no worries.’ Raffi settled back on his sunlounger. ‘Seriously, amigo, now is time to chill. Me, I can make all things right.’

  But when he and Lucas turned up to the Carabosse that night, they found the street closed off and the building evacuated. An excitable crowd had gathered behind the cordon, where a policeman was arguing with a soldier in a red uniform. The club had been raided by the Red Knight militia, said the man nearest to Raffi. A member of staff was accused of bane-hexing and assault. Some said she had escaped over the rooftops; according to other reports, she was already captive.

  Chapter 25

  The vileness of Esteban’s bane clung to Glory for a good while after leaving Rose. But after food and a shower, she felt more like herself. She didn’t have to explain anything to her housemates, since it was Candy’s night off and she and Todd were out. By the time Glory left for the Carabosse, her thoughts had turned to possible rewards. Maybe she could use Vargas’s gratitude as leverage to get a better job. Or help with looking for her mum. Or a nice fat wad of cash. She wouldn’t say no to a statue in the Plaza de la República either.

  Not bad, for a girl from Cooper Street . . . !

  Her revival was short-lived. Work was even more busy than usual and dominated by her least favourite type of punter: an English stag party. Fighting the bane had drained her more than she realised. After less than an hour the crush got too much and she slipped back into the staffroom for a moment’s peace, on the pretext she needed supplies for a fascination.

  ‘They are looking for you in the club,’ somebody said from the passage outside.

  It was the cat-woman, Sheba, dressed for her act in the silver leotard, the animal draped round her shoulders like a fur wrap. It was the first time Glory had heard her voice: a low and scratchy purr.

  ‘Yeah, well, I’ll be there in a sec,’ she said irritably.

  The woman’s eyes shone yellowish in the dim light. ‘It is the militia.’

  Her cat opened its mouth and yowled. Glory stared at its white pointed teeth an
d ribbed red throat. And yet, somehow, she wasn’t as shocked as she should have been. For hadn’t she been tensed for this her whole life? Boots on the stairs, fists on the door. Rough hands, dragging her through the night.

  Her thoughts flashed confusedly – Esteban’s bane – Rose – the Red Knights –

  It never occurred to her that there might be a reasonable explanation, or that she should try to face it out. Flee or fight: those were your only options in a witch-hunt. Hardly aware of what she was doing, she kicked off her spindly high heels and thrust her feet into the trainers she’d used for the commute. Fight or flee . . . But she had no weapon, and the basement was windowless. Helplessly, she moved towards the back door, knowing it was already too late. Of course they would have posted a guard there.

  ‘Not that way,’ said Sheba, blinking her golden eyes. ‘This.’

  She beckoned Glory into her dressing room. It was cramped and frowsty, smelling of cat. ‘Emergency exit,’ she said impassively, and pointed to a built-in wardrobe. Sounds of barked orders and indignant protests were coming from the main club.

  Trembling, Glory opened the wardrobe and drew back a tangle of costumes to see that stairs lay behind. Sheba pressed something into her hand – a white feather, a knucklebone – before moving away to sit at her mirror. The last Glory saw of her, she was licking her hands to smooth her hair. The cat sat beside her, grooming its own sleek fur.

  The stairs only went up one level. It wouldn’t take long for the soldiers to work out where she had gone. But the rest of the building was used as an archive store and would be empty at night. Glory’s hand closed more tightly around Sheba’s parting gift. Though she didn’t understand the feather, the bit of bone was important. If she could get on to the roof, she could use it as a lodestone. Witches, like cats, were good with heights . . .

  She could feel the music from the club vibrating through the floor. She ran through a succession of storage rooms, the grandeur of their stone carvings and polished wood obscured by ranks of shelving towers.