The Shadow Rises

by K.S. Marsden

  *****

  There was the thin grey light of a late winter’s dawn as they finally turned out of the village of Little Hanting and onto the Astley estate. Right on cue, James groaned and woke up.

  “Home?” He muttered.

  “Yes, two minutes.” Hunter replied shortly, starting to feel tired again as the familiar ground flicked by.

  They were driving straight up towards the Manor when a man stepped into their headlights, blocking the way. He waved at them to stop. More commanding was the gun he aimed at the windscreen.

  “Who goes there?” The man shouted as the car stopped.

  Hunter leaned out, “Hunter Astley, 7th gen; and James Bennett, 1st gen.”

  The witch-hunter didn’t move or lower his weapon. “Do you have proof of identity?”

  “Proof?” Hunter gasped, not in the mood for this. “Look, this is my bloody house, so if you don’t mind shifting.”

  The witch-hunter looked uncertain, but a second armed figure moved in the darkness to their right. He began to walk warily towards them, then stopped. “Mr Astley? You’re back. Let him pass, Dan.”

  The first man moved aside and Hunter got the rattling vehicle down the remaining short length of drive to the front of the Manor. The Fiesta stuttered to a rolling stop as the engine packed in with perfect timing.

  Hunter and James went into the wonderfully familiar Manor, and were immediately surrounded by witch-hunters.

  “Mr Astley, thank god. We feared the worst when we lost contact.” Anthony Marks, the 5th gen that had been in charge in their absence now stepped forward.

  The worst? Yes, the worst had happened, Hunter thought sleepily. His bed was upstairs, warm and comfortable.

  “Communications have been down for two days, we’ve been struggling to track down other witch-hunters, trying to re-establish links with police and army forces.”

  “Yes, the Shadow Witch knocked out everything technological. James’ll explain later.” Hunter said, struggling to pay attention. “Right now, we have to prepare for an attack. The Shadow Witch is coming. As soon as she finds out that we’ve escaped she’ll know where to find us. She could be here at any moment, so we don’t have time to lose.”

  “But the Manor is safe against her.”

  Hunter nodded. “Even if it is, it won’t stop her coming as close as possible and forcing us to fight - I think we may have managed to piss her off. Little Hanting. The village, it needs evacuating. Get the villagers as far away as possible, or get them in here if there’s room, I don’t care.”

  The surrounding witch-hunters stood there looking far too gormless for Hunter’s liking. “Well, go!”

  Hunter turned to James who, although still looking a bruised mess, was keen and wide-awake. “I’m going to lie down. Wake me when - when it’s time.”

  Twenty-four

  Hunter felt like he’d only closed his eyes for ten minutes when he was suddenly shaken awake. His eyes snapped open and he bolted upright. Sitting on his bed was a familiar figure.

  “James?” How long have I slept?”

  “Um, dunno, ‘bout ten minutes.” He replied distractedly.

  Hunter groaned, but pulled back his covers and started looking for his shoes. “Sophie’s here already? I had hoped we’d have more time to prepare.”

  “What? No, she’s not here yet.” James replied.

  “Then what…?” Hunter frowned at his friend, tempted to push him off the bed, roll over and go back to sleep. “James, you are a pain in the arse. What is this about then?”

  James looked down at a book he held in his hands. When he spoke it was is a conspiring whisper. “The Benandanti. I knew I’d seen info on them in the library, so I went t’find it.”

  Hunter sighed, but paid attention, his nerves sparking inside him. “Anything useful?”

  “Depends.” James answered. “I’ve only flicked through, but it does describe some of their, ah, abilities. Eye witness accounts of Benandanti standing in front of witches: a feeling of a cushioning atmosphere that blocked all use of magic, forcing witches to fight by mortal means.”

  Now that did sound promising, but Hunter still frowned. “If, if I’m capable of that, would it apply against a Shadow Witch - magic without limits? And does it say how it’s done?”

  James paused, scanning through the marked pages. Eventually he shrugged. “No, no mention on how. You’ll have to work that out alone. As for bein’ up against a Shadow, I doubt the Benandanti ever met one.”

  Hunter stared at the book unseeingly. “Do you think this is how Sophie worked it out?”

  “Probably. She had open access to the Astley collection and library.” James replied honestly, sharing a portion of the guilt and shame.

  “I think we can assume that, even with my questionable abilities, Sophie will be prepared. She’ll bring a small army of witches.”

  James didn’t interrupt, but did wonder how Hunter could sound so sure.

  “An army of witches.” Hunter repeated quietly. “And we have what, fifty witch-hunters?”

  “Forty-three.” James corrected.

  A pitiful number, sure to be crushed. They had personally seen thirty witches just in that house. Hunter didn’t doubt that Sophie could double or triple that within hours. Hopefully she’ll be impatient and come with only a handful of witches, rather than patiently mustering more.

  “Why don’t we build our own army?” James suddenly asked.

  “What, with forty-three witch-hunters? Or are you suggesting that the villagers of Little Hanting join in?”

  James ignored his sarcasm. “No, I mean the actual army. They’ve gotta be on alert after the comms went down. If we get some troops here we’ll be winning on numbers.”

  “James!” Hunter cut into his enthusiasm. “First of all, they aren’t witch-hunters.”

  “But they are trained.” James argued.

  “And numbers might not help against a Shadow.” Hunter persevered.

  “But they’ll help, ‘specially if you knock out the magic.”

  “And the closest base is nearly two hours away. Even if someone set off now, by the time the troops were kitted and mobilised, they couldn’t get back here for what, five hours. It could be too late.”

  James shook his head, opening his book again. “Look, the Benandanti could travel in the blink of an eye. You could go tell them. Even if you can’t transport them with you, it’ll cut two hours off the time.”

  “James, I am not Benandanti!” Hunter argued. Yes, things would all work out if he did have all these powers, but all he felt was bloody useless at this point.

  “Just try, what’s the harm?”

  The harm? He could be accused of witchcraft and cast out by the witch-hunters when they needed him most.

  “Even if I can, it might not be soon enough. What if she attacks while I’m away?”

  “Then you will survive to fight again and find a way to destroy the Shadow Witch.” James answered seriously. “Hunter, try, you’re our only hope.”

  “I don’t know how.” Hunter continued to argue.

  “Concentrate, I guess.” James said encouragingly. “Ah, if it works, I’ll keep an eye on the others. I think its best that they don’t know ‘bout this til necessary.”

  Hunter stood up and instinctively closed his eyes. Feeling rather stupid he twisted his mind, trying to feel something, tingly, or warm and smothered like the Shadow.

  “This is never going to work.” He muttered, opening his eyes.

  “Just keep concentrating.” James suggested. “Picture yourself on base.”

  Hunter took a deep breath and closed his eyes again. He remembered visiting the base when he’d first joined the MMC, he’d been to see the general, an open-minded, trustworthy man who’d been made aware of the witch threat and occasionally passed on witch-sightings and helped with some of the cover-ups.

  Hunter could see cl
early the general’s office, with the desk and walls decorated with photos and certificates. It all seemed out of reach.

  “I feel stupid.” He muttered.

  There was a faint click and a man’s voice came from behind him.

  “Raise your hands and turn slowly to face me.”

  Hunter’s eyes flew open, instead of his navy bedroom there were cream walls. He lifted his hands and span quickly to see the familiar office.

  There was the crack of a pistol as the man fired at his hasty movements. Hunter’s eyes widened with fear and his heart leapt… but nothing hit him. He looked down, confused. A shining bullet hovered just inches from his chest. Stopped dead.

  “Huh. That’s useful.” Hunter reached out to touch it. His finger brushed the metal, before he swore and snapped his hand back from the heat. Hunter frowned and stared at the little thing, then it dropped onto the floor.

  Hunter looked up. There was a shocked middle-aged man standing behind a desk, holding a gun with impressive steadiness. It had been a few years, but he was still recognisable.

  “General Hayworth.” Hunter stepped towards him, hesitating as he realised that he was barefoot. Bother, next time he’d have to remember to be fully dressed before attempting transporting himself.

  “Sir, my name’s Hunter Astley, from the Malleus Maleficarum Council. We met a few years ago.”

  “Astley? Astley, yes I remember.” The general glanced down at his bare feet with a frown. “We thought only witches appeared out of nowhere.”

  The general half-shrugged and lowered his gun, obviously thinking he’d given enough explanation for having fired at the sudden appearance of a person in his office.

  “It’s a long story.” Hunter admitted. “But I don’t have time to explain everything. We need your help. We know where the Shadow Witch will strike next, we just need an army to face her.”

  The door of the office suddenly opened and a younger man burst in. He stopped, staring at the General and witch-hunter. “General, I, ah, heard a gunshot.”

  “It’s nothing, Dawkins, return to your post.” General Hayworth replied calmly.

  The young man, obedient but confused, backed out of the office, closing the door behind him.

  “Sit down, Astley.” The general said, motioning to a chair in front of his desk. “As I was saying to Marks before the phones went down, the army doesn’t take orders from your MMC. In times of chaos we have to follow the proper channels, but-”

  “But we don’t have time to follow the proper channels.” Hunter interrupted with frustration. “The Shadow Witch could attack at any time.”

  “Will you let me finish, Mr Astley?” The General said patiently. “But, I understand that things have changed. Those that wrote the rules could not have predicted this. I also understand that the MMC may well know best. Yet my men are not trained to fight witches.”

  “You can’t choose your enemies.” Hunter reasoned.

  “No, but we are better defending than fighting.” The general mused. “Your Council does know best, I suppose. We will rally to your aid.”

  General Hayworth walked over to the door and opened it. “Sergeant!”

  Dawkins reappeared obediently. “Yes General?”

  “I want the men armed and ready to leave in thirty minutes. Then return here.”

  Dawkins blinked with surprise. “Yes General.”

  The sergeant disappeared down the corridor to pass on the order.

  “Thank you, General.” Hunter said as the general closed the door and returned to his seat.

  “Don’t thank me yet.” He replied. “You have half an hour to explain this to me.” 

  Twenty-five

  Hunter decided that relaying his story was the least he could do for this good man. Hunter went over a lot, but not everything, he left out most of his mistakes, aware as he did so that he was leaving gaping holes in his story.

  The General just sat there, building up a better understanding of their enemy. He raised a brow whenever he felt that Hunter was being evasive or less than honest, but said nothing until he’d finished.

  “I agree that we need to get to Little Hanting as soon as possible. That travel ‘in a blink’ thing you did, can you take others?”

  “I - I don’t know.” Hunter replied truthfully. “I haven’t really had time to work it out.”

  The General nodded and stood up, going to his office door once more. “Dawkins!”

  The mild young man popped in for the third time.

  “Yes General?”

  “I’m going to inspect the troops, Dawkins. You are going to help Mr Astley with a little experiment.” He turned to Hunter. “Astley, I want a definite answer in fifteen minutes.”

  General Hayworth exited the office, leaving Hunter with a now very pale Dawkins.

  “Experiment?” The sergeant asked weakly.

  Hunter hesitated. He could try explaining it to the fellow, but he’d be likelier to scare him rather than reassure him. The idea of taking another person along brought up a lot of questions for Hunter. What if it didn’t work? Or worse, what if it only partially worked and half of poor Dawkins got left behind?

  “Just… stand still and bear with me.” Hunter suggested, shutting out his worries.

  Hunter reached out and held the sergeant’s arm tightly. He shut his eyes and pictured home. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes.

  Damn, still the office. Dawkins stood tense and still beside him.

  Hunter frowned, concentrate, concentrate. Home, his room with the oak panelling, the cream and navy sheets and curtains, the table with the-

  Hunter felt Dawkins snatch away from him and feared the worst. His eyes snapped open. The first thing he saw was his bedroom; the second was a very whole and very pale Dawkins.

  “Yes!” Hunter shouted, finally something had gone right.

  “How do you feel? All in one piece? Dizzy?” Hunter asked the sergeant rapidly.

  Dawkins gazed about him open-mouthed and wide-eyed. “What was…? Ah, yes sir, fine sir. A little dizzy I guess.”

  “Great.” Hunter replied. “Ok, I’ve got to get back to General Hayworth, you might as well stay here. Go downstairs, find someone called James Bennett. Tell him Hunter is going to bring the army.”

  Hunter broke off. He didn’t know how many men would be coming, but no part of his Manor would hold even a hundred, he’d struggle to get even fifty into any room.

  “Tell James they’ll be in Little Hanting’s church hall within the hour.”

  Hunter was getting excited now. Death and war beckoned to them, but now they had a chance. He stood tall and closed his eyes to go back to the General’s office, then broke off.

  “Shoes, shoes…” He pulled them out from under his bed and hopped about as he pulled them on. He grabbed his coat and closed his eyes.

  When he opened them he was in General Hayworth’s office. This blinking thing was getting easier. Hunter felt hope burn bright in his chest as he left the office to find the General.

  Outside, a hundred soldiers stood, kitted and ready, silent and waiting. Hunter could see a single figure moving up and down the ranks, the general inspecting the troops.

  Hunter ran up, aware of the many eyes that followed him.

  General Hayworth took one look at him. “So you were successful?”

  Hunter nodded, then couldn’t help but smile. He was bristling with the excitement and opportunity of this new ability.

  “Well, let’s get this over with.” The general said. “How do you suggest we go about this? It’ll take a while to go one at a time. Can you take several?”

  Hunter, buoyed up by recent success was thinking of something a little more effective. “I have an idea. Can we use a wall?”

  Without explaining himself, Hunter turned to the nearest building and went up to the side wall that stretched about 10 metres wide. The Shadow Witch had done it
with shadows, why shouldn’t he be able to do it with what was on hand.

  “I figure that if I create and maintain a link you should all be able to, well, to march on through.” Hunter tried to sound convincing.

  General Hayworth frowned, but sighed, the General was out of his depth where magic was concerned, he’d go along with almost anything at this point. After all, what did they have to lose.

  “Very well.” He turned to his troops. “Fall in, four abreast. Forward march.”

  There was the co-ordinated movement of well-trained men. The General halted them in front of the building.

  “When you’re ready, Astley.”

  Hunter tried to ignore how very pale and dubious the first four men at the front of the column looked, and placed his hand on the cold brick. Closing his eyes he did his best to picture the old church hall, without going there himself. Ready, he nodded.

  On command the first four stepped and - slammed into the wall. Hunter opened his eyes as about him soldiers laughed with a note of panic.

  “Wait, wait, I’ve got it now, I promise.” Hunter said, concentrating so hard it was difficult to get the words out.

  The General ordered his men to go again, which they did gingerly, reaching out and finding their hands passing through the solid wall. This caused as much subdued panic as before, but soon the men marched through under the stern eye of their General.

  Gradually the court cleared as the troops disappeared. Hunter was sweating with the exertion of keeping the link, he had no idea it would be so hard to concentrate for so long. As the last soldier stepped through, Hunter broke off from the wall and bent over at the knee, his heart pounding and breath panting, a wave of exhaustion came over him as though he’d just ran a bloody marathon. He vaguely thought that he should have made them all drive instead.

  “Buck up, Astley.” Came the general’s voice. “You’re not done just yet.”

  Hunter took a deep breath and stood up straight. He dutifully took hold of General Hayworth’s arm. One more trip, he’d manage it, he’d have to.

  When he opened his eyes, Hunter was surrounded by soldiers beneath the dusty roof of the old village hall. Next to him, General Hayworth looked about business-like, apparently unfazed by the magical journey.

  They’d only been there a minute when Sergeant Dawkins and Anthony Marks pushed their way towards them. Hunter didn’t like the look on Marks’ face, and guessed what was coming. But any unpleasantness was put off by the necessary introductions and briefings.

  “… squads are placed beyond Astley Manor, we were just dividing the rest to place about the village.” Dawkins reeled off, obviously recovered from his earlier shock.

  “We can’t thank you enough, General.” Marks said.

  “We’re all on the same side, Mr Marks.” General Hayworth replied, brushing aside his thanks. They could be grateful when, and if, they won.

  Marks nodded, then finally turned to Hunter. “A word please, Mr Astley.”

  Oh no, Hunter definitely didn’t like the sound of his voice, and followed Marks out of the hall like a naughty schoolboy. He’d just brought them an army, surely that proved he was still one of the good guys, surely they wouldn’t damn him as a witch and therefore evil.

  Outside it was bitterly cold with a bright sun. Little Hanting had never looked so idyllic on this sharp, clear day. The villagers were gone and the only movement was that of uniformed soldiers and their witch-hunter guides.

  Anthony Marks stopped abruptly and turned to Hunter, his eyes blazing. When he spoke, his voice struggled to remain calm. “Well? Are you going to explain what the hell is going on? We’re under serious threat from the Shadow Witch - a threat you’ve seemed to exacerbate, I might add - you disappear and your assistant refuses to say anything. A sergeant from the British Army materialises in the Manor and the Army is in the church hall. This all smacks of magic, Astley.”

  Hunter couldn’t meet Marks’ gaze, instead he looked vaguely over his shoulder.

  “It’s… complicated. Do you know what happens when a 7th gen witch-hunter is created? It turns out that we have evolved to be something more… gifted. Similar to the Benandanti, they were-”

  “The Italian anti-witches, yes I know, get on with it.” Marks interrupted harshly.

  Hunter frowned. Christ, was he the only person not to have heard of them?

  “I have some of their abilities, which I’ve used to bring in the army. We couldn’t hope to win without their help. I know this sounds dodgy, but I’m not a witch and I’m still a witch-hunter, still the same guy. When this is all over we can debate the issue, but right now we don’t have time. You just have to trust me.”

  Hunter watched Marks carefully, but the older witch-hunter gave nothing away with his stern expression.

  “You were wrong to hide this from us, Astley.” Marks eventually spoke, “How can we wage a war when you are going off on private jaunts with your own aims… What’s left of the MMC could prosecute you on that alone. I knew your father, Young, he was a good man, and I’m sure you are too. Just promise me, no more secrets, no hidden agendas.”

  Hunter nodded, “I promise.”

  Marks took a deep breath and looked about the empty village. “Well I suppose we best form a council and go over the battle plan.”

  Without another word, Marks headed off. After a moment or two, Hunter followed, not sure whether or not he should be relieved.

  Twenty-six

  Everyone was on edge as they waited for the attack. But the short winter’s day rolled on with no sign of activity. The soldiers and witch-hunters alike grumbled in the cold, and even Hunter began to doubt his assumption that Sophie would come for revenge, for him.

  About 4 o’ clock that afternoon, the sun dropped to the misty horizon and the world was half-lit in a grey light. Twilight.

  “They’re coming.” Hunter breathed, his hand tightening about the cold handle of his gun

  There was a suffocating silence, and a gentle breeze that was oddly warm. In the open space outside the village, figures began to appear, black and solid against the insubstantial evening. There was a throbbing pulse of magic that raised the head of every witch-hunter.

  The witches were more than fifty in number, and they bristled with excitement as they marched behind their leader, the Shadow Witch. They came to the edge of the Astley estate and stopped, the magic of the Manor doing its work. None could cross the invisible line without rendering themselves mortal.

  In the privacy of every man and woman’s mind, a voice echoed an ultimatum.

  “Surrender and your lives shall be spared. All we demand is that you turn over Astley. Resist and you die.”

  Those inside the Manor exchanged grim looks. They did not sacrifice one of their own, nor did they compromise with witches. And upon feeling the hateful magic that brewed, none would trust their lives to the gathered witchkind.

  Hunter gazed about the other witch-hunters that stood waiting in the hall for his signal. Their anxious faces lit by flickering firelight - at least they were warmer than those on patrol outside. James, Marks and twenty others, all silently relying on his questionable ability to protect them.

  They might all die tonight. But there was no backing down.

  Hunter took a deep breath and nodded, no point delaying the inevitable. The twenty fellow witch-hunters scrambled to their feet and followed him out of the warm Manor and into the cold, darkening evening. They marched over the flat ground, directed by that inner sense that detected magic.

  There was a crowd of witches awaiting them, all charged with magic and excitement. They shifted so two opposing lines were formed, witches facing witch-hunters, just twenty feet apart, the Astley Estate border between them. The witches outnumbered the witch-hunters three times over.

  The Shadow Witch stepped forward closer to the border. Her eyes immediately settled on Hunter. “You have come to give yourself up?”
r />   Her question was answered by the tensing of the line and the metallic click of several guns readying.

  “No, I didn’t think you’d make it easy.” The Shadow Witch said bitterly, a familiar frown creasing her beautiful features. “You can’t win. Have your men lay down their weapons and they may live.”

  “Why don’t you come over here and we’ll discuss it.” Hunter responded, stalling for time while others moved silently into position.

  “I don’t think so.” Sophie replied. “Shall we see how the Astley protection stands up against the destructive power of the Shadow Witch?”

  She raised her arms and there was the crackle of immense energy building up. Hunter suddenly saw in a flash the ruins and rubble of Brian Lloyd’s house.

  A gun discharged as one of the witch-hunters lost his nerve.

  “NO!” Hunter barked, snapping back to the present.

  The witches stood unfazed, apparently protected from something as insignificant as bullets.

  “You can’t win.” Sophie repeated, her eyes unfocussed as she prepared to release her most destructive magic.

  “You won’t hurt anyone.” Hunter whispered.

  With those around him in danger, he let his desire to protect grow. It spread like a blanket over the witches and witch-hunters, regardless of borders. The Shadow Witch either couldn’t feel it, or was too absorbed in her own spell to notice. She smiled and released her magic…

  Nothing happened.

  Sophie frowned, thinking it had been the power of the enchantments of the Manor that had stopped her. But it shouldn’t be, she had lived there for months, she knew every defence and how to overcome it. Her eyes found Hunter again and her confusion turned to rage.

  “ASTLEY! You utter bastard. How dare you… You weren’t…” Sophie spat, her anger boiling over. “I warn you not to do this.”

  “Too late.” Hunter replied quietly.

  From the darkness, lines of soldiers and witch-hunters ran forward, aimed and fired.

  The gathered witches laughed scornfully as the first shots rang out - for what could harm them in the presence of the Shadow Witch? But the laughter turned to screams of shock and fury and pain as the bullets ripped through, killing and maiming.

  As one body, the witches turned to face their attackers, preparing to raise their reliable magic to destroy them. But again nothing happened, they were defenceless against the slaughter.

  Sophie span, turned from one scene of tragedy to another as her loyal witches were shot down. They were surrounded, no escape on foot. Sophie tried, and failed, to raise her shadows to get the survivors out. Hunter, this was his doing. No bullet could penetrate her seething aura as she sought him.

  Hunter stood firmly on Astley ground, using his Manor’s enchantments for protection. Everyone else had gone forward to engage the enemy.

  Hunter’s eyes were open, but unseeing. He trembled in his stance as he struggled to maintain the block. He was starting to weaken, to slip, magic started to seep through the defences, he had to hold on.

  He was vaguely aware of someone approaching. He was unsurprised that it should be Sophie.

  “You shouldn’t have told me… what I was.” He gasped. “Your fault. It’s your fault.”

  “Your magic shall die with you, Astley.” Sophie spat, drawing closer, crossing the border that made her powerless.

  Hunter shook his head with some difficulty. “You can’t kill me.”

  Sophie hesitated. “Don’t be so sure.”

  There was a flash of metal and movement. Hunter couldn’t move fast enough to block the knife that drove into his torso. It felt cold, he realised, before the pain came.

  He looked into Sophie’s eyes, so close to his, and saw that her anger was gone, replaced by shock that drained the blood from her face.

  Hunter felt the protective magic slip and fade, and he crumpled to the ground.

  There was more gunfire, closer now. People continued to scream, but now others were calling his name.

  It all grew fainter.

  ‘What do you know, I was wrong.’ He thought.

  Then the world disappeared.

  Twenty-seven

  Hunter was lying somewhere warm, soft, and familiar. He was comfortable, so he stayed as he was while his mind caught up. Images of an army and a battle flashed behind his eyes, and somewhere the knowledge that he should be dead. Was he?

  He was breathing, he could feel his heavy limbs, but not much more. He finally opened his eyes, squinting against the daylight. It looked like his bedroom in the Manor. He sighed, that wasn’t his idea of heaven.

  There was the sound of someone else in the room, alerted to his consciousness by the sigh.

  “Hunter, you’re awake. Thank god.” The familiar voice was accompanied by a familiar figure hovering over him.

  “James, you look terrible.” Hunter said, his voice rough.

  James grimaced, his face still bore the signs of torture at the hands of the witches. “Thanks mate, nice to see you too. Thought you were never gonna wake up.”

  “How long have I been out?”

  “A couple of days.” James replied.

  Hunter frowned, then struggled to sit up, noticing the thick bandaging around his midriff and the odd, pain-free, sensation-free feeling. Which he guessed had plenty to do with copious amounts of morphine. Sitting up probably wasn’t a good idea.

  “What happened?” Hunter asked.

  “Sophie stabbed you. You‘re lucky to be alive.”

  “I know that.” Hunter grimaced. “But what happened in the fight? Sophie, was she…” killed? He couldn’t bring himself to say the word.

  “Sophie’s gone. Not dead, as much as we tried. She ran and vanished. As for the rest, we’d eradicated most of the witches by the time you were attacked. Then there was nowhere for them to go, they were all eliminated, with surprisingly few casualties on our side.” James filled in dutifully, still buoyed up on success.

  Hunter sat quietly, taking it all in. They’d won, they had slaughtered their enemies. Never had Hunter been upset by the death of witches. So what had changed; was it because he was one? No matter how you phrased it he possessed magic. Or was it because… because he had loved one.

  James, sensing that Hunter had a lot on his mind, made a weak excuse and left. Hunter hardly noticed him go, his thoughts were now on Sophie.

  With no proof or reason, he had believed Bev when she said that Sophie could not kill him. Yet she had tried, she had meant to, it was only luck that had kept him alive.

  Hunter remembered how pale Sophie had looked in that last moment, as if she were sharing his pain. Then she’d fled.

  What came next was anyone’s guess. Hunter could predict that he and Sophie would be the most hunted people by opposing parties. And neither could exist without seeking to destroy the other.

  The future was dark and definitely interesting, and wholly full of possibilities.

  And then the truth niggled away in a quiet corner of Hunter’s thoughts and heart. He was in love with the woman that would kill him, and she was carrying his child. 

  Other books by K.S. Marsden:

  Witch-Hunter

  The Shadow Rises

  The Shadow Reigns

  The Shadow Falls

  Witch-Hunter Prequels

  Kristen

  James ~ coming 2017

  Sophie ~ coming soon

  Enchena

  The Lost Soul

  The Oracle

  Northern Witch

  Winter Trials

  If you enjoyed The Shadow Rises, you may also enjoy:

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out that the war was less complicated and demanding in comparison to what they were about to experience just by being themselves. The "Crew" come together to face the biggest mystery of their lives; who they really are and their history. The line between coincidence and fate is tested in this entrancing tale of the supernatural and unknown.

  The Keeper of the Wind

  Mark Shaw

  When a trio of high school seniors list three ancient artifacts for sale on eBay, professor and archeologist of native artifacts, Mitch Waters, believes he hit the jackpot. But is he concerned more with historical preservation or his own fame and fortune?

  In the tradition of children’s literature classics, The Keeper of the Wind takes readers on a magical and enthralling journey, along which three best friends learn the true meaning of friendship, teamwork, and perseverance.

  Read on for a sneak peak of The Shadow Reigns…

  An insight from our villain

  For hundreds of years witches have been persecuted; forced to keep their heads down and conform to laws that we never agreed to. To be a witch is to live a hunted life; to suffer the stupidity and ignorance of those around you, even though you could outclass them with the simplest spell.

  I was born to free the witches from oppression. I am the Shadow Witch. I have freed my kin from the so-called justice of the witch-hunters and their Malleus Maleficarum Council. In one night, the world was thrown into chaos, and for once it was the witch-hunters that were forced back.

  We followed our victory with a second. We pitched the world into darkness, and removed the advantage technology gave our enemies. The new world has already begun, and in this spiralling darkness, those with magic will finally be able to rise above all others.

  Then why do I feel guilt? Why do I feel doubt?

  Ever since the witches told me of my destiny, when I was thirteen and powerless, I have never felt any doubt in my path. When my powers were awakened seven years later – the witches conducting sacrifices on Hallowe’en to break the ancient spell holding them back – I was even more sure of what lay ahead.

  But it is shallow of me to even pretend I do not know the reason that I finally question everything. Him. For years I hated the very name Astley, knowing that they were the witch-hunters that killed Sara Murray, the last Shadow Witch; and all its consequences. I would not be the same if she lived; I would not have to take up this brutal destiny.

  I had not planned to fall in love with the current bearer of the name: George “Hunter” Astley. I ignored the attraction at first; whenever he was around I told myself it was the excitement of playing him for a fool that thrilled me so, not his presence itself. But after months of secretly savouring each glance, each touch, I wanted more. I knew from the beginning that our relationship was doomed; I could not stay with him and soon we would be on the opposite sides of a war. Is it wrong I tried to find a way to keep him with me? If not for my sake, then for our child’s?

  Not that it mattered. In the end he chose his side, and I chose mine.

  I knew that I was expected to kill him when we met again, and I was prepared to do so. I came so close and failed. As my knife got past his guard and cut deep into him, I felt a shock of pain stab through me. It was all I could do to evade his witch-hunters and return home, where I collapsed at my mother’s feet.

  I have been recovering slowly for a month now. I cannot explain it, there is no physical wound; I can only guess that what was inflicted on him rebounded to me. None of the witches can explain why, but some theorise that the child links us – we can only guess what powers he or she shall inherit. In which case, if this is true; I shall withdraw as much as possible until it is born, and hope the spell breaks.

  One

  Little Hanting was a picturesque village in the English countryside. Quaint bungalows and farmhouses fanned out from the church hall, with its perfectly manicured green in front of it. Not that the grass could be seen; fresh snow had again fallen the previous night, coating everything with a perfect whiteness. All it needed was children with mittens having a snowball fight, and the scene would be idyllic.

  But Little Hanting silently suffered. The inhabitants had all been evacuated when the village had been the setting for a decisive battle. Now all the homes lay eerily quiet, save for the ones that had been temporarily taken over by soldiers. They sheltered from the cold and waited – waited for answers and for their next move. They would huddle around the fireplaces, casting glances in the direction of the local manor house.