A Discovery of Witches

by Deborah Harkness

  “This is different,” I whispered. “This is my life. I can control my life.”

  “It isn’t different.” His voice was calm and sure. “You can try to keep the magic away, but it won’t work, any more than it worked for Robert Hooke or Isaac Newton. They both knew there was no such thing as a world without magic. Hooke was brilliant, with his ability to think through scientific problems in three dimensions and construct instruments and experiments. But he never reached his full potential because he was so fearful of the mysteries of nature. Newton? He had the most fearless intellect I’ve ever known. Newton wasn’t afraid of what couldn’t be seen and easily explained—he embraced it all. As a historian you know that it was alchemy and his belief in invisible, powerful forces of growth and change that led him to the theory of gravity.”

  “Then I’m Robert Hooke in this story,” I said. “I don’t need to be a legend like Newton.” Like my mother.

  “Hooke’s fears made him bitter and envious,” Matthew warned. “He spent his life looking over his shoulder and designing other people’s experiments. It’s no way to live.”

  “I’m not having magic involved in my work,” I said stubbornly.

  “You’re no Hooke, Diana,” Matthew said roughly. “He was only a human, and he ruined his life trying to resist the lure of magic. You’re a witch. If you do the same, it will destroy you.”

  Fear began to worm its way into my thoughts, pulling me away from Matthew Clairmont. He was alluring, and he made it seem as if you could be a creature without any worries or repercussions. But he was a vampire and couldn’t be trusted. And he was wrong about the magic. He had to be. If not, then my whole life had been a fruitless struggle against an imaginary enemy.

  And it was my own fault I was afraid. I’d let magic into my life—against my own rules—and a vampire had crept in with it. Dozens of creatures had followed. Remembering the way that magic had contributed to the loss of my parents, I felt the beginnings of panic in shallow breath and prickling skin.

  “Living without magic is the only way I know to survive, Matthew.” I breathed slowly so that the feelings wouldn’t take root, but it was difficult with the ghosts of my mother and father in the room.

  “You’re living a lie—and an unconvincing one at that. You think you pass as a human.” Matthew’s tone was matter-of-fact, almost clinical. “You don’t fool anyone except yourself. I’ve seen them watching you. They know you’re different.”

  “That’s nonsense.”

  “Every time you look at Sean, you reduce him to speechlessness.”

  “He had a crush on me when I was a graduate student,” I said dismissively.

  “Sean still has a crush on you—that’s not the point. Is Mr. Johnson one of your admirers, too? He’s nearly as bad as Sean, trembling at your slightest change of mood and worrying because you might have to sit in a different seat. And it’s not just the humans. You frightened Dom Berno nearly to death when you turned and glared at him.”

  “That monk in the library?” My tone was disbelieving. “You frightened him, not me!”

  “I’ve known Dom Berno since 1718,” Matthew said drily. “He knows me far too well to fear me. We met at the Duke of Chandos’s house party, where he was singing the role of Damon in Handel’s Acis and Galatea. I assure you, it was your power and not mine that startled him.”

  “This is a human world, Matthew, not a fairy tale. Humans outnumber and fear us. And there’s nothing more powerful than human fear—not magic, not vampire strength. Nothing.”

  “Fear and denial are what humans do best, Diana, but it’s not a way that’s open to a witch.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  “Yes you are,” he said softly, rising to his feet. “And I think it’s time I took you home.”

  “Look,” I said, my need for information about the manuscript pushing all other thoughts aside, “we’re both interested in Ashmole 782. A vampire and a witch can’t be friends, but we should be able to work together.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Matthew said impassively.

  The ride back to Oxford was quiet. Humans had it all wrong when it came to vampires, I reflected. To make them frightening, humans imagined vampires as bloodthirsty. But it was Matthew’s remoteness, combined with his flashes of anger and abrupt mood swings, that scared me.

  When we arrived at the New College lodge, Matthew retrieved my mat from the trunk.

  “Have a good weekend,” he said without emotion.

  “Good night, Matthew. Thank you for taking me to yoga.” My voice was as devoid of expression as his, and I resolutely refused to look back, even though his cold eyes watched me walk away.

  Chapter 9

  Matthew crossed the river Avon, driving over the bridge’s high, arched spans. He found the familiar Lanarkshire landscape of craggy hills, dark sky, and stark contrasts soothing. Little about this part of Scotland was soft or inviting, and its forbidding beauty suited his present mood. He downshifted through the lime alley that had once led to a palace and now led nowhere, an odd remnant of a grand life no one wanted to live anymore. Pulling up to what had been the back entrance of an old hunting lodge, where rough brown stone stood in sharp contrast to the creamy stuccoed front, he climbed out of his Jaguar and lifted his bags from the trunk.

  The lodge’s welcoming white door opened. “You look like hell.” A wiry daemon with dark hair, twinkling brown eyes, and a hooked nose stood with his hand on the latch and inspected his best friend from head to foot.

  Hamish Osborne had met Matthew Clairmont at Oxford nearly twenty years ago. Like most creatures, they’d been taught to fear each other and were uncertain how to behave. The two became inseparable once they’d realized they shared a similar sense of humor and the same passion for ideas.

  Matthew’s face registered anger and resignation in quick succession. “Nice to see you, too,” he said gruffly, dropping his bags by the door. He drank in the house’s cold, clear smell, with its nuances of old plaster and aging wood, and Hamish’s unique aroma of lavender and peppermint. The vampire was desperate to get the smell of witch out of his nose.

  Jordan, Hamish’s human butler, appeared silently and brought with him the scent of lemon furniture polish and starch. It didn’t drive Diana’s honeysuckle and horehound entirely from Matthew’s nostrils, but it helped.

  “Good to see you, sir,” he said before heading for the stairs with Matthew’s bags. Jordan was a butler of the old school. Even had he not been paid handsomely to keep his employer’s secrets, he would never divulge to a soul that Osborne was a daemon or that he sometimes entertained vampires. It would be as unthinkable as letting slip that he was occasionally asked to serve peanut butter and banana sandwiches at breakfast.

  “Thank you, Jordan.” Matthew surveyed the downstairs hall so that he wouldn’t have to meet Hamish’s eyes. “You’ve picked up a new Hamilton, I see.” He stared raptly at the unfamiliar landscape on the far wall.

  “You don’t usually notice my new acquisitions.” Like Matthew’s, Hamish’s accent was mostly Oxbridge with a touch of something else. In his case it was the burr of Glasgow’s streets.

  “Speaking of new acquisitions, how is Sweet William?” William was Hamish’s new lover, a human so adorable and easygoing that Matthew had nicknamed him after a spring flower. It stuck. Now Hamish used it as an endearment, and William had started bothering florists in the city for pots of it to give to friends.

  “Grumpy,” Hamish said with a chuckle. “I’d promised him a quiet weekend at home.”

  “You didn’t have to come, you know. I didn’t expect it.” Matthew sounded grumpy, too.

  “Yes, I know. But it’s been awhile since we’ve seen each other, and Cadzow is beautiful this time of year.”

  Matthew glowered at Hamish, disbelief evident on his face.

  “Christ, you do need to go hunting, don’t you?” was all Hamish could say.

  “Badly,” the vampire replied, his voice clipped.


  “Do we have time for a drink first, or do you need to get straight to it?”

  “I believe I can manage a drink,” Matthew said in a withering tone.

  “Excellent. I’ve got a bottle of wine for you and some whiskey for me.” Hamish had asked Jordan to pull some of the good wine out of the cellar shortly after he’d received Matthew’s dawn call. He hated to drink alone, and Matthew refused to touch whiskey. “Then you can tell me why you have such an urgent need to go hunting this fine September weekend.”

  Hamish led the way across the gleaming floors and upstairs to his library. The warm brown paneling had been added in the nineteenth century, ruining the architect’s original intention to provide an airy, spacious place for eighteenth-century ladies to wait while their husbands busied themselves with sport. The original white ceiling remained, festooned with plaster garlands and busy angels, a constant reproach to modernity.

  The two men settled into the leather chairs that flanked the fireplace, where a cheerful blaze was already taking the edge off the autumn chill. Hamish showed Matthew the bottle of wine, and the vampire made an appreciative sound. “That will do nicely.”

  “I should think so. The gentlemen at Berry Brothers and Rudd assured me it was excellent.” Hamish poured the wine and pulled the stopper from his decanter. Glasses in hand, the two men sat in companionable silence.

  “I’m sorry to drag you into all this,” Matthew began. “I’m in a difficult situation. It’s . . . complicated.”

  Hamish chuckled. “It always is, with you.”

  Matthew had been drawn to Hamish Osborne in part because of his directness and in part because, unlike most daemons, he was levelheaded and difficult to unsettle. Over the years a number of the vampire’s friends had been daemons, gifted and cursed in equal measure. Hamish was far more comfortable to be around. There were no blazing arguments, bursts of wild activity, or dangerous depressions. Time with Hamish consisted of long stretches of silence, followed by blindingly sharp conversation, all colored by his serene approach to life.

  Hamish’s differences extended to his work, which was not in the usual daemonic pursuits of art or music. Instead he had a gift for money—for making it and for spotting fatal weaknesses in international financial instruments and markets. He took a daemon’s characteristic creativity and applied it to spreadsheets rather than sonatas, understanding the intricacies of currency exchange with such remarkable precision that he was consulted by presidents, monarchs, and prime ministers.

  The daemon’s uncommon predilection for the economy fascinated Matthew, as did his ease among humans. Hamish loved being around them and found their faults stimulating rather than aggravating. It was a legacy of his childhood, with an insurance broker for a father and a housewife as a mother. Having met the unflappable Osbornes, Matthew could understand Hamish’s fondness.

  The crackling of the fire and the smooth smell of whiskey in the air began to do their work, and the vampire found himself relaxing. Matthew sat forward, holding his wineglass lightly between his fingers, the red liquid winking in the firelight.

  “I don’t know where to begin,” he said shakily.

  “At the end, of course. Why did you pick up the phone and call me?”

  “I needed to get away from a witch.”

  Hamish watched his friend for a moment, noting Matthew’s obvious agitation. Somehow Hamish was certain the witch wasn’t male.

  “What makes this witch so special?” he asked quietly.

  Matthew looked up from under his heavy brows. “Everything.”

  “Oh. You are in trouble, aren’t you?” Hamish’s burr deepened in sympathy and amusement.

  Matthew laughed unpleasantly. “You could say that, yes.”

  “Does this witch have a name?”

  “Diana. She’s a historian. And American.”

  “The goddess of the hunt,” Hamish said slowly. “Apart from her ancient name, is she an ordinary witch?”

  “No,” Matthew said abruptly. “She is far from ordinary.”

  “Ah. The complications.” Hamish studied his friend’s face for signs that he was calming down but saw that Matthew was spoiling for a fight instead.

  “She’s a Bishop.” Matthew waited. He’d learned it was never a good idea to anticipate that the daemon wouldn’t grasp the significance of a reference, no matter how obscure.

  Hamish sifted and sorted through his mind and found what he was seeking. “As in Salem, Massachusetts?”

  Matthew nodded grimly. “She’s the last of the Bishop witches. Her father is a Proctor.”

  The daemon whistled softly. “A witch twice over, with a distinguished magical lineage. You never do things by half, do you? She must be powerful.”

  “Her mother is. I don’t know much about her father. Rebecca Bishop, though—that’s a different story. She was doing spells at thirteen that most witches can’t manage after a lifetime of study and experience. And her childhood abilities as a seer were astonishing.”

  “Do you know her, Matt?” Hamish had to ask. Matthew had lived many lives and crossed paths with too many people for his friend to keep track of them all.

  Matthew shook his head. “No. There’s always talk about her, though—and plenty of envy. You know how witches are,” he said, his voice taking on the slightly unpleasant tone it did whenever he referred to the species.

  Hamish let the remark about witches pass and eyed Matthew over the rim of his glass.

  “And Diana?”

  “She claims she doesn’t use magic.”

  There were two threads in that brief sentence that needed pulling. Hamish tugged on the easier one first. “What, not for anything? Finding a lost earring? Coloring her hair?” Hamish sounded doubtful.

  “She’s not the earrings and colored hair type. She’s more the three-mile run followed by an hour on the river in a dangerously tiny boat type.”

  “With her background I find it difficult to believe she never uses her power.” Hamish was a pragmatist as well as a dreamer. It was why he was so good with other people’s money. “And you don’t believe it either, or you wouldn’t suggest that she’s lying.” There was the second thread pulled.

  “She says she only uses magic occasionally—for little things.” Matthew hesitated, raked his fingers through his hair so half of it stood on end, and took a gulp of wine. “I’ve been watching her, though, and she’s using it more than that. I can smell it,” he said, his voice frank and open for the first time since his arrival. “The scent is like an electrical storm about to break, or summer lightning. There are times when I can see it, too. Diana shimmers when she’s angry or lost in her work.” And when she’s asleep, he thought, frowning. “Christ, there are times when I think I can even taste it.”

  “She shimmers?”

  “It’s nothing you would see, though you might sense the energy some other way. The chatoiement—her witch’s shimmer—is very faint. Even when I was a young vampire, only the most powerful witches emitted these tiny pulses of light. It’s rare to see it today. Diana’s unaware she’s doing it, and she’s oblivious to its significance.” Matthew shuddered and balled up his fist.

  The daemon glanced at his watch. The day was young, but he already knew why his friend was in Scotland.

  Matthew Clairmont was falling in love.

  Jordan came in, his timing impeccable. “The gillie dropped off the Jeep, sir. I told him you wouldn’t need his services today.” The butler knew there was little need for a guide to track down deer when you had a vampire in the house.

  “Excellent,” Hamish said, rising to his feet and draining his glass. He sorely wanted more whiskey, but it was better to keep his wits about him.

  Matthew looked up. “I’ll go out by myself, Hamish. I’d rather hunt alone.” The vampire didn’t like hunting with warmbloods, a category that included humans, daemons, and witches. He usually made an exception for Hamish, but today he wanted to be on his own while he got his craving for Diana Bishop under contr
ol.

  “Oh, we’re not going hunting,” Hamish said with a wicked glint in his eye. “We’re going stalking.” The daemon had a plan. It involved occupying his friend’s mind until he let down his guard and willingly shared what was going on in Oxford rather than requiring Hamish to drag it out of him. “Come on, it’s a beautiful day. You’ll have fun.”

  Outside, Matthew grimly climbed into Hamish’s beat-up Jeep. It was what the two of them preferred to roam around in when they were at Cadzow, even though a Land Rover was the vehicle of choice in grand Scottish hunting lodges. Matthew didn’t mind that it was freezing to drive in, and Hamish found its hypermasculinity amusing.

  In the hills Hamish ground the Jeep’s gears—the vampire cringed at the sound each time—as he climbed to where the deer grazed. Matthew spotted a pair of stags on the next crag and told Hamish to stop. He got out of the Jeep quietly and crouched by the front tire, already mesmerized.

  Hamish smiled and joined him.

  The daemon had stalked deer with Matthew before and understood what he needed. The vampire did not always feed, though today Hamish was certain that, left to his own devices, Matthew would have come home sated after dark—and there would be two fewer stags on the estate. His friend was as much predator as carnivore. It was the hunt that defined vampires’ identity, not their feeding or what they fed upon. Sometimes, when Matthew was restless, he just went out and tracked whatever he could chase without making a kill.

  While the vampire watched the deer, the daemon watched Matthew. There was trouble in Oxford. He could feel it.

  Matthew sat patiently for the next several hours, considering whether the stags were worth pursuing. Through his extraordinary senses of smell, sight, and hearing, he tracked their movements, figured out their habits, and gauged their every response to a cracking twig or a bird in flight. The vampire’s attention was avid, but he never showed impatience. For Matthew the crucial moment came when his prey acknowledged that it was beaten and surrendered.