The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)
Virginia Boecker
For Scott
and
For England
I STAND AT THE EDGE of the crowded square, watching the executioners light the pyres. The two men, dressed for work in dark red cloaks and charred leather gloves, circle the narrow wooden platforms, their lit torches held high. At the top of each pyre, four witches and three wizards stand chained to a stake, bundles of wood heaped around their feet. They stare into the crowd, determined looks on their faces.
I don’t know what they did; they weren’t my captures. But I do know there will be no apologies from them. No last-minute pleas for mercy, no scaffold-step promises to repent. Even as the executioners touch their torches to the wood and the first of the flames leaps into the leaden sky, they remain silent. They’ll stay that way, stubborn to the very end. It wasn’t always like this. But the worse the Reformist rebellions get, the more defiant the Reformists themselves become.
It doesn’t matter anyway, what they did. What magic they used. Spells, familiars, potions, herbs: It’s all illegal now. There was a time when those things were tolerated, encouraged even. Magic was seen as helpful—once. Then the plague came. Started by magic, spread by magic—we were almost destroyed by magic. We warned them to stop, but they didn’t stop. Now here we are, standing in a dirty square under a dirty sky, forcing them to stop.
To my right, about twenty feet away, is Caleb. He stares into the fire, his blue eyes narrowed, forehead slightly creased. By his expression he could be sad, he could be bored, he could be playing against himself a game of noughts and crosses. It’s hard to tell. Even I don’t know what he’s thinking, and I’ve known him longer than anyone.
He’ll make his move soon, before the protests begin. I can already hear the murmuring, the shuffling feet, the odd cry or two from a family member. People raise sticks, hold up rocks. They stay their hands out of respect for the men and women on the pyre. But once they’re gone, the violence will begin. Against the executioners, against the guards who line the street, against anyone who supports the justice doled out in front of us. People are frightened of magic, yes. But the consequences of magic frighten them even more.
Finally, I see it: a gentle tug on a lock of dark blond hair, a hand placed slowly in his pocket.
It’s time.
I’m halfway across the square when the shouting breaks out. I feel a shove from behind, then another. I pitch forward and slam into the back of the man standing in front of me.
“Watch it, you.” He whips around, a glare on his face. It disappears as soon as he sees me. “I’m sorry, miss. I didn’t see you, and—” He stops, peering at me closely. “My word, you’re just a child. You shouldn’t be here. Go on home. There’s nothing here you need to see.”
I nod and back away. He’s right about one thing: There’s nothing here I need to see. And somewhere else I need to be.
I follow Caleb down a wide cobblestoned street, then through the Shambles, a maze of narrow, sludge-filled alleyways lined with squat, dark-timbered row houses, their pitched roofs casting a near-permanent shadow over the street. We wind through them quickly: Cow Lane, Pheasant Court, Goose Alley. All the streets in this area have funny names like this, originating from when the square at Tyburn was used for herding livestock.
Now it’s used for a different kind of slaughter.
The streets are deserted, as they always are on a burning day. Those who aren’t watching the burnings are at Ravenscourt Palace protesting them or at any one of Upminster’s taverns trying to forget them. It’s a risk, making an arrest today. We risk the crowds; we risk being seen. If we were arresting an ordinary witch, we probably wouldn’t risk it at all.
But this is no ordinary arrest.
Caleb pulls me into an empty doorway. “Ready?”
“Of course.” I smile.
He grins back. “Pointy things at the ready, then.”
I reach under my cloak and pull out my sword.
Caleb nods in approval. “The guards are waiting for us down on Pheasant, and, just in case, I’ve got Marcus posted on Goose and Linus covering Cow.” A pause. “God, these street names are stupid.”
I stifle a laugh. “I know. But I won’t need their help. I’ll be fine.”
“If you say so.” Caleb reaches into his pocket and pulls out a single crown. He pinches the coin between his fingers and holds it in front of my face. “Shall we say the usual, then?”
I scoff. “You wish. I’ve got five times the quarry, so that’s five times the bounty. Plus, these are necromancers. Which means there’s at least one corpse, a bunch of blood, a pile of bones… that’s a sovereign at least, you cheapskate.”
Caleb laughs. “You drive a hard bargain, Grey. Fine. Let’s make it two sovereigns and drinks after. Deal?”
“Deal.” I give him my hand, but instead of shaking it, he kisses it. My stomach does a funny little tumble, and I can feel warmth rush into my cheeks. But he doesn’t seem to notice. He just shoves the coin back into his pocket, then pulls a dagger from his belt, and flips it into the air, catching it deftly.
“Good. Now let’s get going. These necromancers aren’t going to arrest themselves, you know.”
We edge along the front of the houses, our footsteps squelching softly in the mud. Finally, we reach the one we’re looking for. It looks like all the others: a dingy white plaster thing with a wooden door covered in peeling red paint. But unlike all the others, given what’s on the other side. The wizards I usually catch are still alive, still corporeal. Not so, today. My stomach tightens in the familiar way it does before an arrest: part thrill, part nerves, part fear.