Ruth Warburton - Witch Hunt

Luke nodded, remembering a lanky figure from his childhood, a shy lad with peach-down cheeks that burnt rose-red when he blushed.

‘Yes, I remember him. What of it?’

‘He boasted of it, of the Malleus. Told a man at the works he’d been taken into the Brotherhood. Not a witch – no one who mattered, but that wasn’t the point. He’d broken the oath of silence.’

‘And?’ An uneasy coldness pooled in the pit of his stomach.

‘They took his tongue. Cut it out at the root.’

‘Who?’ Luke’s voice caught hoarsely, as if there was smoke in his throat, but the air was clear.

‘Never you mind who. But I was there. I helped hold him down, God forgive me, though I didn’t wield the knife. He was a boy like you, no older. And he didn’t do the half of what you’re proposing. You’ve not just failed in your task, you’ve turned – you’ve turned . . .’ His voice cracked and he turned away, scrubbing at his face in an agony.

‘Traitor,’ Luke finished dully. ‘A traitor to the Brotherhood.’

‘Kill her, Luke,’ William begged, as though Rosa couldn’t hear, as though she wasn’t huddled against the wall just feet away, her eyes wide and dark with fear. ‘Do it now and this can all be over. Think of your parents, man! They’d be turning in their graves if they knew.’

‘I won’t do it!’ Luke cried. William’s words were almost more than he could bear. ‘Don’t ask me again, William. Now, get out of my way – or would you rather I knocked you down? At least then you can tell the Brotherhood you were overpowered.’

‘No!’ William’s voice cracked and he held out one large hand to Luke, pleadingly. But Luke looked away, held his arm out towards Rosa.

‘Come on, R-Rosa.’ He stumbled over her name. It still felt so strange saying it, stranger still in front of William.

She nodded, her expression still full of shock, and they moved together towards the forge doorway. For a heart-racing moment, Luke thought that William was going to bar their way – he stood in the doorway, his big frame blocking it, his hands hanging helpless by his side. But as they drew close he seemed to flinch from the sight of Rosa, and he fell back as they walked out into the snow-dusted courtyard.

‘Keep walking,’ Luke said in a low voice. ‘Don’t be afraid.’

‘I’m not afraid,’ she said fiercely, but he could tell it was a lie. Luke flung a quick glance over his shoulder as they reached the gate to the lane.

‘It’s all right. He’s gone back into the forge.’ He doesn’t want to watch me go . . .

He pulled at the gate latch with fingers that were suddenly numb and cold. The metal tongue had frozen to the catch and he had to drop Rosa’s hand to wrestle with it. It sprang free with a bang, and he was about to yank open the gate and walk through when some other sound made them both turn.

William was standing in the doorway of the forge, a pistol in his hand.

Rosa’s eyes widened and she crouched instinctively, like an animal going to ground, making itself the smallest target it could.

‘No!’ Luke bellowed. He flung himself at Rosa and at the same time there was a deafening crack, and he felt a thump in his shoulder as if he’d been punched. He gasped, and William cried out, a terrible cry.

‘Luke!’

‘Oh my God!’ Rosa leapt to her feet, her hands feeling for his shoulder, but he pulled away, dizzy and staggering, shaking his head.

‘I’m all right, I’m all right,’ he gasped. But he was not. He could feel he was not. The pain was spreading like a pool of fire across his shoulder and down his arm.

‘Luke!’ William cried again. He let the pistol fall from his hand, his face white and bloodless. ‘I never meant—’

‘No, you meant to kill her, not me,’ Luke managed. He steadied himself on the gatepost. He felt sick and dizzy, and he thought he might fall. Pain raced up and down his arm with every heartbeat.

‘I only thought—’

‘Goodbye, Uncle.’ He took Rosa’s arm and together they walked through the gate, letting it slam behind them with a crash to wake the dead.

In spite of Rosa’s pleas, Luke wouldn’t stop but carried on doggedly up the lane and into the street. At last, a hundred yards away from the forge, he turned into a narrow alley between two warehouses and slumped against a wall, feeling the sweat prickling his skin in spite of the cold air. Rosa began to pull back the thick, blood-wet fabric of the greatcoat, searching for the wound.

‘It’s all right,’ he said dully, as she peeled back his muffler and then his coat. The blood steamed in the cold air, mingling with her short quick breaths. ‘I can feel it’s all right. I can move my arm. Must have missed.’

‘It didn’t miss,’ she snapped furiously. Her cheeks were scarlet with some strong emotion – anger, or perhaps fear. Her magic crackled. ‘You’re covered in blood.’

‘Missed anything important.’ He thought of John Leadingham’s lessons on killing a witch. Aim for an artery or a vital organ. Spleen, kidney, carotid, femoral – not the lung or the heart: too many ribs to get through. Failing that, a tendon that could incapacitate long enough for you to get away.

At last she had his shirt unbuttoned and pulled back to the skin, and he craned round, looking at the damage. As he’d thought, it was nothing like as bad as William must have feared. The bullet had torn a shallow furrow along his bicep, but it’d heal.

Rosa was looking at it, her brows furrowed in concentration, and for a minute he didn’t understand what she was doing. Then he saw her lips move, and felt the hot tingle of her magic rush through his muscles like a drug.

‘Stop it!’ He began to struggle in her grasp, but she hung on, digging her nails into his bare skin and the material of his coat. ‘I don’t want your magic!’

‘Stop cutting off your nose to spite your face!’ Rosa cried. With a great effort he twisted himself out of her grasp with a wrench that sent her stumbling to her hands and knees in the alley. But when she looked up she was smiling, and as he pulled his shirt roughly back over his shoulder he could feel the skin was whole again.

‘Damn you! Don’t ever do that to me again!’

‘Why not? What’s wrong with it, Luke?’

‘It’s not—’ He stopped, struggling for words, his breath coming fast and white in the still air of the alleyway. Then a small fox-faced boy came down the street, kicking a stone in front of him, and stopped to look at them.

‘Bit early for a lovers’ tiff, ain’t it?’

‘Shut up and mind your own business,’ Luke growled.

‘Gissa penny and I’ll leave you alone,’ the boy said with a grin.

‘I said, get lost!’

‘Farthing?’ the boy called, dodging the stone Luke threw at him, and then he ran off up the alleyway. ‘A’right, I’ll settle for a kiss!’ he shouted out as he rounded the corner. Luke couldn’t stop a smile from twitching at the corner of his mouth, and somehow, as he buttoned his coat, the blood sticky beneath his fingers, he couldn’t find his anger of a moment before, only a ghost of it.

‘I’m sorry,’ Rosa said quietly as they began to walk back towards the main street. ‘But you let me save you in the factory, Luke. Why is this any different?’

‘Because . . .’ But he trailed off. Why was it different? Because he had been about to die when he fell through the factory floor? Because, in that instant, he didn’t care whether he was saved by Rosa’s magic, or divine intervention, or a fairy godmother – he just wanted to live? He couldn’t answer. He just knew that it felt different, and that to sit there, helpless, consenting, as her magic burrowed into his skin was too much, too intimate. ‘Because I didn’t need saving this time,’ he managed at last. ‘I would’ve healed.’