Witch Hunter (40 page)

moonlight, when Schuyler holds out a hand to stop me.

‘Don’t,’ he says. ‘Use it to break the tablet, but not for

anything else. Not unless you absolutely have to. You

already killed that guard. You don’t want to give the curse

another chance to take hold.’

‘Okay.’ I ease the blade back down. ‘I don’t know

what shape I’ll be in…after. I’ll do what I can from the

inside, but in case I’m not able, I need you to attack it from

the outside, too.’

Schuyler nods.

‘Don’t come for me until you hear me call for you,’ I

continue. ‘If you hear me scream, ignore it. It’s just…part

of it. And if they come for you – for us – don’t wait for

me. Run.’

I walk to the door and reach down, grab the heavy iron

ring, and pull. I yank once, twice. On the third try the

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trapdoor creaks open. Down the wooden steps to the other

door, the door that only after fear, after magic, after illusion

and after death, is the Thirteenth Tablet.

Pressing my hands against the splintered wood, I push

the door open. A crack at first, then wider, the hinges

shrieking into the silence. Rancid air comes pouring out,

the smell of my nightmares. Beyond that: dank, dark

nothingness. I slide through the opening, pausing once to

turn around and look at Schuyler. That dark shadow passes

before his bright blue eyes again.

‘Be careful,’ he whispers.

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The door slams shut by itself, and I’m plunged into darkness.

It’s not long before the world tilts and I’m thrown onto

my back. I get to my feet and stand as still as possible,

hands clenched into fists at my sides. I wait for the dirt to

start falling. One heartbeat. Five. Ten. My palms are

sweating and I’m breathing too hard, too fast. But still,

nothing happens.

I see something flickering. Pale, yellow, like a faraway

candle. It grows brighter, and as it does, I see I’m no longer

in the tomb. I’m in a tunnel. I move in the direction of the

light, but slowly. I’ve taken maybe ten steps when I hear a

noise so loud it makes me jump. A thundering sound, like

an angry fist on a wooden door. I ease a dagger from my

belt and keep moving. The noise continues. Pounding, over

and over. A splintering sound of breaking wood, the heavy

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tread of boots crossing a threshold. A shout. Then a scream.

My body reacts before my head does, and I start running

towards the sound. I stumble along in the darkness,

bumping into the walls, tumbling to my knees, and climbing

to my feet. I follow the screams until the light grows brighter

and the ground beneath me harder. I look down, and I can

just make out flashes of black and white underneath the

dirt. There’s a door up ahead. I push through it and find

myself standing in the middle of Humbert’s entrance hall.

The black-and-white checkered floors are dirty and

chipped, the paintings torn off the wall. Cobwebs in the

chandeliers, crystal vases shattered. The many diamond-

paned windows broken. I take a tentative step, then another,

glass crunching under my feet.

I feel my heart pick up speed. I know this is an illusion.

Isn’t it? I can’t be in Humbert’s home. It’s miles away,

and I’m here. At Blackwell’s. I try to recall Fifer’s voice,

reminding me it’s an illusion. But she feels long ago and far

away. This feels here; this feels now.

This feels real.

‘Is anyone here?’ I call. ‘Humbert?’

I check the sitting room, the dining room. They’ve been

torn apart: tables upended, chairs toppled to the floor,

curtains pulled from the windows. I back away, back into

the hallway, and I trip over something: John’s weathered,

brown canvas bag.

‘John?’ I dash up the stairs, into the bedrooms. Clothes

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lie in shreds everywhere: Fifer’s beautiful dresses, John’s

dark green coat, even George’s hideous orange harlequin

jacket.

‘George? Fifer?’ I can hear the panic in my voice as I call

their names. I run back downstairs, to the library. The

door is gone, ripped off its hinges. Inside, it’s dark. But I

don’t need to see to know that it’s in ruins, too. A cold

breeze blows through the broken glass ceiling, ruffling

the pages of the books that lie in heaping pyres on the

floor. In the moonlight, I can just make out the felled tree:

its grey branches scattered through the room like bones

in a graveyard, the leaves I made blowing through the

air in swirling gusts.

I stand for a moment in the dark, broken library, trying

to control my mounting fear. Trying to remember what

Fifer said about illusion. Is it illusion that makes fear real?

Or is it fear that makes the illusion real? And what does this

illusion mean? It’s meant to show me fear, but I don’t know

what I’m afraid of. Not yet.

I run back into the entrance hall. But instead of the

black-and-white tiled hallway I came in through, I’m

somewhere different. Filthy stone floors, rugs shoved into

the corner, more broken windows, stained glass this time. I

can just make out a snake’s tail in one of the shards, dangling

precariously from the frame.

‘Nicholas!’ I run through the house the same way I did at

Humbert’s. The sitting room. The dining room. The

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bedrooms. They’re torn apart the way they were at

Humbert’s. The kitchen. It looks as it did the last time I

saw it: pots and pans and knives and food strewn

everywhere. ‘Hastings!’

But no one answers. The house is quiet.

I turn in slow circles, my breath coming in gasps, my

limbs numb with terror. What does all this mean? I don’t

know. I just know I want to get out of here. I run back into

the entrance hall, push open the heavy front door.

And I freeze.

I’m standing at the edge of a crowded square, watching

the executioners light the pyre. They circle the narrow

wooden platforms, their lit torches held high. At the top of

each, chained to the stake, bundles of wood heaped around

their feet, are John, Fifer, George and Nicholas.

I sway on my feet; I actually swoon in horror. And even

before the executioners touch their torches to the wood, I

start to scream. Push my way through the jostling crowd,

trying to reach them. I scream their names over and over,

but they don’t hear me.

I lunge for the platforms, but the guards grab me and

throw me to the ground. I scrabble in the dirt, trying to get

back up, but they hold me down, and I’m screaming and

sobbing too hard to fight back. But I need to get to them, to

save them before it’s too late, but then it is too late: There’s

an enormous whoosh of flames and a billow of smoke as the

fire engulfs them and they’re gone, forever.

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Somehow, I stumble to my feet and push my way

through the crowd and into the street. And I start to run. I

don’t know where I’m going, just away from this. Away

from the smoke and the fire and the screaming and the

death. Eventually I reach an empty alley and collapse in a

doorway, trembling and crying and completely terrified.

So this is it – my worst fear. It’s not dying alone anymore.

It’s watching the people I care for die in front of me and not

being able to stop it. Being responsible for it. Knowing that

if I don’t destroy the tablet, this is what will come of it.

My heart is pounding too hard, my breath coming too

fast. I have to make it stop. I remember what Fifer said: I

have to eliminate my fear. That eliminating the fear

eliminates the illusion. But how? I start to sing, but I

can’t remember the words. I take a breath, but I can’t stop

sobbing. I try to think of something else, but I can’t seem

to do that, either. I don’t know how to do anything but

be afraid.

Some men pass by me then, their arms looped around

one another. They’re singing some kind of drinking song.

I smell the ale wafting from them as they go by and wrinkle

my nose. They’re drunk and it can’t be past noon, and—

Then I get an idea.

I leap to my feet. Skirt through the alleys: left, right, left

again, until I see the familiar green sign that reads THE

WORLD’S END. I shove the door open and it’s just as it usually

is, just as it was the last day I was here. Crowded and loud,

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musicians playing, Joe pulling drinks behind the bar. As I

approach, he slides me a glass of ale and watches me, his

hands folded.

‘Well?’ he growls.

I take a tentative sip. But instead of the usual horror –

roasted pig or absinthe or God knows what else – this

time it tastes like ale. This time, it’s actually good. And just

like that, my heart slows. My breathing slows. I know

without a doubt that this Joe and this ale aren’t real. This

is an illusion.

I start to laugh.

‘What’s so funny?’

I don’t answer him. Instead, I turn around and rush

for the door of the tavern, flinging it open. There, on the

other side, is the tomb, dark and dank. I’m right back

where I started.

I step inside and go still. For a moment I fear dirt will

start falling, that the illusion still isn’t over. But after a few

moments and nothing else happens, I make my way to the

entrance. The moon is bright enough that slivers of light

work their way through the cracks, illuminating what is no

longer a rickety wooden door but the edges of a massive

stone slab, the number XIII etched at the top.

The Thirteenth Tablet.

It’s big; I knew that. But standing in front of it, I realise

just how huge it really is. Six feet tall, three feet across. Solid

stone, at least a foot thick. It’s been down here a while,

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buried in the dark and the damp, the edges beginning to

turn green with moss.

I stare at it a minute. Run my fingers along the words

etched down the length of the stone. I can just make out

runes along the edge, along with Nicholas’s name, written

over and over among all the symbols and marks.

Nicholas said Blackwell did it. That Blackwell cursed

him, that Blackwell is a wizard. I didn’t want to believe it

then, and, despite everything, I don’t want to believe it now.

It was just speculation, just a guess. There was no way of

knowing for certain if it was true.

Until now.

There should be a signature on the tablet. The wizard’s

name, a symbol, a pseudonym like the ones necromancers

take on. Something to identify but not incriminate. A curse

tablet won’t work without it.

I crouch to my knees. If there is a signature here, it will

be somewhere along the bottom. But it’s hard to see. The

moonlight’s not as strong down here, and there’s dirt

clumped around the edges. I brush it away, and I see part of

a symbol. Words. I keep brushing until, finally, it comes

into view. A rose. And his motto: What’s done is done; it

cannot be undone.

I fall back against the crumbling wall. Press my head into

my hands, and I give myself a minute to feel it again. The

betrayal, the disbelief, the horror, the truth: somehow sharp

and numb, all at once.

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Blackwell is a wizard.

I jump to my feet. Yank the Azoth from my belt. And,

using every ounce of strength I have, I swing.

The silver blade sings against the stone, the sound

echoing through the tomb like a scream. I can feel the

power of it crawling through my limbs, filling my heart, my

head, so strong I’m drunk with it. I swing again and again,

and again, the impact of silver on stone sending sparks that

ignite the darkness.

‘Elizabeth!’ Schuyler’s voice cuts through the clatter.

‘Can you hear me?’

‘Schuyler!’ I call back. ‘I’m here! The door – it’s the tablet

now. Help me break it, okay?’

There’s a pause, then an enormous, resounding thud

that shakes the tomb, showering me with dirt. There’s

another thud, then another.

I swing the Azoth, over and over, until a narrow crack

appears in the centre of the tablet. It’s beginning to break. I

keep swinging; Schuyler keeps kicking. The split grows

longer, wider, until a bright green light issues from its