The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)(16)

Illness. Something else my stigma can’t protect me from.

Rain pours steadily outside the bars; it hasn’t let up in days. My cell is wet, probably freezing. I wouldn’t know. I’m burning up with fever. I started coughing last night, and there’s a strange rash all over my arms and legs. I hope it’s not sweating sickness. That would kill me before the fire gets a chance to.

I’m exhausted but can’t sleep. I tell myself it’s because I want to be ready when Caleb shows up, but, in truth, I’m too scared to sleep. Because every minute that passes, as the day wears on and the shadows inside my cell grow longer, I can feel hope giving way to fear. The other prisoners aren’t helping. The noises from their cells—moans of pain, weak crying, murmured prayers, the occasional panicked shriek—are wearing on me. Even if I hadn’t kept track of time, they have.

They know what’s coming.

I’m hunched in the corner of my cell, my dress pushed up as far as it’ll go, trying to cool off. I’m drenched in sweat; even my hair is wet. But I can’t tell if that’s from sweat or the rain that continues to come through the tiny window. The cold water feels like needles on my skin, but it gives a little relief.

I must have drifted off at some point, but I’m awakened by the sound of footsteps in the hall. Caleb! He’s finally come for me! I climb to my knees but get hit with a fit of coughing and fall to the floor, hacking. The footsteps stop in front of my cell.

“Caleb?” I whisper when I finally stop coughing.

“I’m afraid not,” comes a voice I don’t recognize.

I pull myself up until I’m sitting, the effort leaving me panting.

“Who are you?” My voice is so hoarse.

A tiny flicker of light appears. It’s a man. I’ve never seen him before. He’s very tall and very thin, wearing a long red robe knotted around the waist with a thick black rope. A black cloak falls over his shoulders down to his feet. His short hair is a mix of black and gray like his short, pointed beard. He stares at me curiously, his dark eyes intense but not unkind.

He’s not a guard—I know that. He’s not one of the king’s men; I don’t see the royal standard. He’s dressed almost like… almost like a priest.

Oh, God. A priest. Come to give me the sacrament, the last rites. Which means I slept too long, which means Caleb came and couldn’t wake me and left without me…

Then I see it. The light. It’s coming from his hand, a single flame flickering from his outstretched fingertip. He flicks it into the air, where it hovers next to him, a tiny, pulsating sun. He’s a wizard.

“Get out of here!” I croak. If Caleb sees me talking to a wizard, he’ll be furious.

“I won’t hurt you,” he says. “I’m here to help you.”

“I don’t need your help!”

“Oh?” The sympathy in his voice infuriates me.

“Caleb! Caleb!” I scream before dissolving into another coughing fit.

The wizard grasps one of the bars on the cell door. He murmurs something under his breath, and the door begins to glow a soft pale blue. It starts to shudder, and with a small noise like snapping bones, it falls into a pile of smoking dust.

He’s by my side then, kneeling over me.

“Child, you’re sick,” he says. “Come with me. Let me help you.”

“No! Get away from me!” I shuffle to my knees and crawl away from him. I don’t get more than a few feet before my legs give way and I collapse into the straw.

“The guards will be coming for you soon,” he says. “The burning is scheduled for this morning.”

“You’re lying.” But when I lift my head and tilt it to the window, I see pale streaks beginning to cut through the night sky. A sharp surge of panic pushes strength into my limbs, and I manage to stumble to my feet, grasping the wall for support.

Where is Caleb?

“I promise you, I am not.” The wizard walks toward me, his hand outstretched. I shift away from him, my back sliding against the rough stone wall.

“What do you want with me?” I glance at my now-demolished cell door, the wide opening into the dark hallway. There are no guards to stop me, still enough darkness to conceal me. The only thing standing between me and freedom now is him.

I take a step toward the door. He anticipates it, steps forward to block me. I shift direction, take another step, then another. He follows. A dance.

“I’m not sure,” the wizard says. “But I was told to find you. We thought it was a mistake at first, but it turns out it’s not.” His voice is calm, as if he doesn’t know I’m trying to escape. As if he doesn’t know he’s trying to stop me. “Please, Elizabeth. Come with me. You’ll be helping me as much as I’m helping you.”

What on earth could a wizard want my help with? Doesn’t he know what I am? I look at him closely. Pale, drawn skin, bags under his dark, bloodshot eyes, his face heavily lined. He looks old, he looks ill, he doesn’t look dangerous at all. But then, neither do I. You can’t always go by looks in these matters. I suppose if he wanted to hurt me, or see me dead, he wouldn’t be here. But I’m not taking any chances.

“I doubt that.” I lunge to my right, as if I’m about to run past him. Again, he anticipates it, reaches for me. But it’s a feint: I pull back and spin to my left, bolt for the door. I’m not fast enough. The wizard reaches out and snatches my arm, his grasp surprisingly strong for an old man. I don’t think. I pull back my other arm, make a fist, and swing.