The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)(17)

My hand connects with his face… then passes right through it. I stumble forward, I nearly fall. The wall catches me, and when I turn around, there are two of him. Two identical wizards in two identical sets of robes, speaking identical words:

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

I don’t listen—to either of them. I push down my fear as I launch myself off the wall, lunging for him again. Swing, again. My hand hits nothing, but immediately, two wizards become four.

“Stop,” they croon. “Come with me.”

A scream rises in my throat. I won’t go with him, with them. I won’t go anywhere with a wizard. They step toward me. I swat at them, lash out, hit nothing. Six, eight, ten wizards now: dark cloaks, dark eyes, dark magic. I spin around, looking for a way out. But they surround me, twenty hands reaching, a hundred fingers grasping. I drop to my knees, cover my head.

“I can help you,” they chant. “You’ll be safe with me.”

A wizard can’t help me; magic can’t help me. There’s nothing about magic that doesn’t end with you tied to a stake with flames licking at your feet, or on your knees with your head on a block. Straw for kindling, straw to catch your blood…

Straw.

I reach out, snatch a handful of the damp, stinking stuff from the floor and hurl it at him—at them. Watch as they flinch from it. In the split second it takes for them to turn from me, I reach down, pull up the last bit of strength I have, crawl to my feet.

And I run.

Through them, past them, out the door, into the hallway. I don’t make it ten steps before my chest seizes up and I start coughing, so hard I can’t breathe. I fall to my knees, sucking in air so desperately it sounds like a scream.

I force myself to my feet, stumble another few steps. Through the darkness I can just make out a set of stone stairs, maybe thirty feet away. I can make it thirty more feet.…

In a swirl of a black cloak, he appears, faster than I could have imagined, standing before me—just one of him now—his hands outstretched.

“No,” I say. It comes out a whimper.

A whoosh of warm air surrounds me and I feel myself start to fall. But the warmth disappears as quickly as it appeared—his spell either stopped or broken—and I regain my footing. The wizard mutters something, impatient. He raises his hand again. But instead of surrounding me with more air, he reaches for me. Grasps my arm.

“Come with me,” he commands. “Now.”

I start to yank away, but then I pause, thinking fast. I need to get out of here. But maybe if I capture this wizard, it would be enough to prove to Blackwell he still needs me. Enough to make him reconsider my sentence.

Enough to make him decide not to kill me.

The wizard takes my arm again, and this time, I let him… until I’m hit with stomach cramps so strong I collapse to my knees again. He reaches down and scoops me into his arms, lifting me easily. I’m too weak to fight it. He carries me down the hall, toward the stairs. I can see the other prisoners in their cells now, watching us pass. They’ll start shouting soon. Screaming. The guards will be on us within seconds.

But as we pass each cell, the prisoners that can still stand rise to their feet and nod their heads at him. Some call murmured blessings to him, others reach out through their bars to try to touch him. Their reverence startles me.

“Who are you?” I whisper.

“I am Nicholas Perevil,” he says. “Forgive me for not introducing myself earlier. But you didn’t give me much of a chance.”

I stiffen in his arms. Nicholas Perevil! The most wanted wizard in Anglia! I can’t believe my luck. If I brought him in, Blackwell would certainly pardon me. He might even honor me. I give a little nod, force myself to relax. I don’t want to tip him to my plan.

We reach the end of the hall, pass through a narrow archway into one of four circular towers that surround the main prison building, then down a flight of narrow, winding steps.

We go down, farther and farther, until we come out underneath the prison. The walls here are damp, the air cold and foul. He must be heading for the sewer drains. It’s where I’d have gone, too. They’re easy enough to find and always unguarded. For obvious reasons.

How will I do it? I run through plan after plan. I’m weak, yes. But I could stun him with a kick or two. How will I restrain him once he’s down? His rope belt: perfect. I look around for something I can knock him out with—a brick, stone, anything. If I had to, I could jam my thumbs into his eyes.… Oh, no—

The stomach cramps are back. They’re agony. I begin to moan.

“Elizabeth? Are you all right?”

I start retching. There’s nothing in my stomach but bile—it burns my throat as I vomit all over him. I can’t stop shaking. Surely he’ll dump me on the ground now, and I’ll get my chance. Instead, he holds me tighter and walks even faster.

“Hold on. We’ll get you help soon, I promise. Just hold on.”

Finally, we reach the entrance to the sewer tunnel. It’s a small hole in the wall, about three feet square and covered with thin iron mesh. That’s to contain the rats.

Nicholas kicks it open and immediately they start pouring out. Hundreds, maybe thousands of them, crawling over the floor and across the walls. A writhing mass of greasy fur and tails, chittering and squeaking, claws scratching on stone, the overpowering smell of sewage… I give an enormous shudder and start retching again.