The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)(18)

“We’ll have to go in one at a time.” His voice, deep and clear, sounds very far away. “I’ll go first, then help you after. Can you do it?”

I nod. As soon as he climbs inside, I’ll attack.

“You’re a brave girl.” He sets me down against the wall before crawling through the hole into the sewer. Seconds later his head pops out, arms outstretched. “Come on.”

All I have to do is kick him. I can crush his windpipe. I can break his nose. I can knock him down and tie him up and take him in. This is my chance. I pull my leg back and take aim.

In the distance, I hear shouts. Footsteps. I can hear them coming down the stairs. The guards, they know I’ve escaped. The unending stream of rats must have tipped them off.

“Elizabeth!” Nicholas whispers. “Now!”

I hesitate, my leg still poised to kick. There are a hundred reasons I should hurt him. A hundred ways I could do it. Instead, I do the one thing I could never have imagined.

I reach for him.

He gently pulls me through the opening and into his arms. I curl into them like a child. I’m shaking so hard now. Nicholas tightens his grip and draws me closer. I rest my head against his shoulder and close my eyes. I can’t help it. I’m so very, very tired.

He carries me through the endless maze of tunnels, through the rats and the filth and the stench. After what seems like hours, we emerge, the tunnel emptying under a bridge by the river. Near the opening is a horse, waiting to take us to freedom.

He takes off his cloak, wraps it tightly around me, and lifts me into the saddle. Then he climbs on behind me.

“You’ll be all right now.” He holds me steady and urges the horse forward.

Why didn’t I capture him? I don’t know. I only hope I can escape before he finds out what I am. Or that whatever illness I have will kill me before he can.

Will Caleb miss me when I die?

It’s the last thing I think before I close my eyes.





I HEAR VOICES AROUND ME, quiet and whispered. But everything is still dark. I will my eyes to open, but they refuse.

“Is she going to die?” A boy. He sounds familiar.

“Ugh. Smells as if she already did.” A girl this time.

“Fifer…” Another boy, sounding exasperated. “George, hand me that bottle.”

“What? It’s not my fault she looks terrible.” The girl again.

“Aye, she’s scrotty now, but she’s quite lovely when not covered in filth.” A pause. “What? She is.”

“She’s doing remarkably well, considering. Jail fever—she’s lucky she didn’t die.”

“She’s lucky she has you to help her, John. No one else could go near her! Honestly, I don’t know how you stand it.”

“Since you’re so concerned with the way she smells, you can be the one to clean her up, then.”

“Ugh.”



This time, my eyes open first. They take a minute to adjust: Everything is blurry around the edges. I stare at the ceiling, blinking hard. Slowly, it comes into focus. Whitewashed plaster, dark green vines painted across the surface, tiny leaves and curlicues trailing down onto the white walls. An iron chandelier hangs by a chain, its many candles unlit. In a daze, I follow one of the vines down the wall, as it winds around a window covered in green velvet curtains. They’re pulled tightly closed, no light at all coming in behind them. Where’s the light coming from?

I turn my head to the other side and see it: a single candle sitting on an otherwise empty table, flickering softly. I watch the tiny column of smoke drift upward from the flame. My eyes begin to close again when I realize I don’t know where I am.

I bolt upright, then give a little start when I see I’m not alone. There, sitting in a chair at the end of my bed, is George, the king’s fool. I thought his voice sounded familiar.

His feet are propped up on a stool, a blanket draped across him and tucked under his chin. He’s sound asleep. Without thinking, I scramble out of bed. To him or away from him, I don’t know. But my legs are weaker than I expected and I tumble to the floor.

“Going somewhere?” he murmurs, watching me through one half-opened eye.

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” I crawl to my knees, clutching the bedcovers around me. “What are you doing here?”

“Ah, yes. The age-old question.” He casts his eyes skyward. “Theologists have long believed our time here on earth is—”

“Not that,” I snap, and he laughs. “I mean, do you always sleep at the foot of people’s beds?”

“Easy.” He sits up and drops his feet to the floor. His dark hair is sticking up in all directions, making him look younger than he is. “John said you’d probably be waking up soon. Didn’t want you to come to alone, strange place and all.”

“Where am I?”

“Nicholas’s house. He brought you here after… you know.” He shakes his head. “You don’t make things very easy, do you?”

Nicholas! I’m at Nicholas Perevil’s house. Everything comes back to me in a rush then. The arrest. Being thrown into Fleet. Caleb coming, then failing to return. Then Nicholas showing up, looking for me. Bringing me here.

Wait a minute.

“You’re a fool,” I say. “Malcolm’s fool. What are you doing at Nicholas Perevil’s house?”