The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)(32)

I hook as many knives as possible on my belt and shove the rest into my bag. There are a couple of pairs of heavy gloves, and I take those, too. They may come in handy. I sling the bag across my shoulder and start back up the ladder. There’s still plenty of room inside for pewter plates and silverware. Enough to trade for clothes, food, and weapons. My plan is coming together.

I poke my head into the kitchen. It’s still quiet, but I check everything anyway. A neat pile of apples, a slightly skewed basket of onions. A dusting of flour on the tabletop. Everything is just how I left it. I scramble to my feet and head to the door opposite the one I came in through: the scullery. Where those valuable pewter dishes are washed and stored. I take about three steps, then it happens.

The temperature in the room plunges in a second. I suck in a surprised breath, and when I exhale, it comes out in a plume of white frosty air. A frigid wind begins to swirl around me, lifting my hair from my shoulders, whipping it across my face and into my eyes. Then I hear a whisper. Soft at first, like steam from a teakettle. As the wind grows stronger, the voice grows louder. I can’t make out the words, but I can hear the anger behind them.

Hastings.

I lunge for the door, forgetting the scullery. The pewter isn’t as important as getting out of here. There’s no telling what Hastings is capable of. I make it as far as the trestle table when a basket comes flying toward me. I realize what’s in it a split second too late: flour.

It swirls into the air, flies into my eyes, my mouth, my hair. I’m coated in it. I drop my bag to the floor and start coughing and gagging, wiping the stuff from my eyes. I clear them just in time to see a dead pheasant flying at my head, beak first.

I snatch one of the knives from my belt and hurl it at the bird. I get a direct hit, and both bird and knife go clattering to the floor. I make it another step before more birds come at me. Three ducks. Two chickens. A peacock. A brace of quail. I empty knife after knife into them.

Finally, Hastings runs out of birds. I drop to my knees and crawl along the floor, trying to retrieve my knives. I manage to locate several and yank the blades from the birds’ bellies. But when I get to my feet, the doors to the bread ovens fly open and hot loaves go pelting in my direction. I bat away most of them, but one or two clip my face, leaving white-hot welts on my skin. They heal quickly enough, but I’m getting annoyed. I’ve lost countless weapons, I’m a flour-covered mess, and the smell of all this food is making me hungry.

I turn on my heel and sprint to the fireplace. The deer is still on the spit, roasting nicely. Hastings takes pride in his work. If I’m right, he won’t sacrifice a fine piece of meat just to taunt me. I scramble up the rack, all the way to the top, out of reach of the flames. Then I whirl around.

“Go ahead!” I shout. “Throw something! I dare you!”

I look around. The air is still thick with flour, but nothing comes flying at me. Everything’s gone still. Smirking, I hop down from the spit. Saunter across the room, snatch my bag off the floor. Then I survey the scene.

Flour on every surface, bird carcasses strewn along the floor. Broken loaves of bread, smashed eggs, feathers everywhere. What a disaster. But I held my own against a ghost, and that’s no small thing. Caleb would be proud. I start for the door. Then, through the haze of flour still hanging in the air, I see him. Standing in the doorway, arms folded, eyebrows raised.

George.

“Well, well,” he smirks. “If it isn’t our little maid, back in the kitchen.”

My heart sinks to the bottom of my too-big boots. How long has he been standing there?

“I knew there was something funny about you.” He steps toward me. “I couldn’t put my finger on it. Are you going to tell me the truth now? Or am I going to have to drag it out of you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I drop my bag on the floor and kick it aside.

“No?”

“No.”

“Suit yourself,” he says. Then he pulls a dagger out of his jacket. My eyes widen.

“Don’t,” I say.

“Catch,” he says. Then he hurls the knife at me.





THE KNIFE WHISTLES THROUGH THE air, heading straight for my head. It’s less than an inch from my eye when I catch it, smacking the blade flat between my palms. Before I can react, George is at my side.

“We need to talk.” He grabs my arm and drags me from the kitchen.

Upstairs, he pushes me into my room and rounds on me.

“You prowl around the king’s palace like a rat in the rafters.” George holds up a finger. “You crushed a glass in your hand, yet there’s not a scratch on you. You’re all moony over this Caleb, who just happens to be the new Inquisitor.” He holds up three fingers now. “And where’d you learn to throw knives at birds like that? The circus?” He narrows his eyes. “You’re a witch hunter.”

I open my mouth, a denial on the tip of my tongue.

“It’s a damned good thing I am,” I snap. “Otherwise you’d have some explaining to do. I could have lost an eye.”

George groans and pushes me away. He paces the room, hands clasped behind his head.

“I knew it,” he says. “I knew there was something about you. The way you look, your face and all this.” He gestures at me with a sweep of his hand. “I thought you were a Gallic spy.” He flops down in the chair by the fireplace and buries his head in his hands. He looks so distraught I almost feel sorry for him. “A witch hunter,” he mutters. “A bloody witch hunter.”