The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)(34)

“Fine. I’ll do it. I’ll find your wizard for you.” George sighs in relief. “Not so fast,” I add. “I have a few conditions.”

“Oh?”

“First, I want a guarantee you aren’t going to use me to get what you need, then turn me over for the reward.”

“Nicholas would never do that.”

I think Nicholas would absolutely do that, but I don’t bother to argue. “Fine. Then after it’s over, he won’t have any problem escorting me wherever I want to go.”

George nods. “If that’s what you want.”

“Second, I don’t want anyone else to know about me.”

This makes him frown. “Nicholas is bound to find out,” he says. “If he doesn’t figure it out on his own, the seer will surely tell him.”

“I know. But it’s not just Nicholas I’m worried about.”

I think about the others. Peter’s a pirate, no doubt skilled with a sword. Fifer is Nicholas’s “star pupil.” There’s no telling how many ways she could curse me. Then there’s John. He wouldn’t hurt me, I know that. But I think if he were to learn the truth about me, it would be just as unpleasant, in a different kind of way.

“So do we have a deal?”

George nods. Then he sits back down in the chair and beckons to me. “So, can I see it? Your stigma, I mean? I’ve never seen one before.”

“There’s nothing to see.” I touch a hand to my stomach. “It only shows itself when I get injured, then vanishes when I heal.”

George grins. “I could stab you.…”

I point my thumb toward his eye.

He cracks a laugh. “I’m joking. But that’s clever, it disappearing like that. Keeps you from getting caught. Explains why Fifer didn’t see it when she cleaned you up, or John when he examined you.”

I feel a sudden jolt at the thought of John looking at—and possibly touching—my bare stomach.

“So what does it look like?”

“What?”

“Your stigma,” George says. “Is it awful?”

“Oh. No. I mean, it’s not as bad as you’d think.” When I found out we were getting stigmas, I panicked. I imagined the worst: a brand, a scar, something raised and raw and ugly. But it’s small and delicate—elegant, even, like handwriting done with a fine pen.

“Did it hurt?”

I don’t answer right away. The marking ceremony took place right after I took my final test as a recruit. That test is something I don’t like to think about, much less talk about. I must have been in shock after it was over. I don’t really remember if it hurt or not.

“A little.” I don’t want to talk about my stigma anymore.

George presses on. “It’s magic, isn’t it? I mean, it has to be. Don’t you think that’s strange? That a witch hunter uses magic? That doesn’t seem right, does it? Who gave it to you, anyway?”

“Yes. No. I guess. I don’t know.”

And I don’t. I’ve thought about my stigma, thought about it until my head spun. Why did Blackwell give us magic when he hates magic? When he blindfolded us and led us behind closed doors and had us marked, how did he know it would work? Caleb said one of the wizards we captured did it, but how did Blackwell know it wouldn’t kill us?

This is when I usually stopped asking, because I knew he didn’t. We were his experiments. His subjects. And if he killed one of us, he’d simply find a replacement. Just as he always did.

George looks at me for a moment. “How exactly did you get mixed up in this? Witch-hunting is a really serious business. And you’re just a girl.” He frowns. “How did this happen?”

I think back to the day Caleb first approached me about being a witch hunter. It started out ordinarily enough, but by sunset I had already taken my first frightened steps down a path I knew there was no coming back from. But the idea of Caleb walking it without me frightened me even more.

“Caleb convinced me to go with him. He was my best friend. The only family I had.”

George looks skeptical. “Fine way to treat your family. Forcing them to do something like that against their will.”

I shake my head. “It wasn’t like that. He didn’t force me.”

“You wanted to be a witch hunter?”

“I—no. I wanted to be with Caleb. It was what he wanted. And I trusted him to do what he thought was best.”

George makes a face. “The best for you or for himself?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugs. “Seems to me he was more interested in advancing himself than he was in keeping you safe.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. “He’s always taken care of me. He’s always kept me safe.”

“Didn’t do a very good job of it, did he?” George replies. “Girls who are safe don’t get thrown into prison and sentenced to death. He left you there to die—”

“He didn’t leave me to die,” I say. “He was coming back.”

“Oh, aye, he was coming back. To escort you to the stakes.”

“Stop.”

“You know I’m right. Surely you know that.”