The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)(4)

Then I get an idea.

I summon the last bit of air I have, give what I hope is a convincing last gasp, and go still. Let my jaw go slack, allow a vacant look to slide into my eyes. I don’t know if it will work, because this thing is dead and maybe the dead can’t be fooled. When he doesn’t stop squeezing, I think I’ve made a mistake, and it takes every bit of self-control I have to keep still.

Finally, he stops. In the second it takes him to loosen his grip around my throat, I plunge my hand into the sack of salt on my belt, snatch a handful, and fling it in his face.

An unearthly shriek fills the room as the salt melts what’s left of his skin and penetrates his skull, his eyes, his brain, dissolving it into a gray sticky mass. Warm, putrid chunks of flesh drip onto my face and hair; an eyeball unravels from its socket and dangles in front of me like a viscous ball of twine. Stifling a gag, I roll to the side, snatch my sword off the floor, and swing. The blade cuts neatly through the ghoul’s neck, and in a swirl of hot air and another ear-splitting shriek, he disappears.

The last necromancer pauses at the sound, the objects he has spinning around the room dropping unceremoniously to the floor. Caleb doesn’t hesitate. He grabs him by the back of the head and slams it into his knee, then punches him in the face so hard the necromancer staggers backward and falls into the fire. Before he can move, Caleb drops beside him and slaps bindings around his wrists.

He pauses there for a moment, head down, breathing hard. His sweaty blond hair is plastered across his forehead, his face smeared with blood. I’m still sprawled on the floor, my hands and clothes covered in dirt and rot and God knows what else. Finally, he lifts his head and looks at me.

And we both start laughing.



Caleb steps outside and whistles for the guards. They storm into the house, clad in their black-and-red uniforms, the king’s coat of arms emblazoned across the front and a red rose, the flower of his house, embroidered on the sleeve. One by one they haul the necromancers outside, toss them into the waiting hurdle, and chain them in. When they get to the last one, a look of dismay crosses their faces.

“He’s dead,” one says to Caleb.

Dead? That can’t be right. But when I look over at the necromancer I flung my dagger at, I see him lying faceup, eyes open to the sky, the knife I’d meant for his leg impaled in his gut.

Damnation.

I shoot a horrified glance at Caleb, but he ignores me and begins speaking.

“Yes, he’s dead,” he replies calmly. “It’s unfortunate, of course, but we got lucky.”

“Lucky?” the guard says. “How d’you mean?”

“Lucky that only one of them died,” Caleb continues smoothly. “They tried to kill each other the moment we arrived. I suppose they had some sort of pact. You know how necromancers are. Obsessed with death.” He shrugs. “We spent half the arrest trying to keep them off one another. I mean, look at this place. And look at poor Elizabeth. She’s a mess.”

The guards look from Caleb to me, as if they had forgotten I was there.

“I’ll have to report this to Lord Blackwell,” one of the guards says. “I can’t very well deliver a dead prisoner.”

“Certainly,” Caleb says. “In fact, I’m headed back to Ravenscourt myself. Why don’t I accompany you? Less paperwork for us both if we go together, don’t you think?”

“Paperwork?” The guard shifts uncomfortably. “On a Saturday?”

“Of course. After we deliver the report in person, we’ll have to write it all up. Shouldn’t take too long, a couple of hours at most. Shall we?” Caleb walks to the door and holds it open.

The guards look at each other and begin speaking in whispers.

“Maybe it can wait. Not as if he’s going anywhere—”

“But what about the body? Someone’s bound to notice if he’s not moving—”

Caleb smiles. “I wouldn’t worry about that. No one pays much attention to prisoners once they’re inside. And you’re right, he won’t be going anywhere. After all, no one gets out of Fleet. Unless it’s to the stakes.”

The guards laugh, and Caleb laughs with them. But I feel a sudden shiver. I stuff my hand into the pocket of my cloak, clenching it into a fist.

Caleb escorts them outside, watches as they mount their horses. After a minute they shake hands and the guards ride away, the hurdles’ heavy wooden frames dragging divots through the mud, the thud of the horses’ hooves the only sound in the still-empty alley.

He comes back into the house, his expression once again unreadable. I watch as he begins righting the furniture, retrieving our weapons. I know he’s mad I killed that necromancer—he’s got to be. It was stupid and it was careless; it was a mistake after he warned me not to make one. Worse still, I have no excuse. At least not one I can give him. Any minute he’ll start yelling. I can’t stop him, but maybe I can soften the blow.

“Okay, I’ll admit it. It wasn’t my best work,” I say. “But look at it this way: At least you don’t have to pay me the two sovereigns now. I’ll settle for just the one.”

He sets down the chair he’s holding with a thud and rounds on me.

“What the hell happened?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I guess I made a mistake.”