The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)(41)

“Veda? Can you hear me?” He places his hand on her cheek and mutters something under his breath. Nothing happens. I take a step toward her to get a better look, but Nicholas glances up at me.

“Stay back, Elizabeth—”

At the sound of my name, Veda’s head snaps up and her eyes stop rolling. She stares straight ahead and speaks, her soft voice ominous.

“They’re coming. They’re coming for her. They’re coming.” She looks at me. “They’re here.”





THE REACTION IS INSTANTANEOUS. Fifer and George race to the window, flinging back the lace curtains. Veda bursts into tears. John scoops her up, grabs Avis’s arm, and pulls them into the bedroom. Nicholas joins Fifer and George at the window, and together they peer into the darkness.

In the distance, I hear male voices: shouting, laughing, catcalling. Soft at first, growing louder by the second. Pinpricks of light flicker between the cottages in the village. Torches.

I rush to the window and quickly start to count. Two, six, ten, fourteen bobbing lights. Fourteen. I give a little huff of relief. It’s only the king’s guard. They always patrol in groups of fourteen. But what are they doing out here? We’re too far from Upminster for this to be part of their route.

Then I see it: a fifteenth torch blazing to life, its bearer stepping from behind a house and into the empty street. He holds the torch high above his head, the bright flame illuminating his features. He’s far away still, too far for me to hear him. But there’s no mistaking who it is.

“Caleb,” I whisper.

Nicholas lifts a hand and at once, Caleb’s voice fills the tiny sitting room.

“I want this whole village searched,” he barks. “I want every house torn apart until she’s found.”

I’m up against the window now, my fingers gripping the windowsill. Caleb and the other witch hunters make their way down the narrow, lamp-lit lane. I watch him kick down door after door, storm into house after house. Listen to his threats, his demands, the terrified screams of the people inside. Hear the anger in his voice as he shouts my name over and over. I know it’s an act, a show he’s putting on for the other witch hunters. There’s no reason for me to be afraid.

But the pounding of my heart tells me otherwise.

I turn to Nicholas. “You said they couldn’t find us.”

Nicholas glances at me but doesn’t reply.

“Well?” I say.

“Shut your mouth,” Fifer hisses. “How dare you question him.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” I fire back. “I’ll question who I want.”

“Quiet,” Nicholas says. “Both of you. They’re heading this way.”

I turn back to the window as the witch hunters approach Veda’s home. Caleb leads the way, Marcus, Linus, and the others behind him. They point and gesture in the direction of the cabin.

“They know,” George whispers.

He’s right. Maybe one of the neighbors was frightened into giving them our location, maybe they’re guessing. Either way, if they keep walking, they’ll run right into us. The illusion acts like a veil: As long as the house stays behind it, it’s invisible. But if they somehow manage to slip through it, it won’t be. And neither will we.

The room erupts into silent movement. Nicholas whirls away from the window, points to the table in the corner. Fifer and George rush to it, pick it up, and move it quietly to the side. On the floor beneath it is a small door. George reaches down and, with a creak and a puff of dust, opens it to reveal a narrow staircase that descends into darkness. John emerges from the back bedroom, still carrying Veda. Avis is on his heels. One by one they start down the stairs.

I turn back to the window. Caleb is so close now I can see his face: his blue eyes narrowed, forehead slightly creased. I don’t know what he’s thinking. Is he worried about me? Is he afraid of what will happen if he finds me? Or what will happen if he doesn’t?

“Elizabeth.” The whisper in my ear makes me jump. It’s John. “We need to go.”

The cottage is empty now save for Nicholas and Fifer. They both stand at the window, muttering some kind of spell. Caleb and the others are having difficulty moving now, their quick strides turning slow and sluggish, as if they’re walking through water.

John takes my arm and steers me toward the door in the floor, down the narrow wooden stairs. I go willingly, but when I reach the bottom, I balk. I’m in a tunnel. It’s tiny: six feet high, three feet wide, carved entirely from dirt. I feel as if I’m standing in a grave.

I yank my arm from his grasp and lunge for the stairs. I make it to the bottom step before Nicholas and Fifer appear, closing the door from above and bolting it shut. I’m plunged into darkness, the dank smell of earth and decay surrounding me.

Immediately, I’m transported back to that last day of training as a witch hunter. The day I should have died. But somehow, miraculously, lived.

I sink to the ground, press my head to my knees, and try to stop the memories.



It was our final test, our final challenge as recruits. If we succeeded—the eighteen of us who had made it this far—we would receive our stigmas and become the most elite of the king’s guard: a witch hunter.

None of us knew what awaited us, what we’d have to fight. Frances Culpepper thought witches. Marcus Denny was hoping for demons. Linus Trew guessed we’d have to fight one another. Only Caleb thought it would be more sinister than that. I saw the look on his face as Blackwell delivered his final speech, when he gave us the barest hint of what was to come.