The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)(42)

“You’ll be fighting whatever frightens you the most,” Blackwell said. “In order to succeed as a witch hunter, you must learn to face your greatest fear and control it. Then—and only then—will you realize that your greatest enemy isn’t what you fight, but what you fear.”

Caleb betrayed no emotion—almost none. Only I knew him well enough to see the way he pressed his lips together, the set of his jaw, and recognize what it meant. He was afraid. And if Caleb was afraid, then I had cause to be very afraid indeed.

Guildford, one of Blackwell’s guards, led me to my test. I couldn’t speak, could barely breathe, terrified of what awaited me. My greatest fear. What could it be?

“We’re here,” Guildford’s voice broke the silence. We stood at the edge of the forest, dying trees all around me, crackling leaves under my feet, the sound of water rushing somewhere in the distance. The shadowy, predawn light made everything feel all the more ominous.

Guildford bent over and unearthed an enormous brass ring. It was attached to a narrow wooden door set into the forest floor. He tugged once, twice, and on the third pull it opened to reveal a narrow wooden set of stairs. At the bottom was another door, as rickety and rotten as the stairs. There was no handle, only a smattering of iron nail heads, rust staining the wood like blood.

I started down the stairs, counting as I went. Two. Four. Six. When I reached the bottom, I placed my hands on the door, looked over my shoulder at Guildford.

He nodded.

With a shove, the door creaked open, the rusted hinges shrieking in protest. I could see nothing on the other side, but there was a smell: something sharp, rancid, rotting. I buried my head in my sleeve and started through the opening. I was halfway in when Guildford spoke.

“When you’re down there, try to remember what you’re fighting.”

I paused for a moment, then slipped inside. The door slammed shut by itself, fast and hard, as if it sensed my hesitation, as if it knew I might try to escape.

Darkness descended on me like a shroud. I took a tentative step forward, then another, my hands held in front of me, palms outstretched. I touched something soft, crumbling. Dirt. I felt around me. Above, around, below. Dirt was everywhere. Where was I? A cellar? A tunnel, maybe? I started back toward the stairs when suddenly, inexplicably, the world turned upside down.

I pitched forward and landed on my stomach, hard. As I rolled onto my back, wiping dirt from my mouth, I saw it: the outline of a door far above me, ringed by the sun that had just cleared the horizon. And it was no longer that rotting, rusted, bleeding wooden door missing its handle. It was a stone slab.

I was inside a tomb.

I scrambled to my feet just as the first clumps of dirt fell on my head. And I started to scream. This was magic, I knew; Blackwell had used it in our tests before. But this time something went wrong. This was a mistake; it had to be. He didn’t mean to put me in a tomb. Blackwell wouldn’t try to bury me alive.

I was sobbing then, trying to get out. But the dirt was too soft to get purchase on, the walls too unstable to climb. Every time I tried, the dirt fell faster, harder. There was a way out—I knew there was. I just couldn’t see it.

I heard Blackwell’s voice in my head: Your greatest enemy isn’t what you fight, but what you fear.

What was I afraid of? The falling dirt that now reached my waist? The magic that turned an ordinary tunnel into a grave? I didn’t know. But if I didn’t figure it out soon, I would die. The realization stopped me cold. As the dirt swirled around my face, sticking to my lips and eyelids, I just stood there, frozen with fear, as I contemplated dying there, in that way.

Alone, forever.

I thought of my mother. Of the lullaby she used to sing to me when I was a little girl. When I was frightened of thunderstorms and make-believe monsters under the bed, not dirt and tombs and magic and death. What use was a lullaby against those? But it was all I had. So I closed my eyes and began to sing.

Sleep and peace attend me, all through the night.

Angels will come to me, all through the night.

Drowsy hours are creeping; hill and vale, slumber sleeping,

A loving vigil keeping, all through the night.



The dirt continued to fall. It crept past my lips now; I stood on my toes, wiped clumps of it out of my mouth. I kept singing.

Moon’s watch is keeping, all through the night.

The weary world is sleeping, all through the night.

A spirit gently stealing, visions of delight revealing,

A pure and peaceful feeling, all through the night.



Finally, the dirt slowed, then stopped. But I didn’t dare stop singing.

To you, my thoughts are turning, all through the night.

For you, my heart is yearning, all through the night.

Sad fate our lives may sever, parting will not last forever,

A hope that leaves me never, all through the night.



The dirt began receding around me, trickling down past my shoulders, my waist, my legs. I moved down with it, crouching lower and lower until the dirt was nothing more than a floor, me curled into a ball on top of it.

When Guildford finally came for me, he had to fetch another guard to pull me out. As he carried me across the grounds in his arms, I was still curled in a tight, little ball. My hands clapped over my ears, my eyes clamped shut. I kept singing. All through the night. Over and over. I couldn’t stop. I was far beyond fear now, and I didn’t want to come back.