The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)(43)

A pair of hands encircles my wrists. Gently, they try to pry my hands from my head, but I jerk away. I hear voices. They’re faint, far away. I press my hands harder over my ears to block them out. I don’t want to hear anything but that song.

Hands slip around my back, under my knees. I’m being lifted up, carried. It can’t be easy, holding me when I’m balled up like this. I’m deadweight. But the guard is strong. I bury my head in his uniform, grateful to breathe something other than earth and decay. He smells good. Clean, like lavender. Warm, like spices. I tuck my head against his shoulder and breathe it in.

I’m still singing, but my voice has dropped to a whisper. I’m so tired. I rub my cheek against the soft linen of the guard’s shirt, wishing it were my pillow. His arms tighten around me, holding me close.

Finally, I feel safe.





VINES. THEY’RE THE FIRST THING I see when I wake. They trail across the ceiling and loop down the walls, their edges blurred in the room’s dim light. I frown. My room at Blackwell’s doesn’t have vines. I blink once, twice. Then the memories come crashing down and I remember everything. Veda. Her prophecy. The test, the dirt, the darkness.

I take a breath and push the memories away, as far back as they’ll let me. It’s never far enough. They’re always there, lurking in the corner of my mind like a cat in the dark, waiting for a chance to strike.

Caleb would tell me to think of something happy, to remember something good. But all my memories are about him. And right now, thinking of him doesn’t make me happy. It makes me think of Blackwell. Of his determination to find me, of his using Caleb to do it. Of how I’m not sure what will happen if he does.

Nicholas seemed as surprised as I was that Caleb found us. But if anything, it’s further proof he needs my help. Further proof I need his. On my own, with no weapons, no money, no way to get out of the country, I will certainly be caught. I escaped a burning once. I don’t think I’ll be so lucky a second time.

I feel a soft rustling by my feet and realize George must be here. Again. This time I don’t mind. Maybe he can help me persuade Nicholas to let me stay. I fling off the sheets and bolt upright, a persuasive argument on my lips. But it isn’t George.

It’s John.

He’s sitting in a chair at the foot of my bed, fast asleep. His head and chest are draped across the mattress, one arm curled over his head, the other stretched out to the side, fingers clenching and unclenching the blanket as if he’s grasping for something. That was the rustling I felt. Next to his hand is an open book, the pages lying facedown. What is he doing here?

Of course.

It wasn’t a guard who carried me; it was John. My stomach twists when I think about being curled up in his arms. Smelling his shirt. Tucking my head into his shoulder, then falling asleep. I flush a little at the memory.

He must have brought me up here and for whatever reason decided to stay. Why? After all of Nicholas’s talk of my being a danger, why would he allow his healer—or for that matter, Peter his son—to be in a room with me? Alone?

I climb out of bed—John doesn’t even stir—and walk to the window, twitch open the curtains. It’s nearly morning now, the sun stretching rose and cream across the horizon. I consider the possibility Nicholas has decided to wait until today to deal with me, but it still wouldn’t explain why John is here. Or why he let me spend the night in a warm room and a comfortable bed instead of tying me up, throwing me in the larder, and letting Hastings torture me all night. It’s what I would have done.

Unless Nicholas hasn’t told them about me. That after seeing Caleb and the witch hunters come for me, he came to his senses. Realized that if he dies, Blackwell will come for them next. And the only way to stop it is to hire me to find his tablet.

Maybe it’s not over for me after all.

I turn from the window and start toward the door, eager to find Nicholas, eager to start planning. Then I stop.

Even if Nicholas does need me to find his tablet, it won’t do for me to be too agreeable. I need things from him, too, and I don’t want to sell myself short. After what happened last night, it’s going to be harder to evade Blackwell than I had previously thought. It won’t be enough just to go into exile. I’ll need a way to keep moving, a way to stay one step ahead of him. I can never stop, never rest. Not if I want to live.

Both of us have our lives at stake here, only Nicholas is a lot more willing to sacrifice his than I am mine.

I crawl back into bed, careful not to wake John. He’s still sprawled across the mattress, still sound asleep. Healing must be exhausting; I wouldn’t know. He seems too young to be doing it anyway. My guess is he’s around nineteen, but he still seems very boyish. Maybe it’s because he’s always so rumpled-looking. Like right now.

His white shirt is a wrinkled mess, unbuttoned too low at the top, the sleeves shoved up past his elbows. He still hasn’t shaved. And his hair. It’s completely wild, those soft dark curls sticking up everywhere, falling across his forehead and into his eyes. He’s about six months past due for a haircut, obviously forgotten.

I always had to remind Caleb to cut his hair, too. I don’t know what it is about boys, but unless there’s a girl around to remind them, they forget even the simplest tasks. Like cutting hair. Or shaving. Or changing their damn clothes. I guess John doesn’t have anyone to remind him about those things, either.