The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)(44)

His hand shifts across the mattress then, and I spot a tattoo on the inside of his forearm. A black circle about two inches in diameter with a cross inside it: a sun wheel. The circle represents life, the cross triumph over death.

I start tracing the shape of it along the bedcovers with my fingertip. Watch the lines press into the blanket, then disappear. I do this over and over. Then I move to the shapes of the vines on the ceiling. The heart-shaped leaves, the long, looping vines that wind and curl down the wall. I’m so absorbed in what I’m doing that when John’s finger reaches over and touches mine, I gasp. I didn’t realize he was awake.

“Hi.” He looks at me through one half-opened eye.

“Hi.”

“You all right?” His voice is quiet, deep.

I shrug. “Fine.”

He blinks, but he doesn’t take his eyes from me. He’s probably looking for an explanation for what happened last night. Why I collapsed as I did, why he had to carry me back. Just thinking about it makes my cheeks blaze.

“I don’t like enclosed spaces,” I say, finally. “Childhood trauma.” It’s true enough, anyway.

He props himself up on his elbow. “No need to explain. I was just checking.”

“Okay,” I say. “Well, thank you for bringing me back. And I’m sorry, I guess.” I duck my head to hide the burning in my face again.

“No need to apologize, either. It’s not every day I get to carry a girl fifty miles through an underground tunnel.” His voice sounds serious. But when I look up, he’s smiling.

“It wasn’t that far.”

“It was. Plus, you’re really heavy,” he goes on. “You know. Like a sack of feathers.”

I shake my head, but I can feel myself start to smile.

John leans back in his chair, runs a hand through his hair. “Anyway, I’m the one who should apologize. I didn’t mean to stay, at least not all night. I was waiting for George to come back, started reading, and”—he gestures at his book—“fell asleep.”

I glance at the cover. Praxis Philosophica: Alchemical Formulas for Transformation.

“I can’t imagine why,” I say.

He laughs. “I don’t know why he didn’t come back. I guess I should find out.” He gets to his feet just as there’s a knock at the door. It’s George. He steps into the room, his usual carefree expression replaced with something far more solemn.

“I was just coming to find you,” John says. “What’s going on?”

George jerks his head at me. “Nicholas needs her.”

My stomach flutters with anxiety.

“And he needs you, too. He’s not well. Last night took a toll.”

John swears under his breath. “I’ll go now. Can you take her?”

George nods and they both start toward the door. “We’ll go when you’re ready.”

I still have on the clothes I wore last night: the dark green trousers, the white shirt. The velvet coat is draped across the back of John’s chair, the boots underneath it. I draw them on, run my hands through my tangled hair, pinch some color into my cheeks. I was feeling confident about Nicholas, that he wouldn’t throw me out of his house, that I’d get another chance. But now I’m not so sure.

George waits for me outside the door. He gives me a quick nod, and, without a word, he starts down the hall, the opposite direction from the stairs.

“What’s happening?” I hurry to keep up with him.

He doesn’t reply.

“He knows about me. Veda told him. Did you know that?”

George still doesn’t reply. We walk along the hallway until we reach the double doors at the end.

“George, what’s going on?”

“It’s not my place to tell you. You’ll find out soon enough anyway.” He gives a quick, staccato knock. My heart is beating a little too fast, my palms a little too damp. I swipe them against my trousers.

“How is he?”

“Cursed,” George replies shortly. Then he opens the door.

Inside is an enormous bedchamber. It’s dark, and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. When they do, I see Nicholas sitting in a chair next to the fireplace, John leaning over him, speaking to him in a low voice. Nicholas looks so frail, so fragile, and even from here I can see he’s trembling. My stomach gives an uncomfortable twist.

“Please, come in,” Nicholas says. His voice is hoarse, thin. George steps aside to let me through. John straightens up and makes his way to the door. He stops in front of me.

“He wants to see you alone,” he says quietly. “It’s important, I know, but try to keep it quick, all right?” He and George leave then, the door closing behind them with a quiet thump.

Nicholas beckons me to the chair opposite his. “Come. Sit.”

I cross the vast bedroom. It’s decorated entirely in shades of red: red carpet, red walls, red bedcovers. Even the candles are red, their flames flickering rhythmically off the walls. I feel as if I’m inside a beating heart.

I settle into the chair. Up close, Nicholas looks even worse. His skin is ashen, his hair is grayer than it was last night, even his dark eyes seem gray. For a moment, he just stares at me.

“I’d like to talk to you about what happened last night,” he says, finally.