The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)(64)

“Why?”

We watch Schuyler trudge up the hill until he disappears into the trees.

Fifer scowls. “Because he’s up to something. And I want to know what it is.”





FIFER STARTS MARCHING AROUND THE LAKE. I hurry after her.

“Are you sure this is a good idea? Following him like this?” I stumble over a branch and nearly fall. My dress is so tight it’s hard to keep up with her.

“Good for us, not so for him,” she says.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Fifer doesn’t reply.

We’ve reached the other side of the water now. It’s eerily quiet here: The noise from the crowd has fallen away, muffled by the thickening trees. It’s growing darker, too, the halo of sunlight above our heads fading the farther we move into the forest.

“You said you think he’s up to something,” I continue. “What is it?”

It could be anything. Revenants aren’t exactly known for having wholesome pastimes. Before he started recruiting and training witch hunters, Blackwell used revenants to find witches for him. It was a disaster. Unreliable at best, terribly violent at worst, they’d kill them and dismember them and bring back body parts as trophies. Blackwell said they were like cats dumping their kill on his doorstep for approval.

Finally, she speaks. “Stealing.”

“Oh,” I say, somewhat relieved.

“He promised me he’d stop. And he did for a while. But then I didn’t hear from him for months, and I found out he’d been arrested. They put him in Fleet.” She looks at me, her eyes wide. “I thought I’d never see him again. I prepared for the worst… but then he was let go. Well, he said he escaped, but I don’t know if I believe that.”

I don’t know if I believe that, either. No one escapes Fleet. No one except me, and I had a lot of help. And Blackwell would never let a revenant go. Unless…

“You think he was let go so he could steal something?”

She nods.

I think a moment. “You think Blackwell wants him to steal something?”

She nods again.

“Like what?”

“Who knows. With Schuyler it could be anything. He’s stolen money; he’s stolen horses; he even stole a crate of chickens once—”

“Except Blackwell wouldn’t have him steal chickens.”

“No,” she replies. “And that’s what I’m afraid of.” She glances in Schuyler’s direction. Only his bright hair is visible now; the rest of him fades into the darkness of the trees around him.

Fifer turns back to me. “I didn’t just bring Schuyler here to protect me against you. There’s another reason, too.” She takes a deep breath. “The prophecy. Remember the line that says, trust the one who sees as much as he hears? Well, I think that’s about Schuyler. And I think that whatever Blackwell wants him to steal is the same thing we’re here to find.”

Her words come fast now, as though she’s afraid I’m going to cut her off, to tell her she’s wrong, to say I don’t believe her, the way John did.

I don’t.

“I wasn’t sure, at first. But then when I saw him talking to those nymphs—” Fifer breaks off. “They know things, too, you know. They’re connected to the earth the way revenants are. If there’s anything hidden around here, anything out of the ordinary, they’ll know it.”

“Is that why you brought two necklaces?” I say. “Because you knew we’d have to follow him and you didn’t want him to know?”

Fifer shrugs. “I always carry two necklaces. If I need to talk to someone else he’s touched, doesn’t do me much good to only have one, does it? Schuyler’s smart enough to figure out what I’m saying even from half a conversation.”

I smile a little at the lengths she goes to, to hide things from him.

“Anyway, even if I’m wrong about Schuyler being part of the prophecy—which I’m not—whatever Blackwell’s got him doing, whatever he wants Schuyler to steal, it can’t be good, can it?” Fifer goes silent. And when she speaks again, her voice is very quiet. “I always think of Schuyler as invincible. But I think he’s gotten in over his head this time.”

Immediately, I wonder if Schuyler knows about Blackwell. Then I dismiss it. Revenants need touch to gain access to people’s thoughts: The more contact they have with a person, the deeper they can read into them. I doubt Blackwell would have allowed even a handshake.

I consider telling her then that Blackwell is a wizard. But Nicholas said not to, that the truth will come out in time. And if Fifer is right about Schuyler, that time will come soon enough.

“I think you’re right,” I say.

If Fifer is surprised by my agreement, she doesn’t show it. We keep walking up the hill, pushing our way through the thickening trees until the path gradually narrows, then disappears. We’ve lost sight of Schuyler, and there’s nothing around us but trees now, no way to know which direction he may have gone.

“What do you think?” Fifer asks.

I look around. While I’m used to hunting at night, I almost always had some sort of light. If not from the moon, then a torch. The moon is just a tiny sliver, too dim and too low in the sky to be of use. I keep walking anyway. Fifer trails behind me, silent. But I don’t see anything. Just a typical forest floor, spongy with moss, brown with wet leaves and fallen branches. Unremarkable.