The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)(65)

I start to wonder if Fifer’s necklace doesn’t work. That Schuyler heard us and outsmarted us and purposely led us astray… then my toe hits a rock and sends it clattering into a nearby tree. I reach down and pick it up. It’s mossy, too, but green. Bright green. It looks out of place.

It is out of place.

Soon I see another green rock, then another. They’re getting bigger, piling up along the ground until the forest floor disappears beneath them. We pick our way over them until they end at the entrance to a small tunnel, neatly hewn into the side of the hill.

Fifer shoots me a look. There’s a challenge behind it.

I shrug, but I feel my heart pick up speed. I hate small, dark spaces but I’m not about to back out now. I take a breath and step inside, Fifer behind me. There’s a faint light at the end, glowing soft and green. It has a strange, shimmery quality to it, almost like water.

We follow the tunnel to the end, where it veers sharply to the right, and peer carefully around the corner. About ten feet in front of us is an enormous stone slab, propped open like a door. I hear noises from inside. A grinding noise, like stone on stone. A shuffling, like footsteps.

Schuyler.

I turn to Fifer. “Stay behind me. Whatever he’s doing in there, he won’t like being surprised.” It occurs to me that while I don’t think Schuyler will hurt Fifer, he won’t have any problem hurting me.

Fifer reaches into her bag, pulls out Humbert’s spring-loaded dagger, and hands it to me.

“I don’t think this will help,” I say.

“Maybe not,” she says. “But there’s no sense going in empty-handed.”

I take it and press the button in the handle. With a tiny click, the single blade splits into three. Fifer pulls a small canvas sack from her bag and ties it around her waist.

“Salt,” she whispers. “Just in case. It won’t stop him, either, but it’ll slow him down if we need to get away.”

We slip through the narrow opening into a small room unlike anything I’ve ever seen. A thick carpet of moss covers the floor and the walls. Long tentacles of it hang from the ceiling, and the air smells damp and earthy, like a forest after a storm. In the center of the room is a single, moss-covered tomb. Schuyler stands in front of it, holding an enormous sword. His head whips around as we enter the room, and immediately he takes a swing.

Fifer screams and I drop to the ground, feeling a rush of wind as the blade skims the top of my head.

“Flamin’ hell, Elizabeth!” Schuyler lowers the sword. “I coulda killed you. And you!” He looks at Fifer. “What are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here? What are you doing here?” Fifer steps over me and advances, pointing her finger at him. “Explain yourself!”

An unmistakable look of guilt flashes across Schuyler’s face.

“Ah. Yes. Well, it’s all a bit of a faff, really—”

“It looks pretty simple to me.” She points at the sword. “You’re stealing that, aren’t you?”

Schuyler scratches the back of his neck. “It’s not what it looks like.”

“What is it, then?”

Schuyler doesn’t reply.

“Tell me,” Fifer says.

“I can’t,” he says.

“Tell me now,” Fifer repeats. “Or I swear to you I’ll walk out of here and you’ll never see me again.” Her words are angry, only she doesn’t sound angry. She sounds upset.

Schuyler looks at her for a moment, then steps forward and takes her hand. Fifer doesn’t move. They stand there, hands clasped, staring at each other in a way that makes me think I shouldn’t be here.

She rises on her toes and leans against him, her lips moving toward his, as if she’s about to kiss him. Schuyler’s eyes are as round as mine feel; he looks as if he’s about to devour her on the spot. Then, in a flash, she snatches the sword from his hand.

It takes a moment for him to snap out of his daze.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Fifer backs away from him, pointing the sword at his chest.

“Taking this. Until you tell me what you need it for.”

Schuyler’s eyes gleam with anger, and I feel a prickle of fear. I can’t decide if Fifer is ridiculously brave or ridiculously foolish.

He whirls around then—the movement so sudden and fast it makes me jump—and reaches into the tomb. He yanks out a scabbard. It was once brown leather, I suppose, but now it’s as green as everything else around us.

“Do you know what this place is?” He fastens the scabbard around his waist.

Fifer shakes her head. She’s standing close to me now; I can feel her trembling.

“It’s the tomb of the Green Knight,” Schuyler says. “Heard of him?”

Fifer shakes her head again.

“What about that?” Schuyler points at the sword. “Called the Azoth. Lots of fairy tales told about it. Elizabeth, surely you’ve heard one or two.”

Fifer looks at me; we both look at the sword. The blade is huge: made of silver, cut through with swirls of bronze, three feet long at least. The hilt is solid bronze, encrusted with emeralds of every shape, size, and shade of green.

“Blackwell didn’t spend much time tucking me in and reading me bedtime stories, so no. I’ve never heard of it.”