The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)(67)

I slip out the door, and Fifer and I start running, out of the tunnel, over the stones, and down the hill.

“That was quick thinking,” Fifer says. “With the salt. I thought we were done for.”

“What was that you stuck in his trousers? Was that peppermint?”

She nods. “It gives him terrible hives. He’ll be covered in a rash for weeks. And in a very painful place, too.”

I start laughing then. I can’t help it. After a moment, Fifer joins in.

We stop a moment to get our bearings. We’re somewhere halfway up the hill now. Below us are the lake and the party beyond, still going strong.

“Well?” Fifer holds up the Azoth. “This is it, right? The thing you were supposed to find?”

I shake my head. “No. Nicholas said I’d know it when I saw it, and this sword doesn’t mean anything to me at all.”

Fifer looks from me to the sword then back again. “Are you sure? Here. Take another look.” She thrusts the sword at me; I take a quick step back.

“Watch it,” I snap.

“Sorry,” she says, not sounding the least bit. “But—the prophecy. What he holds in death will lead you to thirteen. The knight was holding the sword. And it’s the reason Schuyler is here.” Fifer makes an exasperated noise. “This has to be it.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “But this isn’t it.” Fifer looks so disappointed I almost feel sorry for her. “Look,” I continue, “it’s not all bad, is it? Blackwell wanted it, and now he’s not going to get it. Especially if it really does what Schuyler says it does.”

“I guess.” Fifer shrugs. “What should we do with it? We need to keep looking, but I don’t want to drag it down there with all those people. Even if they don’t know what it is, they might take an interest in it for no other reason than all these jewels.” She twists the Azoth in her hand, the emeralds glinting even in the muted torchlight.

“Let’s take it back to Humbert’s,” I say. “We can leave it in the cathedral and come back. How long does this party go on?”

“A while,” Fifer says. “Especially on the last night. Could go ’til dawn, at least.”

“Okay,” I say. “I don’t know what we’ll do about Schuyler—”

“I have more peppermint,” Fifer says. “And more salt. I brought enough to stun a revenant army. And I’m mad as hell. If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll stay away.”





WE MAKE OUR WAY THROUGH the woods, back in the direction of Humbert’s. I toss the torch on the ground and stamp it out: If Schuyler does come to, there’s no sense in making it easy for him to follow us.

Fifer walks beside me, swinging the Azoth back and forth. Maybe I should be thinking about Blackwell, about his wanting the sword, if it really does what Schuyler says it does. But for some reason, my mind is on the knight, still and green in his tomb.

“Why do you suppose he was so green?” I say. “The knight, I mean? I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

“Me neither,” Fifer says. “But it was definitely a curse. Either from the sword or from the witch who entombed him. Did you see that slab on top? All the marks on it?”

“Yes,” I say, shifting my attention to the treetops ahead of us. I just saw a pair of owls shoot into the sky. Might be nothing; owls hunt at night. But birds flying out of trees are also nature’s way of telling you there are people nearby. Maybe it’s just us. “It was a curse tablet.”

Fifer nods. “You never see them disposed of that way. They’re usually thrown in wells, dumped in lakes, rivers. The ocean. You know. But to put one in a tomb—”

I feel a jolt of warning down my spine.

“Tomb?” I stop and grab Fifer’s arm. “What happens if you put one in a tomb?”

Fifer frowns. “For one, it makes for a more effective curse. The tablet draws upon the dark energy of the dead and strengthens the magic. Especially if the person died violently.”

“Violently?” I feel cold, sick.

“But it’s crazy,” Fifer continues. “I mean, it’s one thing in theory, burying a curse tablet with a corpse. Entirely another in practice.”

“Practice?” I’m starting to sound like a popinjay, those ridiculous talking birds that pirates sometimes have. They can’t really talk, of course. All they do is repeat the last few words you say to them. Stupid, useless creatures.

“Well, yes. Think about it. To do it you’d almost have to plan it all along—perform the curse, kill someone, and then bury the tablet in with the person you just killed. How would you do it otherwise? Not many people are going to run around town looking for freshly dug graves to put their curse tablet in, keeping their fingers crossed that the person buried there died a violent death. No one wants to get their hands that dirty, pardon the pun.”

My head is spinning. Inside, words float around, disjointed and nonsensical. Curse tablet. Tomb. Violent death. Plan. Corpse. Grave. Dirty hands. But then they start to weave together like a tapestry, forming a picture I wish I didn’t see.

Come third winter’s night, go underground in green. What holds him in death will lead you to thirteen.