The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)(69)

I hear Fifer groaning. I stagger to her side.

“Are you okay?” Her eye is starting to swell, and even in the pale predawn sky I can see a bruise blooming under the skin.

She looks at me, her pupils dilated so large her eyes look nearly black.

“You’re hurt.”

I nod. “I guess the sword has some power after all.”

“Will you be able to make it back?”

“I think so.” The blood is flowing hot and fast now, spilling through my fingers. I’m starting to shake. Fifer wraps her arm around my shoulders and, slowly, we make our way back to Humbert’s.

I don’t speak at all. Whether from pain or terror, I don’t know. All I do know is that my stigma isn’t healing me. What does that mean? Is it just this wound that won’t heal? Or what if the Azoth has somehow undone the stigma’s power permanently? If I’ve lost my stigma, I don’t stand a chance of getting that tablet.

I may as well die right here.

Dawn breaks, weak threads of light pushing through the thick blanket of clouds that is already filling the sky. As we reach the edge of Humbert’s property, Fifer is practically carrying me. I’ve lost a lot of blood and I’m so dizzy I can hardly walk. The ground swoops in giant waves below me, and things start to blur around the edges.

Soon we see the turrets of Humbert’s house in the distance, poking up through the treetops like tiny teeth. As we draw closer, I can see servants in the courtyard, already going about their morning business. And I hear Humbert shouting.

“Keep your eyes peeled! If you find them, bring them to me, sharpish! I won’t have them ruining my roses again, climbing down the bloody wall—”

Fifer shoots me a look. For the first time since we left the party, I start to worry about what waits for us inside. This might be bad.

Bridget is in the courtyard as we walk up. She takes one look at me and screams.

“Master Pembroke! Come quickly!” She rushes over to me. “Oh my goodness, miss, what’s happened to you? So much blood…” She clucks around me like an overexcited hen.

Humbert comes barreling through the door, his plump face flushed with anger. He’s still wearing the clothes he had on last night, a bright silk doublet over a ruffled linen shirt, both now wrinkled and wilted. His spare gray hair sticks up at all angles, revealing patches of baldness underneath. He looks completely mental. I might laugh if I weren’t about to faint.

He takes one look at us and stops dead in his tracks.

“My God,” he stammers. “What—what happened? My God,” he repeats, his eyes darting back and forth between Fifer and me in horror. He seems not to notice the enormous sword she’s holding at her side.

Between the two of us, there’s a lot to be horrified by. Fifer’s red hair is matted and dirty, embedded with grass and twigs and broken leaves. Her shirt is mud-stained and her skirt hangs in tatters. But none of that compares with her face. Her eye, nearly swollen shut now, is a brilliant shade of purple. It stands out like a beacon against her pale skin.

But however bad she looks, I look a hundred times worse. I catch a glimpse of myself in one of Humbert’s many diamond-paned windows and start at the reflection. My face is coated in blood and dirt. My arms are covered in moss and mud. But my stomach is the worst. Fifer’s beautiful white dress has been torn clear open, revealing an enormous, oozing slash across my midsection. She said she’d kill me if I ruined her dress, but I’m wondering if the sword might beat her to it. My stomach lurches and the ground slides precariously under my feet.

“John!” Humbert rushes to my side. “George! Come quickly! We need help!” He and Fifer slowly lead me inside the house.

John and George run into the hallway. I lift my head to look them over. Unlike Humbert, they’ve changed into fresh clothes from yesterday, both wearing long wool coats, heavy gloves, and boots. Their faces are flushed with cold, as if they’ve been outside for a while.

“Oh,” I whisper. I’m surprised at how weak my voice sounds. “Were you out all night, too?”

“We’ve been looking for you,” George says. He can’t tear his eyes away from my stomach, from the blood that drips onto Humbert’s pristine black-and-white floors. Then he looks at Fifer, at the sword dangling from her hand. “Did you do that?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snaps. We take another step forward and I stumble. “John, help her.”

John steps forward and scoops me up in his arms.

“Take her to the dining room,” Humbert instructs. Dimly, I hear him call out to Bridget. She rushes over, and John quickly rattles off the things he needs. I don’t really listen. Can’t he do whatever he needs to do upstairs, so I can sleep? I’m so tired. I lean my head against his chest and close my eyes. He smells like outside. Leaves and cold, crisp air.

“Bring me whatever sewing needles you have, and a spool of your strongest thread. No, I don’t care what color,” he adds. He carries me into the dining room, Fifer and George on his heels.

“You’re going to sew my dress back together?” I open one eye and squint up at him. “That’s nice of you.”

“No. I’m going to sew your skin back together.”

“What?” Fifer and I exchange a frantic glance. My injury is right above my stigma. If John tries to help me, he’ll see it. I can feel the heat of it blazing into my skin, still trying to heal me. “No. You can’t.”