The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)(70)

“I have to,” he says.

“No, you don’t. Just put me down. I’ll be fine.” I start struggling in his arms. But the pain is so intense it makes me gasp.

“Stop moving,” he orders. “You’re making it worse.”

In the dining room, John lays me on the table, now covered in a clean white sheet, and then shrugs out of his heavy black coat. Bridget rushes around, carrying trays of things and setting them out for him. Fifer and George hover behind her, identical expressions of fear on their faces.

“No,” I say again. “You can’t do this.” I roll to my side, try to get away from him. But John pins my shoulders to the table and leans over me. His face is inches from mine.

“If you don’t let me do this, you will bleed to death,” he whispers. “Do you understand me?” I look into his dark eyes and I can see fear there, lurking just beneath the surface. And I know he’s telling the truth.

I let out a shaky breath. “Okay. But there’s something I need to tell you.”

“Tell me later.” John grabs a bottle of spirits off the table, then pulls back the frayed edges of silk from my gory midsection. “This might sting a bit,” he says. Then he dumps the clear, cold liquid all over my stomach.

The pain is sharp and penetrating. I stifle a groan, biting my lip so hard I taste blood. He presses a clean cloth to my side and begins cleaning off my skin. Any second he’s going to see my stigma.

I glance at Fifer. She holds my gaze for a moment, a look of resignation crossing her face. Then she nods.

“John.” She walks forward and touches his sleeve.

“Fifer, please. Not now.” He lifts up the cloth.

“I need to tell you something.”

“Fifer, I told you—” He glances at my stomach. Frowns. Peers in closer. Then he sucks in a sudden, sharp breath. I don’t need to look to know what he sees: a black XIII, scrawled across my abdomen, burning bright against my pale skin.

John stumbles away from the table, his eyes wide, the color draining from his face.

“That’s a… you’re a…” He can’t bring himself to say it.

I open my mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. I start to reach for him, then think better of it.

“I’m sorry,” Fifer says softly. “You weren’t supposed to know.”

John doesn’t reply.

“None of us were,” George adds. “It was Nicholas’s order. Fifer and I only found out by accident.”

John still doesn’t reply. He just stands there, staring unseeing at the floor in front of him. An interminable silence passes, and I wonder for a moment if he’s just going to walk away. Leave the room and let me bleed to death.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Fifer says. “But she’s not like the others. She saved my life tonight.” She quickly fills them in about our run-in with the guards. “If she hadn’t been there, they would have taken me in. Or killed me. Or worse.”

I stare at her, shocked by her words, by her defense of me.

“And she knows where the tablet is,” Fifer continues.

“She does?” Humbert and George say at once.

George steps up beside me. “Where is it?”

“It’s—ah.” A bolt of pain shoots through me, making me gasp. “It’s at Blackwell’s.”

“What?” Humbert looks stunned. “How is that possible?”

I open my mouth again, groan in pain again.

“She can tell you about it later,” Fifer says. “But she can’t if she’s dead.” She looks at John. But he’s looking at me now, his jaw clenched, a flush of anger coloring his cheeks. Eyes so dark they’re almost black.

“Hand me the needle and thread.”

George lets out a small sigh of relief.

Bridget steps beside John, looking apologetic. “I tried to thread it myself but my hands were shaking too hard. I don’t take to the sight of blood too well.” She presses the needle and thread into his hand, then quickly moves away from the table, as if I’m going to jump off it and attack her.

John threads the needle without hesitation, as if he’s done it a thousand times, pulling it through and tying the ends together in a tight knot. I see the slightest tremor in his hands. If I hadn’t already seen how steady they can be, I might not have noticed. Without a word, he picks up the bottle of spirits again and offers it to me.

I take two huge swallows. The sharp, strong liquid burns my mouth and throat. I shudder as it hits my empty, roiling stomach.

John holds the needle up, a long length of thread trailing behind it. Green. The same shade as the knight in his tomb.

I close my eyes just as the sharp needle penetrates my flesh.





MY EYES FLUTTER OPEN. John is leaning over me, his palms spread across the table, his head bowed. I must have passed out for a moment, but I don’t think he noticed. I can hear him breathing: long, slow, deep breaths, as if he’s fighting to control them.

“I’m sorry,” I say. My voice weak and hoarse, but I need to say it. “I’m so sorry.”

He jerks his head up. Snatches the spool of thread off the table, hurls it across the room. It hits the wall and clatters to the floor. Then he spins on his heel and storms away.