The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)(85)

We slide into port. Two men rush over and quickly lower the gangplank, and it lands with a muffled thud on the dock below.

“Quickly, please,” one of the men says, waving us on.

“This is it,” George whispers. “Masks on.” He slips his over his head: a plain black one. That took some convincing. The mask he wanted to wear was turquoise and covered in peacock plumes. “If you wear that, it’ll take anyone five seconds to realize it’s you,” John had pointed out.

I pull my mask out of my bag, the black one with the pink feathers, and tie it on.

The five of us walk down the bridge. The second we step foot on the dock, the gangplank is whisked back up and the boat glides away, disappearing down the river, back to sea.





“INVITATIONS?” A DARK-UNIFORMED GUARD EXTENDS a white-gloved hand to us.

We’re standing at the top of a wide set of stone stairs that lead from the dock to the entrance of Blackwell’s home. The walls loom over us, damp and black with mold.

John hands over our magically altered invitations. I feel a squeeze of fear—What if he can tell somehow?—but he only nods.

“Enjoy your evening.”

“Thank you,” John says. He takes my arm then, steering me down the path in front of us.

I look around, impressed despite myself. Before tonight, this landing was never anything special. Just an expanse of dirt and scattered rocks, a nothing space that led from the water gate to the second gate of the inner ward. But now it’s covered in grass and a freshly laid gravel path, lined with enormous potted trees and lit with a thousand candles. Musicians are stationed in the center of the clearing, strumming lutes and playing the pipes. The light, cheerful music seems completely out of place here.

John looks around, his eyes wide through his mask. His is plain black, too, just like George’s. Humbert was able to round up only two like that. The rest were covered with feathers or jewels or fur. George got the first plain mask; John and Schuyler threw dice for the second. Schuyler lost. Somewhere behind me walks an annoyed revenant sporting a hideous, furry, cat-shaped mask.

For a moment I feel relief that we made it safely inside. I half expected Blackwell’s guards to be on us by now, slapping us in irons and hauling us away, into the dungeon or God knows where else, never to be seen again. But that’s not his way. If he knows we’re here, he’ll wait. Wait until we’re cornered and helpless and then—only then—will he strike. Hard and fast to knock us to our knees, to make us beg, make us wish we were already dead.

That is his way.

We pass through the second gate, into the rose garden. This garden is Blackwell’s most treasured possession. There are over a hundred species of roses here, carefully cultivated to bloom year-round, even in wintertime. Normally, they’re kept under blankets in the cold months to keep away the chill. But tonight they’re uncovered, beautiful and bright in shades of red, pink, yellow, and orange.

Guests stroll along the gravel paths that wind through the bushes, pointing and gasping at the array of topiaries that spring from the ground. Enormous shrubs carefully trimmed into towering pyramids, perfect circles, boxy squares, sometimes all three, one shape stacked on top of another. Others are pruned into animal shapes: owls, bears, even elephants, and their enormous green eyes stare unblinkingly as we pass. The hedge maze generates a lot of excitement, too. But after training, I rather lost my taste for them.

Soon the servants appear and begin ushering us inside. We follow them from the garden down a long stone walkway and through an enormous stone archway, into the main entrance hall. We trudge up the long staircase, through one of the many sets of doors that open into the great hall.

The great hall is just that: great. Three hundred feet long, a hundred feet wide. I can’t begin to guess how tall the ceilings are. The walls are covered in rich tapestries: scenes of hunters on horseback, carrying spears and bows and arrows. But instead of the usual quarry—deer, boar, or wolf—they’re hunting people. Specifically, witches and wizards. There’s even one that features witch hunters roasting their kill on a spit.

I wish I could spare John the sight of that.

We push through the room. An energetic tune fills the air, but it’s nearly drowned out by the sound of hundreds of guests milling about, gossiping, dancing, or huddled in groups along the window seats.

There are masks of every shape and type. Some are plain or lightly decorated, like George’s and John’s. Others resemble the heads of bears, wolves, and tigers, their mouths opened wide in toothy snarls. Some masks are covered in feathers of every color imaginable, others adorned with precious stones: rubies, emeralds, sapphires, and even diamonds. I even see a few full-face masks, their fixed expressions grotesque, almost sinister. Especially since you don’t know who might be underneath them.

I glance at the ornate clock mounted above the stage. Eight fifteen. In thirty minutes, I’ll put my plan into place. That’s when I’ll excuse myself, tell the others I’m going to the privy. In reality, I’ll be going to the tomb. At nine, just as the masque starts, Schuyler will tell the others I’ve called for them. He’ll lead them outside, only instead of finding me, they’ll find Peter, waiting with a ship outside the gate. Then Schuyler will have slipped away to meet me, and he and I will destroy the tablet. Afterward, if I’m alive, Schuyler and I will catch up to them.