The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)(92)

“Run.”

I yank away from him with a gasp; and when I do, I see Blackwell standing beside John, slowly pulling a knife out of his side.





“THAT WAS A VERY TOUCHING SCENE,” Blackwell says. He wipes a handkerchief across the blade and slides it back into his belt. John lets out a muffled groan and staggers backward, pressing his hand to his waist. Blood pours between his fingers.

“No,” I whisper. “This isn’t real.”

“Oh, it’s quite real, I assure you.” Blackwell steps toward me. I look at him, hoping to see something that will show me he’s just part of the illusion. But he looks the same. He’s wearing the same clothes I saw him in at the masque: dark trousers, red brocade jacket embroidered in gold. His chain of office is gone, but then that belongs to Caleb now.

“You did destroy the tablet,” he continues. “And you dispatched my hybrids quite handily, too.” He gives a low chuckle, like an indulgent father. Only I know better. A chill races down my spine. “I taught you well. You really were one of my best witch hunters.”

I shake my head. This isn’t real—it isn’t. I turn away from him then. Look around, search for something—anything—to show me what’s really happening. Where I really am. I see the broken tomb, the dead rats. The rain is gone, the sky is clear, my clothes are wet, and here I am.

At Blackwell’s. Right where I started.

It’s all real.

“John!” I lunge for him just as Blackwell lunges for me. Quick as a snake, he snatches the Azoth from my scabbard. I reach out a hand to stop him, but it’s too late. He holds it up, the emeralds in the hilt glinting menacingly in the moonlight.

I start for John again, but Blackwell stops me, thrusting the blade against my chest.

“You can’t help him,” he says. “He’s got thirty minutes at most. He’ll know it, too. He’s a healer, isn’t he?” John is on his knees now, still clutching his side.

“Why?” I shriek. It’s all I can think to ask.

Blackwell shrugs, indifferent. “Why did I stab him? I assume you need a better reason than his trespassing on my property? Or do you mean why did I try to kill Nicholas Perevil? I assume you need a better reason than his being a Reformist, a traitor, and a threat to my kingdom?”

“Your kingdom?”

“Yes. My kingdom. My fool nephew may be king of this country, but I am the one who rules it. I work while he plays. Gather armies while he hunts, deploy them while he dances. I set policies and enact laws and plan rebellions while he drinks and gambles and wastes his time with women.” He gives me a terrible, hard look. “You of all people should know this.”

It takes a moment to find my voice.

“You knew,” I finally manage. “You knew and you didn’t stop him.”

Blackwell gives my arm a rough shake. “Of course I knew. Malcolm was married at sixteen to a woman twice his age. He was bound to fall in love but never with her. When he took a liking to you, I used it to my advantage. I encouraged him. Told him you liked him back.” He shrugs, dismissive. “I knew where it would lead.”

Behind him, John makes a noise halfway between a growl and a groan.

“You were meant to do your duty—to do what I trained you to do—and kill him,” Blackwell continues. “I needed him gone, and you were meant to do it. Caleb all but told you to do it.” His voice rises. “How many times did he have to point out the ways Malcolm was losing control of the country? How many times did he have to tell you we’d be better off without him?”

“And I was supposed to take that as instruction to kill the king?” I say, incredulous. “That’s insane. You’re insane.”

“Manners” is all he says in reply.

“You can’t kill Malcolm,” I say. “You can’t.”

Blackwell shrugs. “It’s done. At midnight tonight, it’s done. The mask will finally be lifted and I will unveil myself as the new ruler of Anglia.” He smiles. “It’s a bit theatrical, I know. But I really couldn’t resist.”

“It will never work,” I say. “The whole country is in revolt against you—”

He laughs, a deep, rumbling laugh that stuns me to hear it. I’ve never heard him laugh before.

“The country is in revolt against Malcolm. I was simply carrying out his orders. He is king, as you pointed out.”

“But you created the laws!” I say. “You were Inquisitor. They were your rules—”

“I created the laws Malcolm commanded I create.” He spreads his arms. “I was a victim of his treachery as much as anyone. Perhaps more, as I was commanded to put hundreds of witches and wizards—my own kind—to death.” He shakes his head in mock sorrow. “But tonight all of that will end. I will take the throne, and I will do it with an army so powerful no one will dare stop me.”

“Army,” I breathe. “What army?”

“The army you built for me, of course.”

I let out a gasp. Then I realize. I realize what he’s been doing all along, what he’s done.

“I trained you to hunt witches and wizards,” he continues. “Hunt them and bring them to me. Didn’t you wonder why I never wanted you to kill them?”