The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)(93)

“But you did,” I say. “You burned a dozen a week. I was there. I saw it.”

“I had to burn some of them,” Blackwell says. “Malcolm would have been suspicious had I not. But surely you noticed the only ones on the pyre were healers and kitchen witches? I had to sacrifice someone, and I had no use for them. They’re about as useful as he is.” He waves his hand dismissively at John. “But the necromancers, the demonologists? The wizards practicing black magic? I had use for them, certainly. I do have use for them.”

“You can’t do it,” I say.

“I can, and I will. There is no one to stop me now. And with this”—he holds up the Azoth—“I will be invincible.”

“Nicholas,” I blurt. “He’s going to live. He can stop you.…”

“Oh, I think not.”

That’s when I hear it. A girl’s choked sob, a boy’s muffled groan. It makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

Caleb comes into view then, followed by Marcus and Linus, and I see where the noise is coming from. It’s Fifer and George, both of them bound and beaten. Linus leads Fifer by the hair, and it’s clear she’s fighting to stay conscious. George’s eye and mouth are bruised, and there’s blood running down his cheek.

I let out a gasp.

“Did you really think you could get away with it? Did you really think you could simply walk away?” Blackwell advances on me. Grabs my shoulders and looks down on me; his black eyes boring into mine. “Did you really think you could stop me?”

I look at Caleb and he looks back, his face impassive. “I warned you,” he says to me. “I told you what would happen if you didn’t come back with me. I told you I wouldn’t be able to protect you.”

There’s a terrible silence as we stare at each other; I can feel everyone’s eyes on us. I search his face for something—a hint of sympathy, a shade of compassion—anything that shows that my friend is still there. But I see nothing. And I know—with painful certainty, I know—I’m on my own. That in this, his final test, when faced with the choice between family and ambition, Caleb chose ambition.

I turn back to Blackwell.

“What are you going to do?” I whisper.

Blackwell releases me then, so abruptly I stumble. “Bring me the girl.”

Linus steps forward with Fifer, pushing her roughly in front of him. I can hear John’s weak protests and George’s muffled shouts, but they barely register. I can’t take my eyes off her. Her dress is torn along the top; it keeps slipping over her shoulders. Her shoes are missing, and she’s trembling so hard her teeth are chattering.

I turn to Linus. “What did you do to her?”

“Nothing.” Linus gives a terrible smile and runs a finger down the back of her neck. Fifer and I both shudder. “Yet.”

I’m so disgusted I don’t think, I just launch myself at Linus. He pushes Fifer away and jumps me. We hit the ground, both of us punching and kicking and screaming horrible things at each other. He pulls out his dagger and stabs me repeatedly with it, aiming for my neck, my heart, my stomach. He’s hitting something, but I can’t tell what. The second I feel pain it disappears, followed by pain somewhere else. My whole body is so caught up in the loop of pain and healing, I can’t tell where one begins and the other ends.

“Enough.” Blackwell’s voice thunders across the clearing. Linus leaps away from me like a trained dog, still in the habit of obedience. I get to my feet, but slowly. I’m not healing as fast as I should be; I’m still weak from the poison and from the wound in my stomach.

“What do you want me to do?” I whisper. “Whatever it is, tell me and I’ll do it. Just don’t hurt them.” I lock eyes with him. “Just tell me what you need.”

“I needed the king dead, and I needed Nicholas dead,” he says. “You were meant to do both, and you failed. At both.” He steps toward me. “Fortunately, I have these two now.” He glances at George and Fifer. “They will tell me where Nicholas is; they will lead me to him. They will”—he repeats, louder, over John’s protests—“if they do not wish to suffer—unduly—before I dispose of them.”

Fifer lets out a moan.

“As for the king, he will be taken care of. It may already be done.” He glances at Caleb, who nods. “So, as you can see, I don’t need you to do anything.” He steps up to me, his black eyes glittering with madness, boring into mine. “I don’t need you at all.”

The storm of his fury breaks. He throws up his arms and it begins to rain again, the way it was when I stepped out of the tomb. It comes down like an assault: I can’t see beyond it, can’t hear beyond the sound of it drumming into the ground. It’s just Blackwell and me now; everything and everyone else has disappeared. I back away from him; I would look for somewhere to run, but I’m afraid to take my eyes from his face. Besides, I know there’s nowhere to go.

“I would throw you into the maze,” he says, not shouting—but I can hear him perfectly over the rain—“if I thought it meant I’d be rid of you. But I did that before and you came out. I’d send more of my hybrids after you, but I know what would happen with that, too.”

He stops, his expression turning into something almost… curious.