The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)(94)

“How did you do it? You weren’t strong, not like Marcus. You weren’t ambitious like Caleb. Not vicious like Linus.” He looks me over, shakes his head, as if the very sight of me baffles him. “How did you survive?”

He’s asking me the question I’ve always asked myself. How an unremarkable girl like me could live through unimaginable danger like that. I didn’t know then, not really, and I’m not sure now. I offer up my best guess anyway.

“Because I was afraid to do anything except live.”

Blackwell nods, as if this were an interesting viewpoint he’d never considered before. “And now? Are you afraid now?”

I consider telling him I am. I consider that confessing weakness might buy me time, or clemency, or a chance to escape. But even as I think it, I know there’s no chance. Of any of it.

“I’m not afraid.” I say this because it’s the last act of defiance I have against him and I say it because—and I’m shocked to realize it—it’s true. “I’m not afraid of you.”

Blackwell smiles. “Good. I might be worried if you were.” He steps toward me, arm outstretched, the Azoth raised high. And, before I can register what he’s doing, he swings.

I pull back, as he knew I would. He misses by an inch, as I knew he would. He draws back, then advances on me again, and again. I avoid blow after blow. Dodging, twisting, turning. He’s not hitting me, but he’s not trying. Not really. He’s playing with me, as a cat might play with a mouse. To tire me, to weaken me. Then, when I start to stumble, begin to wear out, he will strike. And he will kill me.

I’ve got to end this. Now.

I step back, stagger away, as if I’m trying to run from him. Blackwell seems to expect this, too, and advances. At the last second, I turn to face him and I charge. He doesn’t expect this; he hesitates—a split second—before raising the blade. It’s enough. I lunge forward, slam my foot into his leg. He stumbles. I rise up, clasp my hands together, and bring my entwined fists onto his forearm, hard. Once, twice. The Azoth loosens, then falls from his grip. It lands with a thud on the rain-soaked ground. I drive my toe into the hilt, send it sliding through the mud, out of his reach.

Blackwell stops. Hesitates. Me or the Azoth? He can have only one of us.

He chooses me.

Fast—faster than I imagined he could be—he lunges at me. Fastens his hands around my throat. And with a growl of disgust, hate, and rage, he begins to squeeze.

I slap at his hands, tug at his wrists. Scratch and beat on his arms, his face. But I’m weak. I’m more tired than I need to be, and he doesn’t stop. He just squeezes harder, looking me straight in the eye, his gaze merciless and unremorseful. I try to shout, to scream. But I can’t. Even if I could, I wouldn’t be heard above the pounding rain.

My legs go weak and collapse beneath me; I’m on my knees now, then my back. The rain pours down on both of us, and I thrash around in the mud, but Blackwell keeps squeezing. I can feel my eyes roll to the back of my head, and I’m blinking in and out of consciousness, almost in time with the lightning that flashes in the sky. My body starts jerking uncontrollably as it fights off the inevitable.

There’s no one to save me this time.

Then I remember: Schuyler. He’s here; he’s somewhere. I shout his name inside my head. I scream it. Over and over. Schuyler. The Azoth. It’s here. Come get it, and come save them.

There’s a shouting noise then, a screaming. It breaks through the rain and the dullness in my head—and Blackwell’s concentration. He lets go of my throat. I take a ripping, searing breath and I still can’t move. But the screaming continues.

Abruptly, Blackwell leans back and gets to his feet, swearing under his breath. He waves his arms and the rain around us stops. I turn my head to the side to see what’s happening and feel my eyes go round.

It’s carnage.

Schuyler stands in the clearing, the Azoth held in front of him. Marcus and Linus lie on the ground, the two of them flayed open, blood and innards pouring from their wounds. That was the screaming I heard. Schuyler’s got the blade turned on Caleb now. Caleb holds Fifer in front of him, a dagger held to her throat. Across the clearing, George is huddled over John, who is still lying on the ground, still unmoving, still bleeding.

Blackwell storms toward Schuyler. “You,” he growls.

“Tell him to let her go,” Schuyler says, not taking his eyes off Caleb. “Tell him to do it now.”

Blackwell advances on him. Throws his arms in the air and, at once, the rain starts up again, accompanied by a crackle of lightning and ear-splitting thunder. I lose sight of them all now, and I can’t hear what’s happening. But I know I need to move.

Slowly, I roll onto my side. I hurt in a thousand places at once and I’m bleeding from a hundred. I’ve got so many wounds my stigma can’t heal them all. I get to my hands and knees but stumble to the ground again, face-first into the mud. I get up again, but it’s so hard, so painful; even breathing is painful. Finally, I stagger to my feet and start toward them. I don’t know what I think I can do. I can barely move. I don’t even have a weapon.

I stumble over something then. I look down. It’s the knife. The one I stabbed myself in the leg with, the one John flung to the ground. I reach down, pry it loose, and keep moving. Blackwell is directly in front of me now, his back to me. Schuyler twitches the blade between Blackwell and Caleb. Caleb digs his blade into Fifer’s neck so hard I can see the blood rising. But his focus is slipping. His eyes dart around wildly, from Schuyler to the sky, then back again, blinking furiously against the downpour. Only I know how much Caleb hates the rain; I can almost hear him pleading for it to stop.