The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)(95)

There’s another crack of thunder and Caleb winces, closing his eyes for a moment against the sound. I don’t think. I pull back my arm, take aim, and let my dagger fly, right at Caleb. It lands with a sickening thump in his neck and he jerks away from Fifer, a look of surprise on his face. The delay is enough. Schuyler lunges forward and snatches her from his grip. Caleb wrenches the blade from his neck, the wound instantly healing. Blackwell whirls around, as surprised as Caleb to see me standing there. He hesitates, just for a second, unsure of what to do. But that’s enough, too.

The Azoth.

The second I think it, Schuyler throws it to me. I snatch it out of the air, and as Blackwell rounds on me, I swing. The blade slices down his face and across his shoulder. He pitches forward, stumbling to one knee, his hands pressed against his face, his shouts of agony piercing the air. I swing again. As the sword comes down, Caleb dives between us. Before I can pull back, the full force of the blow lands on his chest.

I step back, almost drop the blade. Caleb falls to his knees, clutching his wound, blood pouring between his hands.

“Caleb,” I whisper. I look at him and he looks at me; and if I expected to see sorrow or regret in his eyes, I would be mistaken. I see nothing but determination.

“We owe him our lives,” he says, his voice hoarse. He looks at his chest, at the blood, and he knows he’s dying.

“No, we don’t,” I say, and I’m crying now. Dimly, I realize that the rain has stopped, but it’s growing darker. Everything around me is fading into black, as if the world were dying instead of Caleb. Then there’s no light at all and no noise, just the sound of me crying.

“Elizabeth!” The sound of Fifer’s voice breaks through my sobs. “Elizabeth!”

I open my eyes. Look around. Caleb is gone; Blackwell is gone. In the spot where they stood lies a stone, faintly smoking on the ground. A lodestone. He disappeared, along with Caleb, along with the storm, along with his magic. It’s clear again, the sky bright enough for me to see the others across the clearing, huddled over John.

I stumble to him, my legs weak with grief and injury and then, when I see him, terror.

“Oh my God.” My knees give way and I collapse next to him. He’s ghostly pale, his skin slick with sweat and blood. “We have to get him out of here.” I reach for him, try to lift him. But the moment I do, John groans in pain and blood blooms brighter across his shirt.

“You can’t move him; we already tried,” George says. “He’s lost too much blood. Every time he moves, he loses more.”

No, I think. This can’t be happening. I can’t let this happen. I can’t let him die.

Then I get an idea.

“Fifer.” I look up at her. “Your witch’s ladder. Where is it?”

“What?”

“Your ladder. Where is it?”

Fifer reaches into her boot and pulls out the black cord. Only one knot left.

“You said you can transfer things using Nicholas’s power.” My words come out in a rush. “Can you use it to transfer my ability to heal over to John? As you did with the grass and the invitations?”

“I—I don’t know,” she stammers. “I’ve never tried anything like that before. What if it doesn’t work? It doesn’t seem to be working on you.”

She’s right. I have so many injuries that it’s taking much longer for them to heal. Stab wounds, broken ribs, punctured lung. Poison circulating through my veins.

“What if it doesn’t heal him? Or worse, what if it hurts him more?”

John starts coughing then, his body shaking. He’s lost too much blood. If we don’t do something soon, he’ll die. He told me he loved me. Do I love him back? I don’t know. But all I know is that I cannot let him die.

Fifer and I exchange a glance.

“Lie down next to him,” she whispers. “Get as close as you can. This spell needs close contact to work.”

I lie on the ground, carefully sliding one hand under his shoulder, wrapping the other around his waist. I can feel how cold he is, how fragile. The air between us doesn’t smell like lemons anymore. It smells like blood.

Fifer begins to untie the knot, her pale fingers trembling. The cord begins to glow and she places it over our entwined bodies. She takes a deep breath.

“Transfer.”

The pain is instantaneous. I’m being stabbed all over again in a hundred different places at once. Only there’s no fluttery healing sensation that follows. Only more pain. There’s a drawing sensation, as if something is being pulled out of me. I realize it’s probably my life. I feel myself stiffen, then jerk around uncontrollably.

Just hold on, a voice whispers.

I try to. I do.

But then it’s too much, and everything just slips away.





I THINK—I CAN’T BE SURE—BUT I think I might be dead.

It’s not as bad as I feared it would be. It’s warm, and I’m lying on something soft. I’m not hungry and I’m not thirsty. I’m not in pain. The air smells good: fresh, like spring. I even have a pillow.

Dying was another matter entirely. There was a lot of yelling, a lot of jostling, a lot of pain. I heard my name being called over and over. I wanted to answer, but whoever it was seemed too far away. There was also a lot of rocking. Back and forth, back and forth. Some lurching, too, like on a ship. Then silence.