The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)(96)

I wonder how long I’ve been dead. Weeks? Months? It seems like a long time. I wonder what they did with my body. I forgot to tell someone I didn’t want to be buried, but I guess it didn’t matter anyway.

I think about Fifer and George and John. How they came back for me at Blackwell’s. Somehow they found a way to forgive me, but I don’t know how. Sometimes I can hear their voices, hushed and whispered around me. Saying my name, holding my hand, willing me to come back to them. It’s just a dream, I know. But I want so much for it to be true.

There was one moment when I thought I really wasn’t dead. It only happened once. My eyes fluttered open and I saw John. He was sitting in a chair at the foot of my bed, his elbow propped up on the mattress, reading a book. I looked at him for a while. He looked clean and healthy, not at all like the bleeding, half-dead boy I saw last. He seemed to realize he was being watched, because after a moment he looked up and smiled.

I stared at him, something tugging at the back of my mind. There was something I wanted to say to him, something I wanted to ask but never had the chance. Finally, I remembered it.

“The bird.” The voice, it didn’t sound like my own. It was weak and gritty and raw. “In the tree. Why?”

He doesn’t hesitate in his reply, as if he knew the answer long before I asked the question.

“Because I love you. And because being with you makes me feel free.”

I wanted to say something to him, but I couldn’t. I felt the darkness wrapping itself around me again, but not before I felt a smile drift across my lips. Then everything went black.



“Elizabeth, open your eyes,” the voice commands. Whose voice is that? Don’t they know I’m dead? I can’t open my eyes. I don’t even know if I have eyes anymore.

“She did it before, two days ago,” says another voice. My brain struggles to make the connection. I know that voice.

John.

I want to speak. I try to speak, but nothing happens. I hear a moaning noise. Is that me? If it is, I should stop immediately. It sounds awful.

“I’ll make her something to try to bring her around,” John says. Is that really him? Is he really here? “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Is this real? It can’t be. But what if it is? I don’t want him to leave. I’m afraid if he does, he won’t come back. I can feel something building up inside me, boiling like water left in a kettle too long. I’m going to scream. Instead, the only thing that comes out is a whisper.

“Wait.”

Then I open my eyes.

There’s a soft rustling noise, then Nicholas’s face appears.

“Hello, Elizabeth.”

“You,” I whisper. “Are you alive? Or are you dead like me?” Only, he doesn’t look dead. He looks healthier than I’ve ever seen him. His face flushed with color, eyes bright with life. He’s still and calm, and even as he sits in his chair, doing nothing but watching me, he radiates strength and presence.

“I’m alive,” he says. “So are you, though you had us wondering. How are you feeling?”

I feel slow. I feel weak. I ache not in one place but all over, and it takes every bit of strength I’ve got to keep my eyes open, to speak. But I’m alive, and that’s more than I ever expected.

I can only nod in reply.

Nicholas smiles, as if he can read my thoughts. “John really does have a gift.”

“He’s okay, then?” I croak. “The last time I saw him, he…” was dying, I think. But I don’t want to say it.

“Yes, he’s fine.”

“What about Fifer? George? Peter and Schuyler…”

“They’re all fine, too.”

I close my eyes. It takes a minute before I can speak again.

“Where am I?” I look around, not recognizing my surroundings. I’m in an all-white room: white walls, white bed, white stone fireplace. Thick white curtains are drawn across the window, and no light at all shines through. It must be night.

“This is John and Peter’s home, in Harrow,” he says. “They brought you straight here from Blackwell’s.”

“What happened?” I say. “The last thing I remember is Fifer’s spell. Then nothing.”

Nicholas nods. “The spell worked. All the healing power you had in your stigma was carried over to John. He was made whole again almost immediately. You, on the other hand, had grave injuries. Most of them were not fully healed when the spell was performed. You should have died. You would have, were it not for that.” He gestures at Humbert’s sapphire ring, still on my finger.

“That’s a unique ring,” Nicholas continues. “The sapphire itself has healing and protective properties, and coupled with the rune on the back it becomes extremely powerful. The magic works a little as your stigma does—or did, rather—though not nearly as strong. It protected you just enough to keep you from dying.”

It takes a moment for his words to set in.

“My stigma is gone?”

“Yes.”

I don’t know what to feel. Relief, maybe; my stigma is what made me a witch hunter, what tied me to Blackwell. Worry, perhaps; my stigma is what protected me, what kept me strong. Fear, certainly; because anything can hurt me now. Anyone can cause me pain. That frightens me more than I want to admit. Especially when I know what’s out there.