Blood Of The Witch

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Blood Of The Witch - book excerpt

Prologue

15th Century

Caden watched his brother cleaning the sword. They both knew the routine by now. Hedrek would sit for at least another hour or so wiping the blade, long after the sword was clean. This was what he always did after a kill.

The fire Caden had lit was starting to crackle. Soon, the flames would take hold and Hedrek would sit until he was finally finished, and then they would leave. It wasn’t their fire, but they sat by it all the same. The owner of the fire lay dead in the corner of the room so he guessed she wouldn’t mind.

He glanced over to where she lay. Her blood was filling the ceramic bowl they had placed beneath her neck. It wouldn’t get all of it; they would take her with them and drain her properly for that, but it would give them enough to keep their immediate supplies topped up.

She was still dead. When you slit someone’s throat they usually are, but then witches are sneaky. He always liked to check. He would feel better once they finished with her and she could be burnt.

Caden turned away from the rhythmic wiping up and down of the blade and watched the fire. It was a cold night and the fire wasn’t giving out much warmth yet, but it would. His mind played over the evening’s kill. Something about it didn’t sit right with him.

The cottage was in an isolated location, deep in the forest, surrounded on every side by tall trees. They had moved quickly and silently through the darkness and into the witch’s cottage; Hedrek had come from the front and he from the back. A light mist had formed and hung ominously between the trees around them. She hadn’t heard them coming. They were well prepared for her feeble protection spells, in fact they’d expected something stronger; there was no way those weak charms would keep them out and very doubtful they would ward off a Kasadow, either. Perhaps the witch had become complacent, or perhaps she just wasn’t a very good witch.

They had taken her by surprise and yet she hadn’t seemed surprised. There had been a look in her eye as though she’d been expecting them, which was impossible. No-one ever saw them coming.

He glanced at his brother. Hedrek was looking relaxed. He was still cleaning the sword, but his eyes were now watching the flames.

Caden rose and began to move about the room. Dry plants hung from the beams on the ceiling and there were various jars and concoctions dotted about. It was a typical witch’s kitchen.

He left his brother sitting by the fire and began to make his way around the house. It was up to Caden to search for anything of value, anything that could make them money. They would even sell some of her potions. They despised witches and the idea of profiting from their unnatural ways sometimes balked him, but they had to make money somehow, now the Kevrinek Hus was no longer paying them for their services.

In the bedroom, he found a trunk full of papers and began to rifle through them. He scowled when he thought of the Kevrinek Hus. Had they not hired them to kill witches? And now suddenly their work was distasteful? He wouldn’t rest until all the witches were slain and he didn’t mind killing those that stood in his way. Anyone who protected witches deserved to die.

There weren’t many people who could better a witch. When the Kevrinek Hus had a witch problem, he and his brother were the only people they could call on. Who else could break a witch’s protection spells, immobilise her powers and slit her throat? The Kevrinek Hus would come crawling back to them at some point. They always did.

A bunch of papers caught his eye. It appeared to be a diary. On one of the pages she had written:

I am prepared to die. My coven are gone and I am ready to join them. If the Creature doesn’t find me, I know the Hunters will.

Perhaps that explained the weak protection spells cast over the house. The witch had wanted to die. He frowned as he read the top line on the next page.

My death shall be for a greater good. By my death more witches shall live.

He continued to read and his frown turned into a look of horror. He jumped to his feet and, as he did so, his head began to spin. They had underestimated the witch.

He tried to run to his brother, but suddenly, his vision was full of shadows and the walls seemed to be closing in on him. When he reached the stairs, his legs gave way, and he went crashing down to the hallway below.

From there, he managed to drag himself towards the kitchen. “We need to get out, Hedrek! There is a spell on the house!”

There was no answer and he found his brother lying motionless on the stone floor. Caden struggled furiously against the encroaching darkness, before succumbing and closing his eyes.

They would not open again for five hundred years.

Chapter One

The early morning frost had melted, and the sun sat high in the sky; strong enough to pierce through the light cloud cover although there was still a chill in the air. It had rained the night before, so the benches were wet, but Jack and Kiera picked a seat outside anyway.

They sat in silence at first, sipping their coffees and enjoying the view. After the turbulence of their lives over the past month, the simple act of going out together for coffee was a balm to the soul.

Jack thought about Kitto as he looked out across the cliffs to the expanse of blue beyond. He closed his eyes and listened to the steady roar of the waves, until he felt Kiera’s hand on top of his.

“Kitto would’ve liked it here,” she said, as though she could read his mind.

Jack opened his eyes and nodded. Then he smiled. “Yes, but he’d have had a slice of cake with his coffee. That guy knew how to live.”

“Well, let’s not go too wild,” Kiera rolled her eyes, “not until we can figure out a source of income, anyway.”

They lapsed back into a comfortable silence. They couldn’t see the beach from their table, but they had already walked along it earlier that morning. Kiera had slipped off her shoes and dipped her toes in the icy water before hurriedly pulling her warm socks back on and they had wandered amongst the Bedruthan Steps, running their fingers along the jagged rocks.

Witches had been at Carnewas before. Kiera wasn’t sure who or when, and neither was she sure how she even knew this, but as she traced along the rough surface of the rocks, she knew it with a certainty. It was as if the rocks themselves told her.

“Do you know the story behind the Bedruthan Steps?” Jack asked.

Kiera shook her head and leaned in closer.

“It’s said that a giant called Bedruthan lived here,” Jack told her, “and he piled the rocks up on the beach to make himself stepping stones for when the tide was in.”

Kiera loved it when Jack spoke that way. He sounded like Kitto or Mags, or at least the Mags that Kiera had thought she knew, before she found out it was all a lie.

“The stacks have different names,” Jack continued, “but one is called Samaritan Island because a ship called the Good Samaritan was wrecked here…I think in the 1840s or something.”

“Do you think it’s true?” Kiera asked him.

Jack raised an eyebrow. “There was definitely a shipwreck.”

“No, I mean the stuff about the giant.” Kiera gave him a gentle shove, then she wrapped her hands around her mug to warm them.

“No, it’s just a story.”

“Wouldn’t you have once said tree-spirits were just stories?” Kiera pointed out. “Giants wouldn’t exactly be the craziest thing to happen to us.”

Jack thought for a moment and then shrugged. “I guess.”

After another short pause, Kiera cleared her throat. “So, what next? I mean, should we look for Bersaba? Do you want to try and find Kitto’s body?”

These were questions they needed to discuss, but it had never felt like the right time to talk to him about it. Where did they go from here? The last month had been hard on both of them. They had been left reeling by recent events; discovering Kiera’s mentor was not a sweet old lady called Mags but was in fact an ancient, powerful and unfortunately evil witch called Bersaba; coming face-to-face with the savage (and apparently not so extinct as previously assumed) Kasadow; and then losing Kitto had been to lose family. He was the man who had initiated Jack into the brotherhood of the Gwithiaz, taught Jack their ways and how to respect their ancient traditions.

Kitto taught him that, above all else, witches must be protected. And, just as importantly as the teachings, he had given Jack a home and a connection, which, to an orphan who had grown up in various foster homes, had been everything. She knew how painful it was for Jack to return to the cave and discover Kitto’s body was missing, although he’d been relieved to find his own staff where he’d left it. A staff was a part of a Gwithiaz; it was his main weapon and to be without it was like losing a limb.

As Kiera had predicted, there’d been no sign of Bersaba. Any idea that a few crumbling rocks could kill her was fanciful. She was out there somewhere. However, it seemed unnecessarily cruel for Bersaba to steal Kitto’s body, leaving them unable to bury him. It felt as though they’d been unable to say goodbye.

They’d moved quickly out of their house, even though they had nowhere to go. Jack had worn a heavy expression as he closed the door behind them; it had been his home for so long. He had stopped and taken one last look at the house before it disappeared from view. She was sure he was remembering the dilapidated old dump he’d first moved into, and the time he and Kitto had spent turning it into their home.

It was with grim determination that they’d set off with their belongings piled into the back of the Land Rover. They’d left the BMW behind, along with most of their other things; and yet that was why they were left behind, they were just ‘things’ and they needed to travel light.

For almost two weeks they’d lived in the Land Rover. It had been cramped and uncomfortable. They’d bedded down, fully clothed against the cold, between stacks of books (they may have left behind most of their clothes and other creature comforts, but some belongings they couldn’t do without). Kiera knew that if she ever wanted to stand a chance of defeating Bersaba, she had to keep learning. And, with the knowledge that the Magic Council wanted Kiera dead and that somewhere out there looking for them was Bersaba, Jack had insisted he needed all his weapons, so between the books were his guns and knives. If they had been pulled over by the police, they would’ve wondered what on earth they were into, suspecting them of the heavily-armed robbery of a library.

They had lived in their car whilst searching for somewhere safe. The trouble was that nowhere was safe anymore. Bersaba’s reach felt endless and they would never be safe as long as she was alive. Add to that the possibility that the Magic Council were looking for them and it made for some sleepless nights.

At least they now had a roof over their heads. An abandoned building in a remote location was perfect for their situation and working on the house for the last two weeks had kept them busy.

Jack focused his gaze on a patch of grass on the clifftop as he thought about Kiera’s questions. These were the same questions he had been endlessly pondering.

“We both know what Bersaba is capable of,” he said at length. “She must be stopped.”

Kiera nodded in agreement but frowned when Jack added, “I’ll stop her.”

“You mean we will stop her.”

Jack looked away from her. “I think it’s best for you to stay hidden for now. It’s likely the Magic Council are after you and we don’t really know what we’re up against with them. Plus, you’re the one Bersaba wants. I should go after her alone.”

Kiera sat up straight and folded her arms. Jack was expecting a lengthy argument and had been preparing his responses. He thought she would be horrified, maybe she’d shout at him. Instead, she simply said two words: “Not happening.”

Jack ran his fingers through his hair before holding out his hand to Kiera. It was a moment before she grudgingly took it.

“This is important to me, Kiera.” His voice had a beseeching tone that she’d never heard before. He was pleading with her. He continued sheepishly, “You are important to me. I need you to be safe. Also… also this is what Kitto trained me for, what he would’ve wanted, he’d want me to keep you safe.”

Kiera’s expression softened and she leant forwards and kissed Jack’s hand. “I understand, Jack.”

For a split-second Jack thought she was relenting, but then she added, “It’s still not happening. We are in this together. This isn’t about you protecting me. We’re a team and we protect each other. I really need you to accept that.”

Jack released her hand and looked exasperated, but eventually he nodded. “Okay, we’ll do it together.”

Kiera smiled triumphantly, and they finished their coffee and began to walk back to the car.

“Promise?” she asked him tentatively as they walked. “Promise you won’t shut me out, or go off by yourself or anything?”

Jack put on an American accent. “Go, team!”

Kiera chuckled, slipping her arm through his. They reached the car and Jack grabbed her shoulder. She turned to him in surprise and saw that his expression was serious.

“I want to make Bersaba pay for what she did to Kitto and to my parents,” he said quietly.

The journey home wasn’t long. Home. For both of them, it was a strange word to use. They had a house but it wasn’t their home yet. Home was the place they’d been forced to flee. The new house wasn’t a home, but they were working on it.

Jack felt a part of him relax when they reached the moor. Being out in public was a risk, but surrounded by the vast landscape of Bodmin Moor Jack felt safer. On the moors he could see them coming.

When they first reached the moor two weeks ago, they’d known it was the ideal spot. They sometimes bumped into a few ramblers and tourists—although not too many in the cold winter months—but generally there was a desolate atmosphere that they could lose themselves in.

Jack had instantly fallen for the old, grey, stone farmhouse. It was a bit ramshackle and draughty, having stood empty for goodness knew how long, but it had plenty of space and it was remote. It suited them perfectly.

They approached the farmhouse slowly. Brown Willy, the highest point in all of Cornwall, loomed in the background. The winter sun was still shining, but a cold wind was sweeping its way across the moors, banging at the side of the car and giving a faint whistle at the windows.

As they reached the broken-down gateway that led on to the overgrown, stony drive, Kiera took a sharp intake of breath. Jack had already seen. The front door of the house was swinging wildly in the wind.

They had visitors.

CHAPTER TWO

The ritual was complete. The room stood in silence and watched as the blood trickled along the rock. The atmosphere in the dimly lit room was heavy with trepidation. A few people shifted nervously from foot to foot.

Stephen was standing at the front facing everyone. He, like the others in the room, wore a long, black robe with the hood raised so that only part of his dark features was visible to his audience. His black skin and robes gave the effect that he was at one with the darkness around him.

He held up his arms and spoke solemnly to them, “It is done.” He paused and seemed to be looking each of them in the eye before he continued, “We all wish this could have turned out differently. I, like you, had high hopes for the return of witchcraft and the good it could do. Bersaba has changed that and now we have no choice. We are left with one resort.”

His voice was confident and authoritative. He was a born leader. That was why the Council members elected him time and again. Just as they had done his father before him.

Council members lived between two worlds. One that was governed by logic, and the other was a world of secrets and magic. They were the guardians of a history others knew nothing about. Now, however, the time for simply waiting and watching was over, and action was required. It was not just their magical world that needed protecting; both worlds and countless lives were depending on them. History was repeating itself, and the witches had put them in an impossible position, but with Stephen guiding them, they could protect both.

Stephen gave a nod and everyone quietly dispersed; all except Lady Hammett, or Harriet to her friends, a more senior Council member. She came from one of the oldest families on the Council; generations of her family had had Council positions right from its inception. She owned one of the grandest houses in all of Cornwall, a building which contained a large portion of their treasured possessions and books, and a building which they now stood beneath. The basement had the same floor plan as the house above, which meant it was an immense space.

It had been agreed that they alone would wait. Stephen took a seat next to one of the stone sarcophagi and Harriet took a seat by the other. The witch’s blood had run its course along the rivulets in the top and had now begun to drip through a small gap, bringing life to the remains inside.

Stephen and Harriet sat and watched in silence. Neither had witnessed such a process in real life before so couldn’t be quite sure what would happen when the contents of the sarcophagi were awoken. However, they had both spent their lives studying, reading and preparing for the return of witchcraft, and for events such as this. They were ready. They sat back and waited patiently. Soon, the brothers would be awake.

Jack reached behind his seat and picked up his staff. Then he subconsciously brushed his hand over his knife, which sat in a leather sheath on his belt. He opened the car door and signalled to Kiera to wait in the car. He wasn’t surprised when she ignored him and opened her door, too.

“Perhaps we left the front door open?” Kiera suggested uncertainly as they moved closer towards the house.

Jack answered her with a frown as his eyes scanned all around, examining every shadow, every reflection, every glint off a window. There was no way they had left the door open.

Jack stepped silently into the house and listened. It creaked and groaned around him, but he wasn’t familiar enough with the house yet to recognise if a sound was out of place. In their old home, the one they had shared with Kitto, the house talked to him. He recognised every creak and rattle. But this one spoke in a foreign language he didn’t understand yet.

He walked slowly down the hallway, making sure Kiera stayed behind him and keeping both hands on his staff, daring something to jump out at him. The hallway was long, with three doors branching off it before it reached the stairs. The first door led into the living room, then just opposite was a room that currently stood empty with only a few dusty old boxes and crates from previous occupants. Beyond that was a door to the kitchen. Jack made his way along the exposed wooden boards to the living room door and stopped. It was open and he instinctively knew someone was inside. He could feel their presence further in the room and, if he listened intently, he could hear quiet, calm breaths.

As he entered the room, he was surprised to see a digestive biscuit on a saucer with a cup of tea, wisps of steam drifting lightly from the cup towards the ceiling. Someone had broken into his house, made themselves a cup of tea and raided his biscuits? He wasn’t sure whether he was puzzled, annoyed or a combination of the two. The cheeky little beggar! What was even more baffling was that Jack and Kiera didn’t even own any saucers. They weren’t exactly a necessity when they were going on the run. So, who breaks into a house and brings their own saucer for their stolen tea?

Jack rounded the door aggressively with his staff raised; after all, someone had stolen his biscuits and that was a step too far. If he found they’d discovered his custard creams, then they were really going to be in trouble.

He stopped in his tracks. The staff fell to the floor with a clatter, but Jack didn’t even notice. He stood in the doorway in disbelief, not daring to move or even breathe in case he disturbed the image in front of him.

Kiera was startled by Jack’s reaction and afraid of what she would find as she followed him into the room. She squealed with a mixture of shock, disbelief and delight, and gripped Jack’s arm. She, too, found herself frozen to the spot as she processed what she was seeing in front of her.

Kitto glanced up at them from the newspaper he was reading and smiled amicably. Then he leant forward, picked up his biscuit and dunked it in his tea.

Jack retrieved his staff from the floor, his eyes fixed on Kitto. This had to be a trick. Kitto was dead. He raised the staff again and eyed the man on the settee suspiciously.

“You’re not Kitto,” he said quietly, “you can’t be.”

The man frowned and looked Jack straight in the eye. They were silent for a moment before Kitto asked pleasantly, “So, where have you stashed your custard creams?”

Jack blinked and his breath caught in his throat. Then he lowered his staff again and headed for the kitchen to retrieve the biscuits.

He would know him anywhere. It was Kitto.

Jack returned feeling numb, as though he was part of a dream. Kiera was just pulling away from Kitto’s embrace. She was wiping her eyes and beaming from ear to ear. Seeing her smile so broadly made him realise how little they’d smiled recently and how much it suited her. It lit her face up, giving her dark eyes a lost sparkle and bringing a flush to her smooth, soft cheeks.

Kitto was returning her smile. He almost looked the same. His grey hair was just as unruly. It found its own course from the top of his head down to his shoulders, sometimes curling, sometimes straight and sometimes sticking out randomly. It matched his grey-streaked, wispy beard. He was wearing a baggy jumper and dark trousers that were smeared with mud, and made Jack wonder where on earth he’d been. There was definitely something different about him although Jack couldn’t put his finger on what it was.