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  ‘Mum still hopes me or Skye will get the fae,’ Troy went on, ‘though, as a girl, it’s more likely for Skye. It’d only cause trouble for me. The boss should be the front-man; the head-witch, the power behind the throne. You need a division of responsibility. Combine both roles, and life gets complicated.’

  ‘Your gran Lily managed it.’

  ‘Things have changed since her day. Anyhow, Gran was a special case.’

  Glory thought of the three blonde sisters in the photograph and smiled in spite of herself. ‘That’s ’cause she was a Starling girl.’

  ‘Yeah . . . I wonder where I can get one of those?’

  She sensed, rather than saw, his eyes on her again. She was certain now that Angeline was right about Charlie Morgan’s plans for his bloodline. He and Troy and Kezia had probably already discussed it. Her guts twisted in anger and disgust.

  At least they’d reached the turning to Cooper Street. ‘Home sweet home,’ Troy announced as the car pulled up at the kerb. ‘God. I’d forgotten what a dump this place is.’

  ‘Well, it’s my dump, all right?’ Glory felt for the door.

  But Troy had taken her by the arm, pulling her back into her seat. His narrow green eyes fixed intently on hers.

  If he tries anything on, she thought, I’ll nut him.

  However, it seemed Troy had other things on his mind. ‘Listen. I know Dad’s asked you to keep an ear to the ground. I also know he’s not the easiest guy in the world to deal with. So if you turn up something you’re not sure about, you can always run it by me first.’

  ‘Very kind, but I’m sure I’ll manage.’

  ‘I hope so,’ he said seriously. ‘These are tough times, Glory. The Inquisition’s upped its game and we’re facing a new kind of challenge. Dad won’t admit it, but if the Goodwin trial doesn’t go our way, the Wednesday Coven will take a major hit.’

  ‘Ain’t my problem.’

  ‘Don’t kid yourself. The two –’

  She opened the door. ‘I know, I know. Blood-ties plus business equals A Very Special Relationship.’

  ‘You take care, Glory.’

  It wasn’t so much a goodbye as a warning.

  Auntie Angel’s light was on but Glory was in no mood for a debrief. She decided to slip home via Number Seven instead. It was only ten, but she was dog-tired. Her feet ached in their spindly stilettos.

  ‘Hello, girlie.’ Nate was sitting and smoking on the steps of Number Eight. ‘Had fun with your rich relations, did you?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Should’ve been here then. Dad got rat-arsed in the Anchor and started raising hell with a couple of punks from the estate. Me and Earl only just managed to drag him off before the filth arrived.’

  ‘Is he OK?’

  ‘I guess. Probably collapsed in a pile of his own puke somewhere. It’s not like anyone here gives a toss.’

  Nate’s mum Lola had lost patience and left around two years ago. She only visited when she needed to cadge money or coven favours. Thinking of this, Glory felt a pang of sympathy. ‘Maybe we should get him on one of them detox thingies.’ Like Candice Morgan – though she knew better than to mention her to Nate. ‘Rehab and such.’

  ‘What’s the point?’ Nate sucked on his joint broodingly. ‘The old man’s past it. Your Auntie Harpy is on her last legs too. It’s about time they let someone else take over, and kick this place into shape.’

  ‘There’s more to running a coven than chasing girls and getting high.’

  ‘Oh? So what’s your game plan? Sleeping your way to the top? ’Cause I gotta say, you and Troy looked pretty cosy in the car back there.’

  ‘Hex off, Nate.’

  Glory jerked open the door of Number Seven. ‘One of these days, you’re gonna have to decide where your loyalties lie,’ he called after her.

  In the narrow hallway, the pent-up tensions of the evening finally caught up with her and she started to shake. Her breaths came fast and light. Getting the fae had been all she wanted. Her dearest wish had come true. And yet she’d never felt so trapped.

  CHAPTER 11

  The four principal departments of the Inquisition were the Witchcrime Directorate, the Witchkind Assimilation Bureau, Intelligence Command (for surveillance) and the Office of the Inquisitorial Court. In spite of its size, everyone knew the Witchcrime Assimilation Bureau was for inquisitors who weren’t clever or ambitious enough to work anywhere else. Otherwise, Jonah Branning’s steady rise through the bureau ranks from junior clerk to Senior Witch Warden might have attracted more attention.

  Hug-a-harpy jokes aside, Jonah liked his work and thought it important. His secret – which he knew was a shameful one – was that as a little kid, he’d actually wanted to come down with the Seventh Sense, until his dad caught him trying to make an amulet and gave him a clip round the ear that made him howl. Even now, he sometimes worried that his interest in witchwork wasn’t entirely professional. Within the Inquisition the fae was referred to as a ‘facility’, not an ability, and certainly not a gift. But Jonah hadn’t grown out of his wonder at it all the same.

  And then came the telephone call late on Monday evening, and the summons to his department head’s office. ‘A strictly hush-hush business, this,’ his boss warned, just before he dropped the bombshell about the Stearne boy.

  Jonah greatly admired the Chief Prosecutor. His courtroom skills were legendary, as were the cases he’d won. The tragic killing of his wife had given him an added authority, and dignity, that even his opponents had to respect. And now the boss was telling Jonah that Ashton Stearne’s only child, the heir to twelve generations of inquisition royalty, was a witch. A powerful one too: Type D. He’d been assessed that morning.

  This news was followed by the second shock of the evening. ‘We’d like you, Jonah, to be his warden.’

  Jonah stammered out something about his own youth and inexperience. His boss waved it away.

  ‘I’ve already discussed it with Ashton. He feels, and I agree, that Lucas would benefit from having a supervisor who is relatively close to his own age. What’s more, your record in this department is exemplary. You’re shaping up to be a damn fine officer.’ The boss nodded impressively. Jonah blushed. ‘There’s no denying this will be a difficult case. Lucas’s age is as unusual as his facilities. Then there’s his family’s history and position . . .’

  The boss explained that Lucas Stearne would be registered in the restricted-access section of the National Witchkind Database. His records would be stored with those of witch-agents in the secret services and other classified or sensitive cases – but under a different name. Until the Goodwin trial was concluded, they couldn’t risk his condition being leaked. ‘Only four people know about this besides ourselves and the Stearne family. Sir Anthony himself, Commander Saunders from the Witchcrime Directorate, the inquisitor who conducted Lucas’s assessment and the guard who provided the security. And for the moment, we intend to keep it that way.’

  This was all highly irregular. For one thing, there should have been two inquisitors present at the boy’s assessment. Jonah wondered what other bits of protocol had been ignored. ‘I’m afraid I, er, don’t quite understand –’

  ‘I’m sure you’re aware of the importance of the Goodwin case in our fight against coven witchcrime. Nothing can be allowed to undermine Ashton’s role as prosecutor or to disrupt the trial. It’s therefore been agreed that we should withhold his son’s condition from the public until the trial is concluded. At that point, Ashton will announce Lucas’s fae along with his resignation, and normal procedures will apply.’

  Jonah wasn’t entirely reassured. ‘Won’t the timing look suspicious, sir? We could still be accused of a cover-up.’

  The boss shrugged. ‘As long as the tribunal secures a conviction for Bradley Goodwin, no one’s going to cause trouble in that respect. Sadly, I fear the fall-out from Ashton’s departure will be a different matter . . . But you needn’t worry about that, Branning. Your only concern
is to ensure the Stearne boy matures into a law-abiding and well-adjusted witch.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir.’

  The boss clapped him on the shoulders. ‘Good man. No doubt young Lucas will be very grateful for your support.’

  Jonah tried to keep these words in mind as he made his way to the Stearne household on Wednesday morning. According to the file, Lucas was intelligent, high-achieving and personable. But the boy would be in a traumatised, potentially unstable state. Jonah would take things gently.

  The house was as imposing as he’d expected, with a self-important guard at the gate. He wondered, somewhat apprehensively, if the Chief Prosecutor was at home. Ashton Stearne represented the officer-class elite that Jonah aspired to while slightly mistrusting. Most inquisitors of Jonah’s rank and above were privately educated, and had the easy confidence that privilege brings. Jonah did not have the same confidence but he wasn’t without ambition. He knew a case like Lucas Stearne’s could make or break his career.

  This didn’t make it any easier to keep his cool when the Chief Prosecutor himself answered the door. Jonah stumbled over his introduction. ‘I’ve heard good things about you, Officer Branning,’ the prosecutor cut in, fixing him with that famously steely blue stare. ‘Come on through. My son’s waiting in the library.’

  Lucas Stearne was lounging in an armchair by the fireplace. He half rose when Jonah entered the room, and offered him a languid hand. As he shook it, Jonah glimpsed the cuffs under the boy’s shirt. Ten-centimetre, as befitted a Type D. Lucas’s eyes flicked over Jonah, taking in the blunt freckled face, the sandy hair and wide jaw. There was a stain on his tie, where he’d spilled some coffee that morning. Lucas looked at the stain and his lip curled.

  Jonah lowered himself cautiously on to the spindly chair that had been set out for him. It was probably an antique. The room was lined with faded prints and leather-bound books with gilt on the spine. A sad-eyed woman gazed down from the mantelpiece.

  ‘My mother,’ Lucas informed him. ‘She was murdered.’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Are you? It’s not as if you knew her . . . Witches make good assassins. Have any of your cases gone on to a life of witchcrime?’

  ‘No.’

  He raised a mocking brow. ‘Let’s hope I won’t spoil your record.’

  ‘I’m sure you won’t.’

  Jonah started on the official script, the one about Responsibilities, Regulations and Rewards. Lucas barely covered his yawns. ‘How old are you?’ he interrupted.

  ‘I’m twenty-three.’

  ‘And already a Senior Warden . . . Were you on the fast-track scheme, then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So you didn’t go to university?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Funny. I rather thought you hadn’t.’

  Jonah’s mother had fallen ill when he was sixteen. With his dad having to take extra shifts at the car plant, Jonah had cut classes to stay at home to look after her. His mother recovered, his grades did not. He had joined the Witchkind Assimilation Bureau at eighteen, with a couple of AS passes and a letter of recommendation from the school head. But none of this had anything to do with Lucas Stearne.

  He leaned forward. ‘Well, it’s never too early to think about careers. Using your fae in service of the State can be very rewarding. There’s the police, of course, and someone with your facilities could even consider WICA. The armed forces are active recruiters too. Then you may have heard the Department of Agriculture is increasingly investing in witchwork-supported crops and livestock, as an alternative to GM –’

  ‘A career in a cowshed. Inspiring stuff.’

  ‘Or there’s the health service. Medical advances have reduced the need for witch-healers, but many hospitals still employ them. The fae’s often used in the easing of death and childbirth, I understand.’

  ‘You think I’d make a good midwife?’

  ‘Then again,’ Jonah pressed on, ‘you can choose to remain bridled. A non-practising witch is eligible for most jobs. Except for politics or the church, of course.’

  ‘Or the Inquisition.’

  The tone was still mocking, but Jonah could hear the bitterness underneath. He tried a different tack.

  ‘How do those feel?’

  He pointed to the iron cuffs. The skin around the edges looked red and sore.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘And you yourself?’

  ‘I’m fine too.’

  ‘Really? You have grey in your hair.’

  Lucas raised a hand to his head, then let it fall. He shrugged.

  ‘Girl trouble. It’ll send me to an early grave.’

  In spite of the glib answer, it was the only point in their meeting when the boy looked ill at ease, Jonah thought. Shifty even. But the moment passed, and for the rest of Jonah’s visit, Lucas was as smoothly insolent as before.

  Lucas had been determined to dislike whoever was appointed as his warden and everything about Officer Branning was irritating. Those childish freckles, his patient expression . . . the way the man was so obviously in awe of his father.

  Lucas knew he’d been behaving like an arrogant brat. He’d enjoyed it. If the warden had had any guts, he’d have risen to the bait and told him where to go. He was supposed to be the one in charge. He had all the power. But no, he just sat there asking his quiet questions, pretending to be interested and on the level, while they both knew the whole set-up was a farce.

  Although he knew his real troubles would start once the Goodwin trial ended, by the end of the first week Lucas was boiling over with boredom and resentment. The prospect of another month under virtual house arrest was unbearable. It didn’t help that he wasn’t sleeping properly, kept awake by the discomfort of the iron cuffs as much as his thoughts. The custom-made set he’d be getting on Monday would be a better fit; polished smooth, with rounded edges to reduce chafing. But a permanent bridling was hardly something to look forward to.

  Clearmont had been informed that Lucas had glandular fever, resulting in a stream of get-well-soon emails and texts from people at school. A lot were from girls: Bea sent a card with ‘xxx’ by her name. Lucas ignored them all. He also ignored the home-study programme provided by Officer Branning, and spent the long days and nights watching junk TV and reading detective novels. At least he had Kip for company, for the dog had got over his initial reaction to the fae and was back to his usual droolingly devoted self.

  He saw little of the rest of the household. His father was mostly in court or his office; Philomena kept away as much as possible. Whenever their paths crossed, she went into the teary-eyed, trembling-lip victim routine. Meanwhile, Marisa was pleasant but watchful. Busy calculating, Lucas thought. He’d always suspected she was tougher than she looked. Well, good for her. She’d need to be. They all would.

  Sometimes he would sit alone, stroke the thread of silver in his hair, and wonder if he’d ever dare try his fae. He knew the iron around his wrists wasn’t enough to imprison it; the two glasses he’d witchworked were still in place, and awaiting his touch. But he had had enough of listening-in. It was true, after all, that eavesdroppers never hear any good of themselves.

  On one of his flying visits, Ashton announced he would be home early on Friday and that he was looking forward to dinner with all the family. Lucas wondered if his father meant to hold a conference. Maybe the four of them would finally get the chance to discuss what had happened, and how best to deal with it. United We Stand . . . Or, more likely, it would be an hour of painful small talk and long silences, as everyone avoided the witchworked elephant in the room.

  Only ten minutes after coming home, his father had a visitor. It was just after six: Marisa was starting preparations for dinner, Philly was watching television in her room. Lucas was in his room too, brooding by the window. From there, he saw Commander Saunders arrive at the gate.

  Josiah Saunders was head of the Witchcrime Directorate, and one of Ashton’s fellow High Inquisitors. His departme
nt was working alongside the prosecutor’s Office of the Inquisitorial Court throughout the Goodwin trial. Lucas knew he was due to retire shortly for reasons of ill-health. He certainly looked unwell: thin and sallow-faced, and moving with the painful stiffness of a far older man.

  Curious, Lucas went to wait in the shadows at the head of the stairs, from where he could look down over the hall. The guard must have announced the visitor via the intercom in the study, for Ashton came to the door before the bell could be rung. ‘Josiah,’ he said. ‘This is unexpected.’

  ‘I’m sorry to intrude on your evening. But I was in the neighbourhood, and I’m afraid this can’t wait for the office.’

  ‘Sounds serious.’

  ‘Yes.’ He lowered his voice. ‘The situation we discussed earlier has come to pass.’

  Ashton glanced around the hall. ‘Come into the study.’

  Lucas didn’t hesitate for more than a minute. He went straight to the dining room and picked up the witchworked glass. Sweating and shivering, he fought his way past the iron to the faint quiver of his fae. It took all his strength to draw it out and into the talisman, and the thread of sound he picked up was much thinner than before. The colour of the sound was weak, and the effort to make sense of it made his teeth chatter and bones ache. But the longer he listened, the harder it was to tear himself away.

  CHAPTER 12

  ‘. . . I suppose it was inevitable,’ the Commander was saying. ‘Bribery can’t be detected by bells or suppressed by bridles. In some ways, fighting witchwork would be simpler. At the moment, we don’t even know which of the six tribunal members has been got at. But the tip-off came from a reliable source.’

  ‘Someone within the coven?’ Lucas’s father asked.

  ‘A police informant. So far, all our attempts to infiltrate the Wednesday Coven have failed.’

  Ashton gave an exclamation of disgust. Behind closed eyes, the sound came to Lucas as phlegm-coloured. ‘The trial only has another month or so to run. We have no solid evidence that someone on the tribunal has been bribed, and without an informant within the coven we’re unlikely to get it. Game over.’