Burn Mark Page 12

  ‘You and me got to talk,’ the old lady announced.

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Glory was still peering into the bubbles.

  ‘It’s about them pyros at the Inquisition.’ She locked the door behind her.

  ‘What about ’em?’

  ‘They need our help.’

  Glory waited for the joke’s punchline. It was then Angeline Starling broke the news that she had become an Inquisition informant, and she was helping them bring a government witch-agent into the coven.

  Glory felt as if she’d been kicked in the stomach. She didn’t even listen to the last part of whatever her great-aunt was telling her. It was like when she’d got back from dinner at the Morgans’, and the walls of Number Seven’s hallway had closed around her. She wheezed for breath.

  Auntie Angel flicked water at her face. ‘This ain’t no time for hystericals. Pull yourself together, girl.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she said hoarsely. ‘After everything the Inquisition’s done – they – you –’

  ‘It’s not likely I’d forget,’ the old lady retorted. ‘The Inquisition murdered my sister and took away my ma. They dragged me into their cells and poked at me with their needles, then ducked me till I half drowned . . . I wouldn’t give those bastards so much as the spit from my lips.’

  Glory took a steadying breath. ‘All right. Then they’re blackmailing you. They finally got proof you was witchkind and they –’

  ‘An old crone like me ain’t worth the bother. No, I’m more use as an informer than another witch-scalp on their wall. That’s why I went to them. A poor little old lady, repenting of her sins. Ha! Those prickers couldn’t believe their luck.’

  ‘So . . . why . . . why’re you doing it?’

  ‘’Cause of you.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You’re the rightful heir to the Wednesday Coven. If your ma hadn’t been kicked out of it, she might still be with us, and head-witch – just like Lily wanted.’ The old lady sniffed a little, and wiped her eyes. ‘It breaks my heart to see how Charlie and his brothers turned out. You’d never know they was Lily Starling’s sons. If she and Cora could see what’s become of their coven! There’s times I think my poor sisters are better off dead.

  ‘Well, never mind that. With fae like yours, you deserve real power; a chance to put things right, make your mark on the world. And the only way that’s going to happen is if we bring the Morgans down.’

  Glory shook her head dazedly. ‘The Wednesday Coven’s untouchable. The Inquisition and the police and MI5 ain’t never got close.’

  ‘Times are changing. Look at Bradley Goodwin – hauled up before the Inquisition, on trial for his life. And you know why? ’Cause he’s got the dirt on every piece of witchery ever ordered by the Morgan clan.’ Angeline smiled sourly. ‘Now, Bradley’s gifted but he ain’t martyr material. If he’s convicted, he’ll squeal. Then, bit by bit, the whole damn empire’ll come tumbling down. Which is when you’ll step in, my duck, to pick up the pieces.’

  Glory looked at the faded newspaper cuttings on the walls. Lily and Cora Starling: outlaws, celebrities, heroines. And Angeline, the sister who stayed in the background, and survived. The protector and schemer, keeper of the flame. All for Glory’s sake.

  ‘This witch-agent – Harry, you said? I remember Nate and Jacko talking about him. Some posh git who buys weed and pills off them. They think he’s a joke.’ It had been Harry too who had provided the tickets to the club-night last Friday.

  ‘Well, he’s going to have the last laugh.’

  Glory didn’t see the funny side. She knew, of course, that some witches worked for the police and other security services. Occasionally, they even assisted the Inquisition. But fighting crime was one thing, fighting fellow witches was another. And here she was being asked to break the same taboo.

  Auntie Angel told her about the kind of information Harry Jukes was looking for, and what would bring him to their coven. ‘I need you to act matey, show him round. We have to ease suspicion so he gets his invite to the Morgans’. That’s the point, remember. Nobody’s interested in Cooper Street.’

  ‘You sure about that?’

  ‘It’s part of the deal: immunity from prosecution.’ Angeline gave a crackly laugh. ‘The Inquisition ain’t what it was. There’s rules and regulations these days. It’s the only way they get those police witches and such to work with them. So don’t fret – we’re covered.’

  Covered from the Inquisition’s reprisals, maybe. If the truth ever came out, the coven’s vengeance would be a different matter.

  Glory thought of the Hampstead mansion, its luxuries bought with other people’s blood and sweat. She thought of Candice and Skye’s sneers; of Troy sizing her up like she came with a price tag; Kezia’s slyness and Charlie’s menace. She disliked the Morgans and everything they stood for. But she didn’t hate them. At least, not enough to risk everything for the chance to bring them down.

  ‘I . . . I don’t know, Auntie,’ she said at last. ‘I’m not sure I can do this. It . . . don’t feel right.’

  Angeline watched her carefully.

  ‘The law hasn’t got anything on the Morgan kids, you know. They’ll be OK. Nobody’s facing the balefire neither; not even Kez.’

  Glory looked away. ‘Maybe I’m not as strong as I thought,’ she mumbled. ‘But however much I want to claim my rights, this ain’t how I want to do it. I’m sorry. There’s gotta be another way.’

  Auntie Angel sighed. ‘It’s only natural you’d have doubts. I hoped it wouldn’t come to this . . . but . . . No.’ She gave herself a little shake. ‘Hecate help me, I’m going to have to tell it to you straight. You deserve the truth.’

  In spite of everything, Glory felt impatience as well as anxiety. She’d already had more than enough revelations for one afternoon. What’s more, the old lady spent so long clearing her throat and twisting her hands that Glory came close to shaking the words out of her.

  ‘You know,’ Angeline began at last, ‘that when the Morgan boys kicked your ma out of the coven, she came to me. My old man Joe – God rot him – had died a while back, but Joe Junior weren’t shaping up to much, and we was all at sixes and sevens.’

  Glory nodded. She’d heard all this before.

  ‘There were some that said I ought never to have took Edie in. They said it would cause ructions with the Wednesday Coven, if it appeared Edie and me were setting Cooper Street up as a rival. When covens start fighting amongst themselves, lives get lost as well as business.

  ‘But Edie kept a low profile when she came here. Very quiet, she was. After she met your dad, she even patched things up with the Morgans. You came along, and life got even better . . . It was then Edie went back to witchwork. And just as profits were up and the coven was making a name for itself again, Edie went missing.’

  ‘She left,’ said Glory in a low voice. ‘That’s different. We got a note.’

  I love you, but it’s better if I go. Forgive me . . .

  ‘But there was no notes afterwards, was there?’

  ‘What’re you trying to say? Mum spent half her childhood on the run. She knew how to reinvent herself. Could be she’s got a new life, another family.’

  Auntie Angel looked at her sadly. ‘You don’t believe that.’

  ‘No.’ She bit her lip. ‘I s’pose I don’t. She’d have sent word, a sign. Something.’

  ‘’Course she would. I’m not saying Edie didn’t have her troubles, or her low days, but she loved you and your dad more than life itself. And it’s easy enough to forge a goodbye note. Ain’t it?’

  Glory closed her eyes. White tiles, frozen scream, flaming hair. ‘You think the Inquisition got to her. It wouldn’t have to be official. I’ve heard the rumours. The secret squads –’

  ‘Somebody got to her, all right. But it weren’t the Inquisition.’

  ‘Uncle Charlie,’ Glory whispered.

  Perhaps part of her had guessed as soon as Edie’s name was mentioned. The fact she’d supp
ressed this knowledge didn’t lessen the shock.

  ‘Uncle Charlie,’ Angeline agreed. ‘Not that he’d have done the deed himself. Giving orders is his speciality. But his brothers Frank and Vince would have been in on it – that’s how the three of them worked back then; one for all, all for one.’

  Glory pressed her hands, hard, against her eyes. The darkness ached. She pressed harder, as if to blot out the world.

  ‘How did you find out?’ she said at last. Her vision was blackness, her voice was dust.

  ‘I had me suspicions from the off. But then a little bird came whispering . . . A witch had been buried, out in Dunstan Wood. If it hadn’t been for the tip-off, I’d never have found the spot – there was no markings, except for a shroud. It . . . well, it contained a strand of your ma’s hair.’

  An ordinary shroud was a burial garment. A witch’s shroud was an amulet used to hide something or someone – to ‘bury’ them from view. They were sometimes used to deter animals from disturbing a grave, and people from finding it. A rusty, wrenching sob forced itself out of Glory’s throat.

  ‘You’re my own darling girl.’ Angeline’s cheeks were wet but her voice was firm. ‘I hid the truth from you to keep you safe, but I can’t protect you no more. You came of age, Gloriana, when you came into your fae. You came into danger too. Now you know what you’re up against. It’ll be a dirty fight, and a long war. But losing ain’t an option. D’you see?’

  Glory nodded. She had choked back the sobs. Her fists and jaw were clenched. ‘I’ll win or I’ll burn. Whatever it takes.’

  CHAPTER 14

  In Jonah Branning’s second interview with Lucas Stearne it was like meeting a different boy. Lucas was courteous, cooperative, frank. ‘I know I have a lot to prove after my previous behaviour to you. In fact, I’m embarrassed just thinking about it . . .’ An expert performance.

  Of course he wanted something. Jonah could sense the impatience behind the charm. He himself was simply a tedious bureaucratic obstacle to be got around. As Lucas’s witch warden, his authorisation was required if the boy was to apply for a WICA position. Jonah also knew that his agreement was no more than a formality. He’d been told as such by his boss, who’d had his own instructions.

  ‘Lucas isn’t the first young witch to be used in this way, and he won’t be the last,’ the boss had said, in another of their out-of-hours meetings. ‘Juvenile witches can be a valuable asset as well as a potential threat.’

  ‘Valuable to whom, sir?’

  ‘To those in authority, of course. Well, under-age witches aren’t like other kids, are they? The fae sets them apart. It hardens them in some ways, makes them vulnerable in others. Far better, then, to take advantage of their facilities while they’re young and impressionable, and before they can be lead astray.’ The boss smiled. ‘We have to keep an open mind on these matters, Branning.’

  Sir Anthony Brady, Witchfinder General, had established the policy of limited cooperation with WICA. Yet it remained controversial, especially in the Witchcrime Directorate. Everyone knew that Silas Paterson, the directorate’s deputy head, was against it. And Paterson had many supporters.

  Some were convinced that all witchwork was an instrument of the Devil. Others were against collaborating with any outside agency, witchkind or not, on the grounds that it undermined the authority of the Inquisition. Those in favour of the policy argued that the Witchcrime Directorate was overstretched. If the Inquisition’s priority was fighting witchcrime, shouldn’t they be willing to exploit whatever resources were available? Jonah himself had often made this point. However, Lucas Stearne’s situation put the nature of such ‘exploitation’ in a different light.

  ‘I can see how a child spy could be useful,’ Jonah conceded. ‘But . . . even so . . . if it was your child . . . ?’

  He’d gone too far. A frown crossed his boss’s genial pink features.

  ‘Lucas’s father respects, as we all must do, his son’s courage and sense of duty.’

  So Jonah agreed to process Lucas’s application to WICA. He authorised the unbridling too. It turned out that there had been some muddle with Lucas’s assessment, and he was actually a Type E witch – even stronger than previously thought. Jonah couldn’t understand how the original assessment had gone wrong. There was no information about the mistake in the file. He remembered how Lucas had argued the case for his recruitment, impassioned yet self-possessed, blue eyes ablaze with conviction. Just like his father. This was not necessarily a good thing, Jonah thought. It seemed to him that Lucas had the makings of a formidable witch.

  WICA had two internal departments: Unit A, which worked on domestic security, and Unit B, which specialised in foreign intelligence. They shared a centre for work and training. Jonah was going to meet Lucas there early on Monday morning – little more than a week after Lucas had turned witchkind.

  Time was short. Lucas was only going to have a week’s preparation before joining the coven. Jonah would be supervising him for most of this, and liaising with Lucas’s Unit A handler during his period undercover. Ashton Stearne had insisted this would not go beyond the end of the Goodwin trial. But though Lucas didn’t say so, Jonah knew that once this period ended he hoped to be taken on by WICA in a permanent role.

  Their destination was a converted warehouse in the docklands. Much of the area had been redeveloped into a bright, shiny world of glass, granite and steel, and ‘luxury river-view living’. WICA’s HQ, however, was a grimy Victorian hulk on the edge of an industrial estate. The sign over the main door read: Avalon Atlantic Plc: International Shipping.

  Beyond Avalon Atlantic’s shabby foyer, and concealed by a sliding screen, was the secure entrance to the rest of the building. Jonah, who was meeting Lucas inside, was directed by the fake receptionist through to the real reception. This one was both sleek and functional, and had a bust of John Dee in an alcove behind the switchboard. Dee had been a trusted advisor to Elizabeth I (an alleged witch and so-called ‘Fae Queen’), and had set up a secret council of witch-spies to aid her war against Spain. WICA regarded him as their founding father, even though the agency had not been formally established until after the Second World War.

  The Inquisition kept a close eye. Witchwork activities were monitored by CCTV, most of the offices and phone lines were wiretapped, and inquisitorial guards had their own station in the building. Jonah had to admit their presence was reassuring. He had never been in a place where so many witches were gathered together at the same time. Lucas, too, looked tense. His manner was distantly polite, like a well-bred guest arriving at a party he’s not sure he’ll approve of.

  Lucas had not come through the main entrance, but via the so-called back door, an underground passageway whose entrance was located at the back of a computer repair shop round the corner. Apart from this and the fake reception, Avalon Atlantic showed little sign of being a centre of espionage. During the course of Lucas and Jonah’s tour, they didn’t see any computer suites or technical areas, just ordinary offices and a series of small windowless rooms. Most of these were empty except for a table with an object or two upon it. A glass bowl, a tangle of string . . . a feather tied to a finger bone. Jonah found them unsettling. But Lucas looked at them alertly. He must already be making connections, figuring things out.

  The tour was given by a witch-agent named Zoey Connor, who – if everything went to plan – would be Lucas’s handler. She was in her mid-twenties, small and wiry with a spiky dark crop, her features already marked with lines of decision and responsibility. She was welcoming to Lucas but when her attention turned to Jonah, he felt a distinct chill. He was a little disappointed but not surprised. Witches and inquisitors didn’t mix well.

  All discussions and activity involving Lucas took place in the few rooms that were free from Inquisition monitoring. These measures were to reduce the chances of his identity, and condition, becoming general knowledge at the Inquisition. Jonah’s job was to observe where the cameras, wires and guards could not.


  Throughout that long first day, Jonah watched Lucas embark on his training. Every witch worked differently but there were still principles to learn. Lucas and Zoey started by discussing the best ways to use fae in surveillance and defence. No gadgets or weaponry were involved, just a handful of household objects mixed in with more intimate material – an eyelash, a tear, a drop of sweat or blood. Jonah’s task was to make a record of each act of witchwork, and observe Lucas’s reactions. He needed to pick up on signs of recklessness, or frustration with authority. The other danger to look out for was, in the words of a training manual, ‘an unhealthy and obsessive interest and/or pleasure in the practice of fae’.

  So far, Lucas’s behaviour was exemplary. He was calm and collected, accomplishing each act efficiently and without any sort of show. Even so, Jonah sensed a suppressed excitement behind his restraint. It was almost as if Lucas wasn’t learning something new, but drawing on a primal foreknowledge. Perhaps this knowledge was within all of them, thought Jonah, and most people had simply lost the means of finding it. This was heretical thinking, though, and he pushed the idea away.

  At six o’clock, Lucas was told that he’d done enough for one day, and should go home. Jonah had to take a bus back to the office. He needed to write up his report, talk to the boss, and check on his other cases.

  After being promoted to Senior Warden, Jonah had moved from his local authority branch to the Inquisition’s headquarters. It was an independent enclave known as Outer Temple, near the Inns of Court and the City of London. Witchfinders had established a settlement there in 1401, after the first Act of Parliament against witchwork.

  The church of St Cumanus was a rare fifteenth-century survivor. The catacombs below it were even older, but most of the buildings had been rebuilt or modified in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. They were set around a series of small courtyards and lawns. Boxed in by tower blocks and high-rise offices, the enclave had a somewhat hunched, narrow look, in spite of its grandeur.