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  ‘It’s been agreed that Lucas’s condition should not be disclosed until the Goodwin business is over. There may well have to be a press conference. In which case, the four of us appearing together would be a great help – a “family united” and so on. Do you think you could face it?’

  There was a pause. Then, ‘Of course.’ Marisa’s voice had strengthened into a theatrical purple. ‘Of course. Whatever you think best. Together, we can survive this. We can survive anything. My darling –’

  Lucas let the glass fall into his lap. It wasn’t as if he’d learned anything new. An aberration, but a natural one. Exactly how much of an aberration, he’d find out tomorrow.

  CHAPTER 9

  Ashton Stearne had arranged for his son to be privately assessed by a colleague in an office on the other side of London. The need for secrecy had spared Lucas the indignity of a public processing centre, and the stares and whispers that would follow him through the corridors. ‘You know who that is, don’t you? The Stearne boy. Yes, turns out the Chief Prosecutor’s son is a hag! What a shock. What a scandal . . .’

  That would come later. But as Lucas turned down the alley at the side of a dingy office block, and pressed the buzzer of an unmarked door, it was hard to feel the privilege of his situation. All this sneaking around was just a different kind of humiliation.

  His father’s contact met him at the door. He introduced himself as Dr Simon Smith. He had greying hair and blandly smooth features, and his manner was both efficient and impersonal. Lucas determined to act the same, as if none of this business was actually to do with him, and he was merely going through the motions on somebody else’s behalf.

  In a windowless basement office, Dr Smith took his statement about Philomena’s bane and the onset of his fae, and photographed the mark on his shoulder blade. Copies of Lucas’s school and medical reports were already in the inquisitor’s file.

  Making the statement took over an hour. Afterwards, Lucas was given a thin grey cotton shirt and trousers to change into. An armed guard watched him all the while. Lucas knew this was to ensure he didn’t smuggle any witchworked devices into the test, but as he was escorted down the corridor, walking barefoot in the flimsy uniform, he felt cold and exposed. Though he would have hated his father to see him like this, a small scared part of him wished he was there.

  The assessment room was bare and cell-like. There was a CCTV camera in the corner, a box on the floor, and a table with an iron bell hanging from a frame. Lucas and Dr Smith sat down on either side of the table. The guard took up his position by the door.

  ‘As you know,’ Dr Smith began, ‘the fae is inhibited by iron.’ He pulled out a drawer, in which pairs of iron wristbands were displayed. They were all of the same thickness but of varying widths. ‘I’m going to ask you to wear these bands while performing a small act of witchwork. Each time you successfully complete the task, I will give you a new and wider band, until we reach the point at which you are no longer able to perform witchwork at all.’

  ‘And then you’ll know what it will take to bridle me.’

  ‘Exactly. The greater your fae, the greater the quantity of iron needed to curb it.’

  Lucas looked at the bell. Bells warn, iron prevents. Iron was one of the most abundant elements of earth; there was a chemical trace of it in almost all living organisms. The fact that witches were allergic to it was further proof of their unnaturalness. Yet iron was sensitive to witchwork in turn. Made into a bell, the wrought metal picked up the energy of harmful fae, which caused its parts to reverberate, then ring. The process was something that Lucas had thought he might like to research once he was an inquisitor . . . He shook himself back into the present. ‘Why do we need the bell?’

  ‘Your task is to hex a minor bane. The bell should chime continuously as soon as you start. It follows that if you only make a pretence at witchwork, the bell will remain silent and I’ll know your attempt is fake.’ Another bland smile. ‘Now for your victim.’

  Dr Smith took out a metal tray from the box by his feet, together with a woven straw doll. It was about twelve centimetres high with a clear cellophane pouch in its middle. This contained a tiny black spider.

  He placed the doll in the dish in front of Lucas.

  ‘I would like you to use witchwork to set this alight.’

  Like a balefire. How appropriate. Unbidden, the image of Bernard Tynan flared into his head. The oozing, blackened flesh, the spitting flames . . . Fire was often a key element of witchwork. Maybe that’s why people wanted witches to burn.

  ‘I – I don’t know how.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll think of something. Take your time. We won’t bridle you for the first attempt.’

  In its cellophane cell, the spider stirred minutely. Of course it had to be alive: banes needed living things to work on.

  Lucas clenched his jaw, aware of Dr Smith’s impersonal gaze, the guard’s stare, the camera in the corner. He wondered who else could be watching.

  He picked up the spider-doll, still thinking of the burning witch. Though he didn’t want to, he knew it would help to visualise the flames. A wave of pity went through him: for himself, and the spark of life he was about to extinguish. He pulled out a strand of straw.

  Lucas rubbed it between the palms of his hands, never taking his eye off the straw man with the spider heart. The Devil’s Kiss began to warm, its mark visibly expanding under his thin shirt, and as it did so the bell softly chimed. What did fire need? Heat, fuel, oxygen. Lucas blew lightly at the brown strand twisting between his hands, and hissed between his teeth, echoing the hiss of flames. The strand smoked, then sparked, as the doll and its prisoner combusted in a hot bright flash.

  Dr Smith’s expression gave nothing away. He simply nodded once, and reached for one of the pairs of iron bands in the drawer. They were about two centimetres wide, and only a couple of millimetres thick. Once clipped around Lucas’s wrists, they were fixed in place by a small lock and key.

  ‘Again, please,’ said the inquisitor quietly. He brought out another doll from the box. Another spider.

  The iron was unpleasantly cold on Lucas’s skin, but it was only a slight distraction. Though the second blaze was not as dramatic as the first, the process was still over in a matter of moments.

  Another spider-doll, another pair of iron bands. This time, it took longer for the strand of straw to smoke and for the doll to be consumed by fire. It was more tiring too.

  The third wristbands were six centimetres wide. The metal felt unnaturally heavy as well as cold, and when Lucas lifted his hands, dizziness swilled through his head. He struggled to attend to his task, and it took nearly three minutes for the flame to catch.

  The next pair of bands was the last. Lucas put them on with a surge of nausea. Wearily, he plucked out another piece of straw from another doll. He felt too cold and sluggish to do anything, let alone witchwork. But he could still feel the unsteady pulse of his fae. After five long minutes, the doll began to smoke, then smoulder. There was a frantic twitching before the spider too was burned to ash. Lucas closed his eyes in exhaustion.

  ‘It seems more bands are required,’ said Dr Smith neutrally. ‘Excuse me a moment.’

  He got up and left the room. The guard stared at Lucas. Lucas stared at his wrists. The bridled witches he’d come across had never worn bands of more than a couple of centimetres wide. He was already wearing six-centimetre cuffs and there was more to come. Now he understood the point of the bell. How tempting it would be to stop trying, to go no further, and so avoid the penalty of an even larger restraint.

  I must be a powerful witch, he thought. Dangerous, too, though he felt so feeble the idea was laughable. Presumably this was the after-effect of his fae fighting against the iron. If he stopped trying to perform witchwork, he’d feel better. But then the bell wouldn’t ring and Dr Smith would know he was trying to cheat. Unless . . .

  Unless he hexed a different bane, one unconnected to the spiders and dolls. Something secre
t, that neither the inquisitor nor the guard would detect.

  The only possible subject was himself. Could he create a new blemish or wound? But his thin cotton clothes might not be enough to cover its appearance, and when he changed back into his own things the guard would see. Come on, he thought feverishly, think. The inquisitor could return at any second.

  His gaze fell on Dr Smith’s suit jacket, which he had taken off during the last test and hung over the back of his chair. The chair’s back was rounded and narrow, and as Lucas watched, the jacket slid off and puddled on the floor. In one smooth swift movement, he bent down to pick it up. At once the guard started forward and snatched it out of his hands. He eyed Lucas and the garment with equal suspicion, before shaking the jacket out and carefully replacing it on the chair.

  Lucas sat back with a shrug of apology. He had made his move almost too quickly for thought. And yet he had something all the same: a short silver hair. His hand had brushed it up from the lapel. Lucas’s two pulses – his heart rate, and the throb of fae – began to speed up in anticipation. Maybe, just maybe, it would be enough.

  The next moment Dr Smith returned, carrying another three sets of iron cuffs. The largest was at least fourteen centimetres wide.

  ‘I’m sorry for the delay. We’ll start you on the ten centimetres, if you’re ready?’

  Lucas nodded, taking care to keep his expression wan. Though he was still a long way from coming to terms with his condition, there was a small, bitter satisfaction in the idea that his was an unusual power. Better to be a force of fae to be reckoned with than some small-time harpy amateur. Outwitting his assessor would be proof of this. It would also be in breach of the law; an act of rebellion against the entire inquisitorial system. But Lucas wasn’t ready to think about that.

  Another doll was placed in the tray. There must be an assembly line somewhere: junior inquisitors bagging up spiders, and inserting them into dolls. Maybe that was how Gideon and the rest of the fast-trackers spent their time. A bubble of hysterical laughter rose in his chest. Lucas coughed it back and ran his hands through his hair, before picking out the dullest, most brittle piece of straw he could find. He began to rub it between his palms, as before, but this time it was twined with the silver hair of the inquisitor, and a black one from his own head. As the three strands rubbed together, the fae twisted into them too.

  It was hard. Very hard. The effort of drawing his Seventh Sense out through the iron left him with sweat running down his face, and chills running up and down his body. It was difficult, too, to keep his eyes on the doll. Yet the bell was ringing, to warn that a bane was being attempted, even though there was no smoke or spark from the straw. This time, the only heat Lucas had created was in his fingertips. He slumped back in his chair, as if in defeat, and brushed his hot fingers over the hair just above his ear.

  The soft young hair coarsened at his touch. At once, he let his head droop and a flop of hair fall over his forehead. That way, he hoped the small silvery streak he’d put in it would go unnoticed by his audience.

  ‘I can’t do it,’ he mumbled. ‘I can’t do it any more.’

  Dr Smith nodded. The doll’s straw body was cool and dry, its spider quiet. Lucas, on the other hand, looked a wreck: sweaty and dishevelled, with bloodshot eyes.

  ‘Very well,’ said the inquisitor. ‘We’ll stop here.’ He made no comment on the outcome of the test, but behind the blank screen of his face, Lucas sensed the calculations still in progress: measuring, speculating, judging.

  Lucas was bridled with the ten-centimetre cuffs. He was allowed to change back into his own clothes afterwards, under the scrutiny of the guard. The indignity of this hardly mattered any more; the only thing he could think about was his hair. He’d rumpled it up to cover the grey patch – the dead patch, as he thought of it – and it took all his willpower not to keep touching it.

  The iron felt less cold and heavy than when he’d been using his fae, but the cuffs still dragged at his arms. They were a temporary set he would wear until he could be fitted with a custom-made pair. They’d be part of his life until he turned eighteen and found a witchworking job for the State.

  The bridle’s dull black metal was thin as a sheet, and treated with a protective substance to make it waterproof. As long as he didn’t raise or stretch his arms they were hidden by his shirtsleeves. He tried, and failed, to picture himself casually strolling around in a T-shirt, cuffs glinting in the sun. There was a photograph of a male witch doing just that on the cover of a booklet called Living With Fae. It was one of several brochures in the information pack Dr Smith had given him. The witch in this particular picture, a catalogue-model type with a fake tan and even faker grin, was holding hands with a pretty (and non-bridled) blonde. Section One of the booklet was entitled Friends, Family and Relationships. Lucas didn’t read any further. He knew that if he starting thinking about Tom and Bea and the rest, the paralysing panic would return.

  ‘. . . ideally, he or she will be appointed in the next couple of days, and the two of you will meet soon after. It’s not just about monitoring your activities, but providing support in a range of . . .’

  Dr Smith must be talking about his warden. Through his daze, Lucas remembered the dimples and twinkles of the Recruitment Officer who’d given the talk at school. If I get someone like her, he thought, I’ll die. I’ll hex us both into oblivion. I know I will. He only realised the session was over when the inquisitor got to his feet and reached out to shake his hand.

  ‘Thank you,’ Lucas said, rousing himself. He must remember he was obligated to this person. ‘I appreciate your help, and I know my father does too.’

  Dr Smith nodded. For an embarrassed moment Lucas thought he was going to extend his sympathies, or commiserate. But all the man said was, ‘It’s for your own good, you know.’ His gaze moved to Lucas’s sleeves, pulled down over the iron. ‘For everyone’s good. Remember that.’

  Lucas managed to summon a taxi without revealing his bridled wrists, but it was an anxious ride. Every movement he made had the potential to expose him. He was exhausted; his mind felt beaten and raw. It would be no hardship to stay hidden at home until the end of his father’s trial, he decided. There was no one he wanted to see and nowhere for him to go.

  At least the session at the Inquisition had finished earlier than expected. With luck, he would have the house to himself, and some time to organise his thoughts before his father returned. But as he stepped into the front hall, a nerve-shredding shriek came from the drawing room.

  ‘Ohmygodohmygodohmygod. He hexed me. I’ve been bewitched. Ohmygodohmygod.’

  No need for witchworked eavesdropping here. The door wasn’t even shut.

  ‘Pull yourself together.’ Lucas had never heard Marisa sound so brusque. ‘You’re perfectly fine.’

  ‘I’m in mortal danger! We all are. We’re not safe.’

  Philomena began to wail; on and on, louder and louder. There was the smack of hand on flesh, and a shocked silence.

  Marisa’s voice snapped through it. ‘Hysterics won’t help. No, the real threat we face is to our position. And after the time and work I’ve invested in this family, not to mention Ashton’s career, I’m not giving it up without a fight.’

  ‘But Daddy –’

  ‘Your father has a new life and a new family now. He’s made that perfectly clear. And if you breathe one word of this to him or anyone else, witchwork will be the least of your troubles. Understand?’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Do you understand?’

  ‘Yeah-sure-fine-whatever.’

  Philomena flung herself out of the room. She did a double-take at the sight of Lucas, and at once put her hands protectively around her throat. Her lip quivered.

  ‘Witch,’ she whispered in a trembling voice, eyes stretched wide.

  ‘Drama queen,’ Lucas retorted. At that she gave her trademark head toss, and flounced up the stairs.

  Marisa emerged soon after. If she was embarrassed to fi
nd her stepson there, she didn’t show it.

  ‘Well,’ she said to him calmly, ‘this is quite a pickle, isn’t it?’

  He gave an awkward nod. ‘I’m . . . sorry.’

  ‘I’m sure you are.’ She gave a brief, tight smile, before continuing down the hall. ‘And I’m going to have a drink.’ Her voice was back to its brightly social best, as if they were at a cocktail party.

  A drink sounded like a good idea. The traditional response to disaster – to get steaming, roaring, crashingly drunk. Maybe he should try it.

  But Lucas didn’t even have the energy to move. The hall mirror showed him a stranger, with shadowed eyes, and a streak of old man’s silver in his hair.

  CHAPTER 10

  ‘Just a family supper,’ Uncle Charlie had said in his phone call on Sunday, while Glory grasped the phone so tightly her knuckles turned white. ‘Kez has been nagging me to get you over. It’s been too long.’

  Now it was Monday, and Glory was on the bus to Hampstead and the Morgan lair. This time, it was her handbag she held in a white-knuckled grip.

  When she was little, visiting her Morgan relatives had been like going to Disneyland. Everything at their mansion was sparkly-new. The two girls had a room each just for clothes, and more toys than anyone could ever play with. There was a cinema and a swimming pool, and dinners that didn’t come from the microwave or tins. What did it matter that Candice used to pull her hair, or that Skye laughed at her hand-me-down clothes? Their brother Troy would give her piggyback rides round the garden, and Uncle Charlie would slip ten-pound notes and sweeties into her pocket when Auntie Angel wasn’t looking.

  The best visits were the special occasion ones, like Christmas and Easter or Balefire Night, when the house was draped in black and they said prayers for Guy Fawkes and the other witch martyrs, while outside the coven world, people burned the martyrs’ images at garden parties and let off fireworks. Witchkind’s own celebration was All Hallows’ Eve. It was as secret as the Balefire Night gatherings but much more fun. There was a big dinner with coven witches and their families, followed by dancing and competitive fae-tricks.