Page 9 of The Witch and His Crow

I fell back, just as I caught the flash of white-rimmed, glowing eyes.

The eyes of a spirit-witch.

The eyes of the very person I had been hiding from since the night my parents were murdered.

Not Hunters. No. Worse.

‘Hello, Hector Briar. We have been looking for you.’

CHAPTER TWO

It was not the rope that turned the skin around my wrists red raw, but the thistlebane soaked into the material. I desperately wanted to itch my bubbling and blistering skin, but the Hunters had tied me to the table. The ropes kept both my hands useless and the thistlebane kept me powerless—severed from my unique ability, or what witches called their Gift.

There was nothing more annoying than an itch you couldn’t reach. Well, actually maybe the fact that the Coven had found me, after years of evasion. Not exactlyfoundme, since I’d run straight into one of them.

‘That is what happens when you are blinded by the need for revenge.’

I relaxed as Caym’s voice filled my head. No thistlebane could sever my familiar from my mind. I could sense he was close, lingering somewhere far beyond the building I’d been brought into, hooded, cuffed, and powerless. The Coven didn’t want me to know where I was being taken—logistics and all. But through Caym, I knew the long car ride had taken me from Oxford’s streets, and about an hour and a half later, into the heart of London.

The Tower of London, to be more specific. The home of England’s most impressive artefacts, history, and ties to the royal— yet very mundane—family. Humans would have a fit if they found out the White Tower, the central of all towers otherwise known as the old keep, was home to the Coven. Built centuries ago, a quick Google search would have told me it was built in 1080, by someone called George, or William—since back then it wasn’t like people had much imagination when it came to names.

The once-strongest military point was now the home of the Coven. A place for England’s leading witches to gather and monitor paranormal threats on their soil and beyond. It was a place I had visited with my mother a long,longtime ago. My mother, who was the last appointed Grand High. My mother, who was murdered by Hunters, for that very reason.

The Grand High was more than the heart of the Coven. They were its lungs, its vital organs. The Grand High continuously allowed the witches access to their Gifts, their power, and control. Like the wizard in The Wizard of Oz, the Grand High lingered behind a curtain, speaking with their voice of power to those who relied on them.

And there was only one reason the Coven had been searching for me—because I was the key to finding the next Grand High.

‘Such an ego,’ Caym added.

Alright. Not me, but my blood was the key.

Movement in my peripheral vision caught my attention. I turned and saw Romy, her face warped behind the perplex glass window set into the side wall of the room. Her arms were crossed over blood-stained clothes, her face set in a worried grimace. Every time I made eye contact, she smiled. It was a hopeful smile, one that wished for me to accept an apology she had yet to offer.

It didn’t take a genius to know why I, Hector Briar, had evaded my own people. No doubt it would be a question I would have to answer shortly.

A door opened, soundless and smooth. It was less a door, but a slab of wall which lifted away and allowed someone to enter.

My body stiffened, my lungs constricting at the sight of him.

‘Hello, Hector.’

The spirit-witch who I had run into… how many hours ago? As the door slid shut, I drank him in. Long black hair was gathered at the back of his neck, thin on his skull, showing flashes of white scalp. Equally dark, lacklustre eyes hardly left me, the skin beneath them carved out with shadows. He looked equal parts exhausted and excited, as though he was starving, staring at a plate piled high with roast beef and all the trimmings. And it seemed he shopped mainly at fancy-dress warehouses because the high collared shirt, leather jacket that brushed over the white, floor and the obnoxious maroon waistcoat made him look more like a malnourished Dracula than a witch.

‘I apologise for the lack of answers, but as you can imagine, your presence has caused a ruckus here. Chaos, but also relief. I trust the healer has seen to all your wounds in a timely manner?’

I didn’t reply with words, not giving him the satisfaction of a thanks.

His voice was as deep as furthest trench in the coldest waters off the ocean. There was nothing welcoming about it. The hairs across my newly healed arm stood, gooseflesh erupting across my shoulders as though wings had finally revealed themselves, unfurling in one breath. I did what I’d been best at, and that was keeping silent.

The spirit-witch eyed me with trepidation. Caution. And maybe, I told myself, a hint of fear.

I straightened, knowing he was scrutinising me, as were those standing with Romy beyond the glass window. The thistlebane may have diluted my natural gift, but growing up as I had made me rely less on my powers and more on my immediate surroundings.

I quickly realised that the silence between us was this man’s way of waiting for me to speak. Feigning comfort and confidence, I rolled my shoulders back, raised my chin, and pretended to be calm, even though I was far from it.

‘And you are?’ I asked as nonchalantly as I could manage.

He laughed—not a pleasing laugh but a sickly one. ‘Oh, of course, how awfully rude of me Hector. You see, it has just been so many years since I even believed thepossibilityof you was even something to consider. I know it has been many years since we last saw one another. I’m not surprised you do not recognise me.’

---