Page 29 of Salt Magic, Skin Magic
Dalton would need to keep Thornby hidden, perhaps in a wood or a lonely barn. To the west was the village, with people always coming and going. To the north, the Howarths had several game-keepers who patrolled the moors, and besides, the moorland was too open. So, perhaps to the south? Or the east?
John turned left, heading south-east along the path Thornby’s feet had worn smooth over the months. He held the rowan twig high, hoping Thornby might see it and call out. He called himself, pausing often to listen. Every rustle of the wind in the trees, every bark of a fox or hoot of an owl sounded like Thornby’s voice calling in answer. Occasionally John would range off the path to investigate a clump of trees, a hay-stack, or a curve in a stone wall.
Then, in a patch of woodland south of the house, he heard Thornby’s voice. It was hoarse, as if he’d been calling for a long time. John ducked behind a thick growth of holly, feet slipping in mud and wet leaves. In the rowan twig’s cold blue light he could see Thornby writhing on the ground under a tree, hands outstretched to the estate boundary, about a foot out of his reach.
John wasn’t sure if Thornby recognised him. The younger man’s face was dead white and set in a rictus of agony and desperation. He was still trying to get back to the estate, but his ankle was manacled to a huge oak with an iron chain. The strange otherness John had sensed that day on the moor was now an unbearable, relentless keening, a magical whine of panic and pain.
“Thornby! It’s all right. I’ll set you free.” John forced the chimera key into the lock on the fetter. The charm was wearing off and the key jerked and stuck. Thornby’s stocking was in tatters, his ankle raw and swollen; he must have been fighting the chain for hours. John sent a brutal surge of power into the key and the lock opened.
Thornby tore John’s hands away from the fetter and forced it apart. Then Thornby was up, stumbling across the estate boundary, tearing past the holly. Once over the boundary he managed another twenty yards, crashing through low hazel and underbrush. John ran after him, calling his name, branches whipping back into his face, hoping Thornby wouldn’t run all the way to the Hall. Luckily, Thornby came to a small clearing, then a particularly dense part of the thicket that wouldn’t let him through. Thornby grappled with the branches for a moment, then sank to his knees, panting.
John knelt beside him and put an arm around his shoulders. “Thornby, it’s all right now. It’s over.”
“Must get home. I’m late for...I must get home.”
“Youarehome. You’re on the estate.”
“I have to go home.” Thornby lurched to his feet and blundered into the thicket again.
“Stop it! You’ll hurt yourself. You’ll put an eye out. You’re home. You’re on the estate. You canfeelit, can’t you?”
“The estate. Yes.” Thornby sounded dazed, but no longer desperate. His knees crumpled again and they knelt on the damp leaves, hazel twigs poking at their hair and faces.
“Blake?”
“Yes, it’s me. I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. I didn’t know where you were.”
“Oh, God, I—I thought you’d gone back to London.” Thornby gave a kind of gasp, and began to sob like a beaten child, face in his hands.
John dropped the rowan twig to burn coldly on the dead leaves. He put both arms around Thornby. Thornby resisted at first, then leaned into him. John could still feel a faint echo of that terrible magical desperation; that overwhelming drive to return to the estate. However Dalton was holding Thornby here, it was horribly strong. It felt primal, like blood magic, though it was too alien to be that. The mere memory of it set John’s teeth on edge. And Thornby had endured it for hours.
After a while, Thornby made the gulping sounds of a man trying to pull himself together. His shoulders stopped heaving and he let out several long shaky breaths.
“Blake, Christ, I’m sorry for what I said. Please don’t go back to London. I didn’t mean it.” He had his voice nearly under control. It only shook once or twice.
“Of course I’m not going while you’re stuck here.”
Thornby nodded, and waved a hand, indicating his state. “I—I beg your pardon. For being—I’m not accustomed—”
“Shh. There’s no need to apologise. How long were you there?”
“Don’t know. Hours.” Suddenly Thornby tensed. “Oh, God, what you said about Mother—it’s true, isn’t it? I’m one of them. I’m not human.”
“You’re not ‘one of them’. Your father’s human.”
Thornby gave a deep sigh. His voice, when he spoke, was more normal. “Father? Human? You think so?” He put a hand to his disordered cravat. “God, my throat hurts. What if I sprout horns or turn blue or something?”
“That won’t happen.”
“But you don’t know, do you? You’re in the dark about all this yourself.”
“I think, if you were going to grow horns, it would have happened by now.”
John could feel Thornby breathing; shaky gulps of air. John kissed his cheek and slid a hand inside Thornby’s shirt, which was hanging out of his breeches, and stroked his cold and clammy back.
“I’ll never get away, will I? If I’m not fully human, who knows what he can do to me?”
“Of course you’ll get away.” John pulled out his flask of rain-water. He kept it for magical purposes, but could easily get more. “Here, drink this. In a moment I’ll put some wards up so we know if someone’s coming. Did he say when he’d come back for you?”
