Page 13 of Spirit Witch
As I watched, the air to the right of me started to shimmer. Bit by bit, the shape of a young girl came into focus. She looked to be round about eleven or twelve years old and her clothes suggested she’d died in the 1940s. Her face was grubby and she was holding a dirty teddy bear by the hand. I swallowed. ‘Hi there,’ I said quietly.
‘Hello.’
Grenville gave her a little shove. ‘Go on. Tell her.’
The girl toed the ground. ‘There’s a place in Dartmoor called Wistman’s Wood. You need to go there. You’ll find them there.’
‘Find who?’
She blinked rapidly as if she were trying to hold back tears. ‘The dead witches. They’re stuck there. They can’t leave. You need to help them.’
‘I can do this,’ I said. ‘But I don’t see how helping some ancient witch ghosts is going to do anything for—’
‘Shut up,’ Grenville said. ‘They’re not ancient. The last one was placed there last month. Every new moon there is another spirit, another soul cursed in ways that even I can only imagine.’ He shuddered.
The blood drained out of my cheeks. ‘Someone is killing witches?’
‘Help the spirits there and you’ll help the living who are yet to be targeted.’
I stared at the pair of them. It didn’t make any sense – if witches were being murdered regularly, someone would have noticed. This had to be some kind of ghostly ploy.
‘Go there and find them,’ Grenville said. ‘Then we will talk further. You will see that we can help you and your kind as much as you can help ours.’ He bowed his head and started to vanish, his whole body turning transparent.
‘Wait! Tell me why I can see you! Am I a necromancer now?’
He didn’t answer, he simply disappeared from view. I cursed under my breath. ‘Can you tell me?’ I asked the girl.
For a long second, she stared at me with limpid brown eyes. ‘I don’t know what you are,’ she whispered. Then she too dissipated.
Chapter Four
The ghost child might not have known what I was but I knew I was hungry, tired and growing more irritable by the second. I hadn’t fully appreciated quite how far away Dartmoor was – or how desolate and bleak it could be at this time of year.
‘This is a mistake,’ Winter said, as we pulled into the car park of a sprawling pub.
‘Maybe. But it’s taken hours to get here. We can’t just turn around and leave.’
‘It’s probably a trap.’
I shrugged. ‘Set by Ipsissimus Grenville? A guy who’s been dead for two hundred years? Why would he bother?’
‘We don’t know anything about him or his agenda.’
‘You said he’s credited with making the Order a decent organisation.’
Winter snorted. ‘Is the Order decent?’
I rolled my eyes. This role reversal, where Winter denigrated them and I was the voice of reason, felt remarkably uncomfortable. ‘Rafe,’ I chided gently.
His mouth tightened. ‘Regardless of what the Order is or isn’t, we have no precedent for this situation. Ipsissimus Grenville might have been corrupted by death. Maybe he once was a good guy, but two hundred years of being a ghost could have turned him into something else. We can’t trust him.’
‘I can’t just pretend this isn’t happening. Let’s see whether Ghost Child and Grenny are right about these dead witches and take things from there. One thing at a time.’
‘You’re still not entirely yourself, Ivy.’
‘I’m okay.’ I glanced round. ‘Look. There’s a sign over there with a map on it. With any luck, it’ll include Wistman’s Wood. It can’t be far.’
Winter strode over towards it while I ambled behind. He pursed his lips and scanned the map. ‘It’s about three miles from here but the ground will be boggy and steep in places.’ He threw me a sidelong glance. ‘And there may be some sheep.’
