the righteous rise / with burning eyes / of hatred and ill-will
madmen fed on fear and lies / to beat and burn and kill
-Witch Hunt, Rush (1981)
0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o
"—then I strangled 'im like this, while he was turning black 'n blue, you should've seen the look on 'is face!" The bartender burst out into uproarious laughter, pounding one fist into the splintered wooden table between us.
I kept the smile up and running on my face, although it was taking some effort. "Mmm. Fascinating."
"Then he was apologizing after that, said he'd never come back—damn near pissed himself—and I said, 'not in my bar, no siree!' The lout was refusin' to pay up the proper amount, y'know, an' you know there's got t' be consequences." The burly man clenched his fist until the veins popped up on his bicep like fat blue worms. He grinned at me. I counted around three teeth still in existence within his mouth.
"Absolutely right," I agreed politely. "Now. Erm. About those stews?" I reached into my pocket and sent a few coins rolling across the counter. They fell into the bartender's cupped fists with a pleasant clinking sound, and he jerked his head at one of the tavern's empty tables.
"Take a seat," he said. "Stews'll be out in a bit. Will you be wantin' a room?"
I nodded my head and tossed a few more coins his way, then went to find George.
He was waiting outside with the bags, rain coursing over the brim of his hat, looking miserable and cranky. Bert's rope was held in the crook of his arm; when I drew near, the mule lifted its head and whickered gently. George started, looked up—he glowered at me.
"Took you long enough," he said grumpily. A passing carriage careened through the mud and sprayed us both rainwater. There was a mutual groan.
"The barman wouldn't stop talking about strangling people," I said in exasperation.
"Great. I love this place already." George's expression looked anything but loving.
I grabbed my bag out of a puddle and darted a glance up at the cloudy gray sky, blinking through the rain; we left Bert inside a stable stall trudged back inside The Blackbird Inn, trailing mud as we went.
As London's oldest inn, The Blackbird Inn was relatively (no, make that surprisingly) clean. The floors were swept, the steps leading to the rooms were labeled as thus, and the water that gushed out of rusting faucets was a clear blue rather than brown.
Best of all, their food was said to be quite something. So as I sat at the table examining the map, illuminated only by a single swinging light bulb, my chubbier companion 'oohed' and 'aahed' over their menu.
"It takes maybe two weeks to get to Glasgow," I was muttering. "Depends on how much Bert can take."
I looked up from the map to see George rolling up tiny bread balls, seemingly bored as he scanned the crowded room. "George. Hello. Are you even listening?"
"Yep."
"Good, because this is important."
George sniffed, seemingly unperturbed. "I did all that before we left town. You're just telling me what I already know . . . Oh, the stew!"
Two bowls of beef stew were set down in front of us, hot and steaming. Despite my exhaustion and irritation, I felt my mouth begin to water. George picked up his spoon and then paused. "You won't be needing that map anyway. I've got the route memorized."
"Figures." I fiddled with my spoon, uncomfortably warm and slightly nervous. Ahead of me, I had a supposed weeks-long journey to Glasgow, to start my training under the very best. It was all dampened by the fact that, of all people, I had George along with me.
At least the mule and I got along well. Speaking of the mule . . .
"George, did you feed Bert?"
The boy lifted his face away from the bowl and blinked his beady eyes at me, a piece of potato stuck to his lip. He seemed to mull it over as I stared, and then he finally said with a shrug: "Guess I forgot."
I glowered at him, this boy with his soup-stained clothing and drooping socks, coarse straw hair and unbelievable attitude—and coming from me, that was really something—and wondered again how I had gotten stuck with this boy, even though he was my mother's friend's son. On the way down here, he'd been complaining the whole way about how he'd been forced to leave his books behind.
"If you keep on glaring like that, your eyes might get stuck that way," George commented idly. He scraped at the last of his soup and sucked thoughtfully on his spoon.
"George! You didn't bother to feed our method of transportation?"
"I thought I already said I didn't."
"I told you to!"
"And?"
I shoved back my chair and threw my spoon down on the table. "I'm going to check up on Bert, since someone was unreliable."
"In case you hadn't noticed, it's raining out," George said, his bored expression unchanged. "You'll need your coat."
"I know." I strode away from the table. "Watch my things."
This time, it was a relief to burst out of the steamy inn and back out into the frigid autumn air. The rain had lessened slightly; it smelled like wet earth and leaves. As I moved toward Bert's stable, mud stuck the soles of my shoes to the ground. Each footstep brought a wet sticking sound.
Bert was in the very last stall, our small cart chained to a rack beside him. He gave his hoarse nicker, stretching out a thin neck to give me a death stare, one hoof shifting to stamp against the cold stone floor.
I clambered onto a stool and hefted an armful of straw into his bin. "George was supposed to do this. Don't you blame me."
A roll of the eyes and then Bert was attacking the straw, soft lips gently closing over the strands. A glance around the stall showed me that his water trough was empty as well; muttering under my breath, I filled a bucket with hose water and poured that in.
"That better?" I closed the stall door. My eye caught a brief movement in my peripheral vision; someone had darted swiftly through the stable doors. I turned my head slightly.
The back of my neck prickled.
"Hello?" I called.
Nothing but silence. The stables had been dim to begin with; now, as the sun was setting, everything seemed cast in shadow.
I stood alone for a moment, my hands still sticky from water and hay, and felt my heart pick up a pace. I shook my head and tried to snap out of it. Get over it, Carlyle. You're not a small-town girl anymore. Get your shit together.
Still, I'd heard too many stories of ghosts and monsters as a girl, and the less reasonable side of me was ready to get back to the inn.
I paced swiftly towards the door, picking up pace with each step, eyes locked determinedly on the entrance. George was likely starting in on my stew by now.
A black cloak, swirling fabric, a face covered by a large hood—
We walked into each other at the same time and let out guttural screams of surprise. I fell backwards against the wall, the other person tumbled into the pile of straw, arms flying out, and our gasps of pain equaled in volume as the sound echoed throughout the stable.
The black hood fell back, revealing sharp features and a brief flash of gold, before the fabric was pulled back over his head.
I dragged myself to my feet. "Oh, hell—I'm sorry for the surprise."
"No, no—there's need to be sorry." The man dusted off bits of straw from his cloak and straightened up as well. "It was my fault as well. Should've watched where I was going. Anyway…" He gave a vague, forced chuckle and turned away.
He'd certainly not been in here for his own horse. I watched him closely. One hand hovered close to where I knew my dagger was tucked against my hip. Thieves were rampant around these parts, and if he tried to take my mule then I'd at least get a few good cuts in.
In the back of the stables, Bert gave his hoarse nicker; I clicked my tongue absently at him, and he fell silent. "You staying at The Blackbird?" I asked.
"Yes. See you there, maybe?" He didn't wait for an answer, just picked his way elegantly towards the inn, rain pelting the cloak and running sleekly down the black fabric.
He hadn't bothered to wait for an answer, so I didn't give him one. Instead, I turned around, grabbed my coat, and sloshed my way after him.
George was looking plenty irritated by the time I reached our table. "I've paid the bill."
I was already scanning the tabletop, brow furrowed. "My stew."
"It's missing, is it?" George snorted and slapped his hand down. "You took so long that I had it packaged. Thought maybe you were off traipsing through little muddy streams, building stick tepees—"
"I wasn't playing in the rain," I replied heatedly. I slid into my seat and fought the urge to look over my shoulder. The young man from the stables was at the table behind us, hood still on. The harsh yellow light from a few swaying lightbulbs above left his form cast in the dark.
Around us, the other tavern members were either swaying drunkenly or laughing uproariously, creating a general raucus—he sat apart from it all, a lone figure of shadow.
When I glanced back at George, he had an eyebrow raised. It was then that I realized that I had lapsed into silence for a few blank seconds. "Erm. Yes. I was feeding Bert."
"Feeding the mule."
"Yes. Which was supposed to be your—"
"Why are you so interested in the person behind you?" George pointedly, spinning his fork by its tines. When I didn't answer, he sighed. "Look. Whatever you feel about me, I'm not an idiot."
"Well, sometimes it seems hard to remember that," I muttered under my breath.
A loud crashing sound came from the kitchen—the sound of multiple plates shattering across stone.
Startled, the fork in George's hand spun out onto the floor, clattering across the stones. Yelling ensued. While everyone's attention was focused on the kitchen, I leaned forward across the table. George did as well.
"In the stables," I whispered, "His hood fell off for a moment. His eyes . . . they were gold."
We both sat back nonchalantly and scanned the room with keen eyes.
The other travelers and locals alike were still watching the kitchen scene unfold. The head cook was now chasing a serving boy around with his spatula, bellowing at the tops of his lungs while the shattered pieces of good china were swept up. A few boys had clambered onto the bar counter and were now clapping their hands, swaying drunkenly and cheering the serving boy on.
George looked back at me. "You're sure? Gold?"
"As sure as you are that the Loch Ness Monster really exists." I shifted in my seat. "I mean . . . it was only for a moment, but I saw."
"You know what that means."
"Of course I do."
"You better not mess this up. What, exactly, did you say to him?"
"Nothing serious. Just pleasantries."
"I know you, Lucy. Sometimes I believe you'd really try to help a—" George's eyes wandered casually around the room (he really was quite the actor, when the time came). Then his gaze snapped back to me. "Anyway, do you get what I'm saying?"
"Yes," I said. "Don't worry. Trust me, George."
He leaned back in his chair, eyeing me doubtfully, brushing at a few crumbs that littered his shirt like dandruff. Then he shrugged and placed a few coins on the table for our serving girl. "Best get some sleep. We can work something out tomorrow."
I grabbed our bags and we headed toward our room.
Or, at least, that was where we were going when The Blackbird burped three more wind-chilled people into the steamy room.
I had a foot on the first step, George already huffing and puffing his way up ahead, when the sudden draft of cold across my skin made me pause. I looked around. I looked at the door. And then I froze.
Three Wolves stood in the doorway, gray uniforms glistening with rain, their dark caps pulled off politely to reveal scruffy wet hair underneath. One of them was a woman, slightly shorter than her fellows, and from the way the other two Wolves moved around her it seemed that she was in charge. I glanced from their faces to their belts, at the ropes and the guns and the occasional sabre or nightstick that hung there, and felt suddenly sick.
"Lucy. Lucy!" George called to me in urgent whispers. I ignored him and stayed stock-still, letting my gaze drift across the room to the familiar hooded figure at his table.
He seemed completely relaxed, one hand curled around a cup of tea, the other flicking through a battered local newspaper, but going by his whitened knuckles and the way that he hardly moved at all, he knew who the new people were.
As did I.
The Wolves were renowned as the nation's witch hunters (well, witches in general; other magic users also applied, like shifters, sirens, and the occasional wizard, although there were hardly any of those). Although the magic folk tended to blend in with normal human society, it made the Wolves' job a whole lot easier that magic users' eyes were . . . gold.
Golden eyes.
The Wolves strolled leisurely to an empty table. It was one right next to the hooded man's.
I tensed, darted a look up at George. He was staring out at the busy crowd.
"George?"
"They're going to take him, Lucy," George said lowly. "After all we've done . . ." His hand slid into the folds of his cloak, where I knew a rapier would be hidden, its point honed and sharp enough to kill.
"Let's not fight it out with them," I decided. "Donovan would kill us."
"Then what?"
"Watch."
The Wolves sat down with many a screeching of chair legs, leaning casually in their places and casting cool glances over the room. The tavern members had quieted; they bent low over their drinks and spoke to each other quietly, eyes uneasy. A few of them tossed some coppers to the servers and slipped out the back door, making their hasty way out into the night.
The hooded man cleared his throat suddenly. He waved the serving boy over, long fingers running quickly over the rim of his hood. A few coins were shaken out; he gathered up his things. Even from the stairs, I could tell that his hand was trembling slightly.
Amongst the still crowd, his movements were too swift to be unnoticeable.
"You there," a Wolf barked. It was the woman. She waved a hand in the air, smiling calmly; nothing seemed amiss. I, still hesitating at the stairway, took a step forward and stopped beside a potted plant. George peered over my shoulder, his breath hot and foul against the side of my cheek.
The woman beckoned the hooded man over. "I'm Emma Doyle, leader of my Wolf squad. These dashing young men over here are some pups. I'm giving them a brief rundown on how things work in our group."
You could practically see the hooded man twitching where he stood. I clenched my jaw tightly.
"Please remove your hood," Doyle said.
I didn't bother glancing back at George. I just crossed the room in quick strides, heart in my head, as the hooded man stood frozen in the center of the room.
"I—I'm sorry, what did you say?" he asked at last.
"I asked you to remove your hood. It's the standard security check, to look at the eyes," Emma Doyle said crisply. "Follow up, please."
"I—"
The whole room was back to watching now. After this, The Blackbird would have quite the reputation for drama. Even the cook was staring, his potatoes burning in the pan.
I ran forward the last few steps.
"He's my brother," I blurted, flinging an arm around his shoulders. My fingers bunched in the wet fabric of his cloak. "What do you want?"
"Your brother?" the Wolf said incredulously. She shook her head. "Well, then kindly ask him to—"
"He…has a skin condition."
"It's terrible." George appeared at my side. "All rotting and green with oozing sores."
"We're taking him to the Surgeon's University in Scotland, where I'm getting trained. They can do all sorts of skin grafting there," I explained dramatically. "But it's pretty contagious now, so you'll want to stay away. Very far away."
"I was just heading up to the room, actually," the young man ended. "My face was feeling itchy."
The Wolf sat back down and leaned back slightly. "A facial condition?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"You should know better than to eat in a public area. Stay away from other people," she said briskly. "And get to that surgeon as fast as you can."
"Yes, ma'am."
The young man followed us up the stairs and onto the second floor, where we grouped in the hallway and let out a collective sigh of relief.
George immediately set onto me. "What were you thinking?"
"I wasn't," I admitted.
"As usual."
I slid the room key into the slot, opened the door, and we stepped inside. George locked it firmly behind us.
"You owe us one," I said, slumping into a puffy chair, coat and all. George did likewise, but in a different chair. The hooded young man remained standing. "One wrong move and our heads wouldn't be attached anymore."
"I thought it's usually hanging," George said thoughtfully. "That or burning at the stake."
"So you know, then?" the young man asked resignedly. He sat down on the edge of a bed. "It was rather clever, thinking up that disease on the spot."
George and I looked at each other. Then we nodded. We knew.
"Wouldn't it be funny if we were on to completely different things?" I said half-heartedly, propping my feet up on the side table. I was tired. It had been a long day of clattering around in a wooden cart, and now this. The bed was looking plenty comfortable now, all sheets and plush pillows . . .
Hands flew up, and then the young man was pushing back his hood. "On to different things? I don't think we are."
I thought I'd been prepared for it, but the sight still caught me off guard. Those golden eyes, bright and gleaming.
"We should be formally introduced." He held out a hand, and I focused long enough to shake it. The young man grinned, so bright it nearly lit up the whole room. "I'm Anthony Lockwood, part-time warlock, part-time fugitive on the run. You are?"