I tell Arran what happened and about my meetings with Annalise.
He doesn’t say anything, so I ask, “Do you think I’m stupid for seeing her?”
“No.”
“Really?”
“You like each other. She’s nice to you and she’s . . . you know . . . beautiful.”
We are silent again.
“Promise me you won’t see her again.”
I stare at the floor, thinking of Annalise and her smile, her eyes, and the look on her face when I last saw her.
“Nathan. Promise me.”
“I’m not that stupid.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise that I’m not that stupid.” I still stare at the floor.
Arran slides across the floor to sit by me. He strokes my hair back from my face and kisses my forehead, whispering, “Please, Nathan. I couldn’t stand it.”
* * *
I heal quickly, even for a whet, but it’s still five days before I have the bandages off. I stand in the bathroom with my back to the large mirror and a small mirror of Gran’s in my hands. Arran asked me on the second day if Kieran had said what he’d done. I knew then that it was more than just cuts.
The scars stretch from my shoulder blades to my lower back: a “B” on the left and a “W” on the right.
Post-Trauma
I know I have to stay away from Annalise. I’m not stupid; I won’t try to see her again, at least not at the moment, but I want to know if she’s all right.
Since Deborah finished school she has had no contact with Niall, apart from the phone call telling her where I was. But even if they were in touch I wouldn’t trust what Niall said about Annalise anyway. I ask Arran if he can get a message to her. He tells me that Niall has warned him off: “You will get what your brother got if you go near her.” I suspect Niall didn’t say “your brother” but the message is clear, and I tell Arran to forget it.
Arran says, “Don’t blame yourself.”
I don’t. Kieran and his dumb brothers are to blame.
And I know that Annalise would think the same way, and she will know that I never meant to cause her problems . . . but I screwed up. I was naive. I knew there would be serious trouble for both of us if we got caught, and I ignored that. But so did she.
* * *
Gran sits at my bedside and cleans her creams off my back. She runs her fingers over my scars, and I reach around to touch them too. They are uneven, shallow grooves.
Gran says, “They’ve healed well. They look like they’ve been there for years.”
I arch my back, bend forward, and then roll my shoulders. There’s no pain there now; the tightness has gone.
“The creams have done some of the work but so have you. Your healing abilities have begun.”
All witches can self-heal faster than fains. Some a lot faster. Some instantly. And I know Gran is right. I feel so good. Buzzy, on a mini high . . .
But the healing has finished now. The first night after the creams are off I curl up in bed, at last able to lie in any position I like. It feels good, but not for long. I start to sweat, and the headache I have been ignoring grows until my skull feels like it is going to break open. I go to the kitchen for a drink of water, but that makes me feel sick, so I sit on the back doorstep, and the relief is instant. I stay there in the open doorway, leaning against the wall. The sky is clear, and the full moon seems heavy and huge. It’s quiet and still, and I don’t feel tired. I look around and see that my shadow lies long and dark across the kitchen floor. I get a small knife from the drawer, taking my time, feeling the nausea build again while I’m in the kitchen, but as soon as I return to my spot on the back step it disappears.
I balance the knife in my hand, wondering where to try first.
I make a small cut with the point of the knife in the pad of my index finger. I suck the blood and then look at the cut, pulling the skin apart. More blood, another suck, and then I stare at the cut and try to heal it.
I think, Heal!
More blood appears.
I relax, look at the moon, feel the cut, the throb of my finger. Feel it. Keep my awareness on it and on the moon. It takes I don’t know how long. A while. But I know something is happening because I’m smiling, can’t stop it. The buzz is there. This is fun. I push the point of the knife into my fingertip again.
The next night I try to sleep in my bed but am sweating and nauseated soon after it goes dark, so I go outside and instantly feel better. I sleep in the garden and go back to the bedroom before Arran wakes up.
I do the same the third night, this time only going back inside when Arran is getting dressed.
“Where did you go last night?”
I shrug.
“You’re not seeing Annalise?”
“No.”
“If you are . . .”
“I’m not.”
“I know you like her, but—”
“I’m not! I just had a bit of trouble sleeping. It was too hot. I slept outside.”
Arran doesn’t look convinced. I walk out and Deborah is there on the landing, brushing her hair, pretending not to have been listening in.
When we are in the kitchen having breakfast Deborah leans toward me, saying, “It wasn’t hot last night. I think you should tell Gran about not being able to sleep.”
I shake my head.
So Deborah announces to us all, “I’ve been reading up on post-traumatic stress disorder.”
Arran rolls his eyes. I stab my cereal with my spoon.
“The reaction to shock can be delayed. Nightmares and flashbacks are typical. Anger, frustration . . .”
I glare at her as I put a huge mound of cereal in my mouth.
Gran asks, “What are you talking about, Deborah?”
“Nathan has suffered a terrible trauma. He isn’t sleeping. He’s sweating.”
“Oh, I see,” Gran says. “Are you having nightmares, Nathan?”
“No,” I insist through the cereal.
“If he is having nightmares, and certainly if he is suffering from stress, then bringing it up at the breakfast table is not very thoughtful,” Arran says.
“Gran can probably give him a sleeping potion, is all I’m thinking.”
“Do you need a sleeping potion, Nathan?” Arran asks.
“No, thanks,” I say, stuffing more food in my mouth.
“Did you sleep well last night, Nathan?” Arran puts on a tone of extreme mock concern.
“Yes, thanks.” I speak through the cereal.
“Yes, but why didn’t you sleep in your own bed, Nathan?” Deborah looks from me to Arran as she asks.
I stab at the mush in my bowl. Arran glares at Deborah.
“You’re not sneaking off to see Annalise?” Gran asks.
“No!” Bits of cereal spray on to the table.
Gran stares at me.
Why does no one believe me?
“You still haven’t said why you didn’t sleep in your own bed last night,” Deborah says.
Arran says, “We all know he likes to sleep outside, Deborah.”
I bang my spoon hard on the table. “I didn’t sleep in my own bed ’cause I felt sick, okay! That’s all.”
“But that—” Deborah starts.
“Please be quiet. All of you,” Gran interrupts. She massages her forehead with her fingers. “I need to tell you something.” Gran stretches her hand out to hold my arm and says, “There are many different rumors about Black Witches and their affinity with the night.”
I stare at her, and her eyes are concerned and old and serious, and locked on mine. Black Witches and their affinity? Is she trying to tell me that I’m some kind of Black Witch because I’ve slept outside for a couple of nights?
I pull my arm out of her grasp and get up.
Arran says, “But Nathan isn’t a Black—”
“There are stories about weakness too,” Gran says. “Some Black Witches can’t stand to be indoors at night. They are stories. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t true.” Gran massages her forehead again. “Being indoors at night drives them mad.”
Arran looks at me and shakes his head. “This isn’t happening to you.”
Gran continues, “I should tell you one of the stories. It’s important for Nathan.”
By this time I’m backed into the corner of the kitchen. Deborah comes to stand with me. She puts her arm round me and leans on my shoulder whispering, “I’m sorry, Nathan. I didn’t know. I didn’t know.”
The Story of the
Death of Saba
Saba was a Black Witch. She had killed a Hunter and was on the run. Virginia, the leader of the Hunters, and a group of her elite were on Saba’s trail. They had tracked her across England, through countryside, cities, and towns, and they were closing in.
Saba was exhausted, and in desperation she hid in the cellar of a large house on the edge of a village. She must have been desperate or she wouldn’t have tried to hide. It doesn’t work, hiding from Hunters. She must have known that they would track her there. And they did. The Hunters found the house and quickly surrounded it. There would be no escape for Saba. Some of the Hunters wanted to charge into the cellar, but Virginia didn’t want to lose anyone else. There was only one way into the cellar, through a trapdoor, and Virginia ordered that the entrance be blocked up for a month, by which time Saba would be either dead or so weak that she could be captured with no losses on the Hunters’ side.
Virginia knew that most of her Hunters weren’t happy about this. They wanted revenge, glory, and a quick end to Saba and this hunt. Virginia set a guard on the entrance to the cellar to stop Saba escaping but also to ensure none of the Hunters disobeyed her orders.
Night fell, and the Hunters found places in the house and its gardens to sleep. But no one slept, because soon after dark, terrible screams came from the cellar.
The Hunters ran to the trapdoor, thinking that one of their number had disobeyed Virginia’s orders, had entered the cellar, and was being tortured by Saba. But, no, the guard still stood at the blocked-up entrance. The screams came from the cellar and carried on until dawn. The Hunters tried to sleep and covered their ears or plugged them with bits of material from their clothes but nothing would stop the sounds from piercing their heads. It felt as if each one of them was screaming too.
The next morning the Hunters were exhausted. These were all tough men and women, the toughest, but they had been hunting Saba for weeks, and now they were drained.
The second night the screaming returned and again no one slept.
This carried on every night, so that by the end of the first week the Hunters were arguing and fighting among themselves. One Hunter had stabbed another, and one had deserted. Even Virginia was desperate: she had not slept, and she could see that her elite group was descending into anarchy. On the eighth night, when the screaming started again, she ran to the cellar in a rage and began to strip back the barricade from over the trapdoor. The Hunters gathered around her but they were unsure what to think. They all wanted to go in and end the torture, but seeing their leader, normally the epitome of control, tearing at the trapdoor made them wonder if she had lost her mind.
One Hunter stepped up and dared to remind Virginia that she had ordered that Saba should be shut up for a month, and it had been only one week. Virginia pushed the Hunter back, saying that she was willing to risk her life and theirs to end the torment.
Virginia opened the trapdoor and descended into the cellar with her Hunters crowding behind her.
The cellar was dark. Virginia used her torch to throw light on to the floor and pick her way between crates, boxes, an old chair, bottles of wine, and a sack of potatoes. There was a doorway to another room. The screaming was coming from there. Virginia made her way to the door and the Hunters followed.
The second room appeared to be empty. But in the farthest corner, barely discernible, was a low pile of rags.
Virginia strode up, lifted the rags back and there was the body of Saba. She was half dead, totally mad, and still screaming. She had clawed at her face, which was a mass of scars. She couldn’t speak, as she had bitten off her own tongue. But still she screamed.
Virginia could have killed her there, but she said Saba should be taken to the Council for interrogation. Saba was barely alive, but she was a powerful Black Witch, so Virginia ordered her to be tied up before she was carried out.
It was now the middle of the night, but outside, the light from the moon made it seem almost like day. As the Hunters bore her body out of the house, Saba began to hum and then she began to writhe. Too late, Virginia realized that Saba’s strength was returning now she was outside in the night air. Saba sent flames from her mouth, setting on fire the two Hunters carrying her. She fell to the ground and used her flames to burn through her bonds. Virginia drew her gun and shot Saba in the chest, but Saba had enough life in her to grab hold of Virginia and set fire to her too. They were both in flames when Virginia’s son, Clay, shot Saba in the neck. She fell, silent at last, on the lawn of the house.
Virginia died from her burns, and Clay became the next leader of the Hunters. He’s still their leader today.
* * *
Gran rubs her face with her hands and says, “A Hunter told me that story a long time ago. We were at the wake of her partner, another Hunter. She was upset and very drunk. I took her outside and gave her a potion to calm her. We sat on the grass and talked.
“She told me that her partner was the Hunter who had deserted. Clay had tracked her down and had her executed. This girl, the drunk one, had been made to pull the trigger on her partner.”
Debs is shaking her head, “They’re all monsters. The Hunters are as bad as—”
“Deborah! Don’t! Don’t ever say that,” Arran cuts in.
I ask, “Who was Saba?”
Gran takes a breath and says, “She was Marcus’s mother.”
Somehow I’m not surprised. I push myself away from Deborah and go to sit on the back step.
Arran comes and sits next to me. Leaning close he says, “It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Saba was my grandmother.”
“None of this means that you are like that.”
I shake my head. “It’s happening to me, Arran. I feel it. I’m a Black Witch.”
“No, you’re not. That’s your body, not you. The real you is nothing to do with being a Black Witch. You have some of Marcus’s genes in you, and some of Saba’s. But that’s physical. And the physical stuff, the genes, your Gift, they are not what makes a Black Witch. You have to believe that. It’s how you think and how you behave that shows who you are. You aren’t evil, Nathan. Nothing about you is evil. You will have a powerful Gift—we can all see that—but it’s how you use it that will show you to be good or bad.”
I almost believe him. I don’t feel evil, but I’m afraid. My body is doing things that I don’t understand, and I don’t know what else it will do. It feels like it has a will of its own and it’s leading me down a path I have to follow. The night tremors are taking me outside, forcing me to move away from my old life. The noises in my head also seem to be driving me away from people.
Whenever Jessica used to say I was half Black, Gran would say, “Half White too.” And I had always thought of my mother’s genes and my father’s mixing in my body, but now it occurs to me that my body is my father’s and my spirit is my mother’s. Perhaps Arran is right, my spirit is not evil, but I have to put up with a body that does weird things.
* * *
I leave for Wales that morning, intending to stay away for a day or two. It feels good sleeping outside and living off the land, and after my talk with Arran I’m feeling more positive, mo
re like I know who and what I am. It’s a different way of looking at things, nothing more than that, but it allows me to watch my body and learn what it’s capable of. I observe it in a more detached way, testing its healing capabilities and working out how the night affects me.
I stay in Wales one more day, and then one more, and then one more. I find an unused barn and try sleeping in it, and discover that the moon has an effect on how I feel. A full moon is worst for being indoors at night, and I can’t help but shake and vomit. A new moon and being in the barn is bearable with nothing worse than slight nausea. At the full moon my healing ability is enhanced. I test this by cutting my arm. A cut in the day during a new moon takes twice as long to heal as a similar cut at night under a full moon.
The days go by and I learn a lot, but I know that I can’t share what I’ve learned, not even with Arran. Everything that is Black has to be kept secret, and I know my body is that of a Black Witch.
Mary
I spend over a month in Wales. I feel good learning about my body, but I’m also self-conscious. I have this idea that somehow my father is watching me. He sees everything I do. He nods his head wisely at the discoveries I make about my body, smiles approvingly when I catch a rabbit, skin and cook it, but he shakes his head at the bad decisions I make, when I end up cold in a poor shelter or cross a stream in a bad place. Everything I do is with an awareness of him judging me, and every day I think that maybe he will appear.
Of course my father never comes. I sometimes wonder if it’s because I’m half White, not Black enough. But then I tell myself that these aren’t real tests; the true test will be that I can find my way to him, and I’m ready to do that now.
My fifteenth birthday is three weeks away; I don’t want to risk going to another assessment. I am sure that the Council will see what is happening to my body, that I’m changing, and my Designation Code won’t be Not ascertained any more. Nobody has told me what will happen if I am designated as a Black Witch, but as all Black Witches in Britain are captured or killed on sight, I’ve got a good idea.