The Witch Hunter Read online

  THE WITCH HUNTER

  Blood Magic: Book 3

  A Series in the Makeshift Wizard Universe

  By

  JT Lawrence

  MJ Kraus

  © 2018 Muonic Press Inc

  www.jt-lawrence.com

  www.MikeKrausBooks.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, without the permission in writing from the author.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Blood Magic: Book 4

  Now Available!

  Chapter One

  Gray Snow

  I need your help, she’d said on the phone. Could you come in? Today?

  It wasn’t the best timing, but is there ever a good time to face an old enemy?

  I eased my bruised body out of bed, slowly, as to not wake Darick. I needn’t have crept or whispered; he was so deep within his sleep that I was sure an espresso-fuelled marimba band crowded into my small bedroom wouldn’t have roused him. Still, I dressed quietly.

  The last time he had been hurt, almost killed by a coven of vampires in the volcano pocket realm, he said he needed time to recover. I pictured him as an Alaskan grizzly bear who needed to hibernate in order to heal, and now he was hibernating again. His lacerations were already knitting themselves together, which was no small relief. It turns out that Mages do seem to be able to heal themselves (which was a good thing, especially seeing as my nursing skills are on par with my dancing skills).

  After putting a glass of water on the bedside table next to where he lay and checking his breathing—shallow, but steady—I scribbled a note for him and jumped on my motorbike.

  I’ve done something terrible, Darick had said the previous night, before passing out.

  We’ll talk tomorrow, I had replied, even though my heart was beating faster, burning to know what he wanted to say. You need to rest, I’d said. He tried to talk again but I stroked his face, closed his eyelids, pressed the pads of my fingers to his lips. It can wait for tomorrow. I lay back down beside him and fell asleep inhaling the smell of battle on his skin.

  Ready to roar out of the parking basement, I kicked the stand on my bike and forced my helmet over my head, which felt swollen. I had a hangover from fighting death the day before. I tried not to think too much about it, but the memories flashed in my mind. The train conductor’s limp body, his shirt and bowtie dyed heart-ink red. Slyden Abarim drinking my power as I lay, helpless on the vibrating metal floor. Bron risking his feathers and almost losing his life to save me before the Olde Worlde Railway steam train smashed into the rock face and exploded into a hundred different hues of flame and smoke. Standing hand-in-hand with Lysander, struck silent as we watched the vampiric pyrotechnic display, bright cinders dancing in the air like fireflies before us. Ash floating down like gray snow.

  I shook myself, trying to push away the pictures in my head. I accelerated out of the darkness and into the new morning light, urging myself to feel cheered by the freshness of the day, and the fact that I had survived. On days like this, my bike isn’t just a way to get from one place to another; the power of the engine rumbling beneath me and the great blue sky always clears my head. Motorcycle meditation. Plus, Ferra had pimped my smart helmet with such bleeding-edge tech that I sometimes wanted to ride just to play around with the thing. Let me tell you, if you don’t have a big-hearted tech-genius surrogate-mother dwarf in your life, you’re missing out.

  I have been lucky in some ways, I try to remind myself when the grief starts to bubble up like boiling tar inside me. I try to focus on the luck, and not the searing sorrow that is always just one thought, one memory, one hint of a scent, away.

  I swallowed hard, and cleared my throat. “Shades,” I said, my voice gruff. The safety glass of the helmet’s visor tinted a smoked amber. “Weather,” I said. “And local news headlines.”

  “Weather in Johannesburg today,” my helmet chimed. “Clear skies with comfortable temperatures and a high of twenty-two degrees. In local news, another Hammerskin attack has left a group of Khargol loyalists in critical condition. This is the third Hammerskin attack reported in the last week. Also, the Olde Worlde Railway recovery team has attributed the fatal crash yesterday to a faulty smokebox.”

  “Ha,” I said.

  “The Elven Estate has reported an eleven percent increase in overall earnings, which they attribute to excellent fiscal policy and the rise in exports, nationally. And Goblin City management has reported a worker missing. More details to follow.”

  “No details,” I said. I didn’t want to hear it. The headlines were depressing enough without digging deeper. So they had found the train wreck, and some bodies. But they’d never know how many vampires were inside when the carriages hurtled into the stone mountain. They wouldn’t be able to tell the difference, at a glance, between burnt seat leather and ashed vampires. I wouldn’t forget it, though, the fireworks we saw. The multi-colored flames shooting into the sky. Fireworks and fireflies. Gray snow. I shook myself again, trying to dislodge the icy sensation that was inching up my spine.

  “Music.” I said. “Hellcats.”

  I accelerated as the dirty rock music streamed out of the helmet’s speakers, and I felt it reverberate through my body, along with the thrumming of the loyal engine. I was going back to the Copperfield Institute, and I needed to prepare myself for what I would hear when I got there.

  Chapter Two

  Blushed to Burning

  The outside façade of the Copperfield Institute is generously sized, but plain. It’s an understated entrance for what is regarded as the most accomplished magical school on the continent. A large, handsome electric gate truncates the high walls, which are painted a dazzling white that glitters in the sunlight. A bronze-pelted werewolf named Rusty has been the security guard for decades, and he greeted me with his characteristic lupine scowl.

  “Jacquelyn Denna Knight,” he growled, and then leapt at me, almost knocking me off my bike. He enveloped me in a hug that smelled, even in his human form, distinctly canine, like dog pellets and damp fur.

  “I didn’t think you’d recognize me,” I said.

  “I recognize all Copperfield alumni.”

  Rusty was panting slightly, blowing white puffs of breath in the early morning air, and the glare of the white wall made his eyes sparkle a deep Atlantic blue. His dark lips turned up at the corners as he opened the gate for me. “Plus,” he panted, “the Directress told me you were co
ming.”

  He bowed and waved me through, and only when I looked down did I realize he had planted a tracking pixel on my trench coat. It was disguised as a visitor badge, but I could practically feel the thing ticking against my chest. Security at the Copperfield Institute had always been tight, but a pixel seemed paranoid. Or maybe there was something I didn’t know.

  I parked my bike under the shade of a giant Jacaranda tree which was bright green with new spring leaves. I remembered it from before, remembered the pale purple blossoms it would rain on us during exam times, promising a positive result. I found myself wondering if today’s kids still believed in silly superstitions like that. Like the Kissing Arch twin trees in the third quad, where nailing your shoes to the bark ensured you and your beau would be lifelong lovers. Or putting a white crayon on your windowsill and a silver coin under your pillow to bring on a snow day. We did it knowing full well that snowfall in Johannesburg is as rare as good dental hygiene in an orc’s mouth.

  There was also the Myth of Minerva’s owl. We never could agree on what finding that ephemeral hooting owl hidden in the folds of the robes of the copper statue would get you, but we knew it would be good luck in some form or another. I found the owl one sweltering summer when no one else was around to corroborate my discovery. I was in the tenth grade, and in the difficult transition period between street urchin and Copperfield scholar. I laid my palm on the owl’s cool, shaded head, and imagined it cooing softly in the night. The next day, I won the national magical school archery championship. The cheesy trophy still collects dust on a shelf at home: an apple shot through with an arrow. Perhaps superstitions exist for a reason. Untouched psychologists call the phenomena “magical thinking”; perhaps they don’t know how close they are to seeing what lies beyond the shimmering veil of the Masquerade.

  I made a note to ask the Belore twins if they had found the copper owl yet. I was due to visit them after my meeting, and drop off a bag of Ferra’s home baked buttery spice cookies.

  A student ran down the steps toward me, breaking me out of my nostalgic reverie. She didn’t speak, but instead gestured for me to follow her. Sometimes the students agree to periods of silence to concentrate their magic, and I guessed that was what she was doing. As we walked up the stairs and into the building, I made a note to myself to teach Bron that—a simple hack that I had all but forgotten. Staying silent for a few hours or days allows you a deep introspection which can laser-focus your magic. As a cynical, jaded introvert who is terrible at small talk, you can imagine how that appeals to me. But, alas, my line of work involves speaking, as would be evidenced here, in the cool, refined offices of the Copperfield Institute.

  The student knocked gently on the blond timber door that stood slightly ajar, and the directress looked up, over the top of her stylish bifocals, and smiled. Sunshine streamed in through the large windows and, just outside, soft leaves all shades of green fluttered like wings in the breeze. The dappled light played on the walls and the polished pinewood floors.

  “Ms. Knight,” she said, her enunciation as elegant as I remembered from my school days.

  I estimated her age to be around ninety-plus, but her face told me a different story. Her dark skin glowed with vitality—black don’t crack—and her eyes were diamond chips. Her silver-white braids were clipped back with neat metallic clasps.

  I had always thought of Directress Copperfield as a titanium woman. Her titanium wand—which lay on her desk before her—was legendary, and she had a spine to match it. Now that her hair was the same color, it looked and felt right.

  “Good morning, Directress,” I said.

  I felt a keen sense of loss, looking at her wand. Mine had been a similar style: vintage, and finely engraved. I had taken it from my mother’s limp hand as she lay dead in her bed, and now a vampire had taken it from me. Heartache welled up within me. I knew that coming back to Copperfield would be emotional. It would always be a reminder of what I had lost.

  “Please,” she said, gesturing at a chair.

  I sat down, and the student was dismissed.

  “I really appreciate you coming to see me.”

  She made it sound like I had a choice. Which I guess I did, but I don’t know anyone in the Realm who would turn down a request for a favor from Copperfield. I wasn’t sure how to reply. It’s a pleasure? (It wasn’t). You’re welcome? (You’re not). Any time? (Nope).

  This is why I’m bad at small talk. I’m too honest, and not in a good way. I wanted to get this meeting over with and then go visit Eafaris and Pepin.

  I sat up straight, and looked into her glinting eyes. “What can I do for you?”

  The directress stood up from her tidy ebony desk and walked over to the window, looking out at the rustling trees.

  “There’s been a death threat,” she said, as the leaves whispered their secrets outside.

  “What?” I said. “Against you?”

  “No,” she said, turning to face me. “A Copperfield Institute alumna. She was in your class.”

  Oh. Of course. The old enemy I needed to face. The directress had mentioned her name on the phone earlier.

  “Isadora Crowe.”

  Izzy Crowe. Spiteful, smug, sexy Izzy. That old witch. After graduation I had hoped to never see her again. Turns out that wasn’t going to happen.

  Copperfield didn’t break her eye contact, making me feel intensely uncomfortable. “Her life is in danger.”

  A part of me thought, So what? My life had been in danger plenty, especially in the last week, and I didn’t see the institute recruiting former pupils to help me. Couldn’t Crowe just fight her own battles? And who wanted her dead, anyway? Did she deserve it? And why was Directress Copperfield asking me, instead of Izzy asking me herself? I knew the reason, of course. Because I would have said no to Isadora Crowe.

  “Of course, you’ll have your reservations,” said Copperfield. “Isadora told me that you two weren’t the best of friends.”

  That was putting it mildly. Once, while I was sleeping, she cut off all my hair during the night. She made it grow back the next day with one of her potions, but not before I woke up horrified, and my skin had blushed to burning.

  “But I must remind you that those of us who fight evil must join our light together or be lost to the darkness.”

  I stared as her words hung in the air between us. “We’re not talking about Crowe anymore, are we?”

  “There are dark times ahead,” said Copperfield, and a shadow scudded over her face like a dark storm cloud.

  I felt suddenly chilled. “You feel it, too,” I said, and Directress Copperfield turned again to study the garden outside. I followed her gaze and thought about the plant on my kitchen windowsill. It had now grown so much that it was blocking out the light completely, and was beginning to penetrate the cupboards around it and crack the cheap wall tiles along the warped sink. I knew what this meant. The Silvano Clan of vampires were growing in power. They had an unknown quantity of Magus banked, and they had the HighFire Crown.

  The future of the Realm was looking dark, indeed. As Ferra would say: When in doubt, have the cookie. You never know when it will be your last. And something was telling me that our cookies were numbered. Which really was a shame, because the buttery spice cookies that the Fernak skunks made were probably the best in the Realm. And if there weren’t going to be any Copper Cog cookies in the Afterlife, then, well, best we try to keep our feet planted firmly in the here and now. My stomach growled then, reminding me of Rusty the werewolf guarding the entrance of the school, and the pixel planted on my chest.

  “A death threat,” I said. “Can’t Crowe come and stay here for a few days, until it blows over?”

  Or, even better, move to another country? I thought.

  “The security here seems pretty solid.” I glanced down at my visitor’s badge.

  “She has important work to do,” said the directress. “She can’t just disappear from her life. She’s the High Priestess of the StarDust
Coven.”

  Important work? That sounds like the name of a pagan domestic cleaning company, I thought.

  The White Carpet Vacuumers.

  The Moonwash Sisters.

  The Witches of the Silver Polish.

  “Besides,” she said, walking back to her desk. “In my experience, death threats like this don’t blow over. It’s real. I can sense it. And I don’t know any wizard who will be a better fit for this job.”

  I dragged my eyes back to hers.

  “I’m not asking you because you were in the same class,” she said. “I’m asking you because you have proven again and again what an excellent wizard you are.”

  “I’m not,” I said. “I’m a very ordinary wizard. Mediocre. If anything, I’m a sub-standard wizard.”

  I’m like that small, bruised fruit on the bottom counter at Spar that doesn’t qualify for exportation. That doesn’t even qualify for the middle rack. That doesn’t even qualify for a JUICY sticker.

  “You’ve always been humble,” said the directress.

  Honest, more like.

  “If you have one failing—” said Copperfield.

  One? I thought. I have hundreds.

  “—it’s that you don’t know the extent of the power you have.”

  She meant the darkness. The pain. The lucky curse of grief that augments my power. But why should I use my hard-won emotionally-ignited magic to save the life of a witch who made my life hell in the hostel?

  “Because we have to stick together,” Copperfield said, as if she had been listening to my thoughts. “Because Crowe is one of us. And because you are the only one who can save her life.”

  Chapter Three

  A Ghost in a Gimp Suit

  “Greetings,” said Morgan drily as she fetched me from the reception of the Scorpion HQ. “How the hell are you?”

  “Do you want the truth?” I asked.

  Captain Morgan pouted her London Bus Red lips and tapped her high heels while she studied my face a little closer than I was comfortable with.