Fire Girl (29 page)

‘H
azel,
whatever
that thing is, it knows we’re here,’ Bramley said.

‘Quiet, Bram, I’m trying to think. Ma, do you think ...’ A stream of blood ran from Hecate’s scalp, frighteningly red against her pale skin, and her eyes, usually so
bright, were dull and unfocused.

‘Ma?’ Hazel said, clasping Hecate’s face. ‘What. . . what happened?’

‘I must have hit my head... the debris from the ceiling she said.

‘This is all my fault. . .’ Bramley wept.

Hazel whipped a handkerchief from her pocket and pressed it against the wound. ‘Can you heal yourself?’

Hecate shook her head and mumbled, ‘My magic’s still weak. Healing Nicolas sapped my strength . . . I can’t focus . . .’

‘Here,’ Hazel said, lifting her mother’s hand to the handkerchief. ‘Hold this tight.’ She looked around for a way out that she’d previously missed, but there
was nothing but stone walls, and windows that were too high to reach. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get us out of this somehow.’

‘Wielders,’ Petrov continued, his voice now coming from high up in the eaves. ‘Two at least, brimming with magic. It would please Baal to talk to them. It would please him also
to sate his appetite upon them, should they remain hidden.’

Hazel squeezed her eyes shut. She knew what she had to do, and it seemed that in the end she didn’t really have a choice.

‘Ma, stay here, and don’t make a noise.’

Hecate rested her head against the altar. ‘Don’t go,’ she mumbled.

‘I’m going to talk to . . . the thing out there, and get it to let us go. And if I can’t, I’ll at least put up a fight. And when I do, try to get out while it’s
distracted.’

Hecate’s brow creased. ‘You know I’d never leave you, sweet-pea,’ she said.

Hazel kissed her brow. ‘Just stay here for now.’

‘Baal is waiting.’ Petrov’s voice sounded smoother, as if lubricated by use. ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are.’

Hazel picked Bramley up and held him in her palm. ‘I can’t ask you to come out there with me,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you stay here with Ma?’

‘Don’t be so ridiculous!’ he cried, scurrying up her arm and into her hair. ‘I’m not leaving you.’

With shaking legs, Hazel stood up and walked towards the crevasse, doing her best to hide the crippling fear gnawing at her insides. At the same moment, Titus appeared from the pulpit,
apparently also deciding to face Petrov. They nodded to each other and approached the edge of the fissure between their world and the demon’s.

Hazel leaned forward and saw a distant glow staining the rock walls red; the bottom, if there even was one, was out of sight. The tongue disappeared into the depths, its length impossible to
contemplate.

Petrov swooped down to eye level, close enough for Hazel to see every line in his face and every withered fold of skin. The bands of flesh holding him flexed and pulsed.

‘A Fire Witch,’ Petrov hissed. ‘You burn like the sun – I see it even through my blind eyes.’

Hazel grimaced. ‘Yes, I am a Fire Witch,’ she breathed. ‘But what are you?’

He cocked his head. The wrinkles on his brow smoothed and the tension around his mouth eased. ‘I am . . . I am Lars Göran Petrov, from Sweden,’ he said in a voice now tinged
with an accent. ‘I remember a lake. And Viveka and Birgitta—’ The muscles around the man tightened and his mouth jerked open in a silent scream.

‘What’s happening to him?’ Hazel cried.

Petrov slumped to one side. The tongue of flesh lifted him back up to the rafters and undulated left and right, as if soothing him to sleep.

A strong hand grabbed Hazel’s shoulder and pulled her away from the edge of the crevasse.

‘There’s nothing you can do for him,’ Titus whispered into Hazel’s ear. ‘He’s flesh-bound to Baal.’ He shook his head, gazing in wonder. ‘Lars
Petrov. Can it really be you?’

‘You know him?’

‘Knew
of
him. Lars was a demonologist who disappeared in the tenth century, in very odd circumstances. It was always rumoured that he tried to consort with demons, and it looks like
the rumours were true.’

A shiver ran down Hazel’s back. ‘You mean he’s been like this . . . ?’

‘For seven hundred years, yes.’

‘Look out – it’s coming back,’ Bramley said.

‘I am he who once was the man called Petrov.’ The tongue swooped down to them again. ‘Now I am the Voice of Baal. Baal is waiting for that which was promised. Souls to sustain
him. Souls to give him strength in the prosecution of his wars.’

‘Take his,’ Titus said, pointing to the prostate Murrell. ‘He is the one who has failed you.’

Petrov curled his lip. ‘Baal has tasted that man’s soul and found it lacking. But the soul of a Wielder . . . they are most nourishing.’

Hazel’s legs threatened to collapse from under her, but she resisted the temptation to grab hold of Titus. Somehow she knew that showing weakness to the demon would be disastrous.

‘Baal knows that a soul offered freely is worth more than a hundred taken by force.’ Titus stretched his arms out from his sides. ‘And I offer him my soul, freely.’

‘What are you doing?’ Hazel hissed. ‘You might become like Petrov.’

Titus ignored her. ‘I offer my soul freely on the condition you let the others go.’

Petrov swerved closer to Titus, his lip curling with distaste. ‘You are old. Your soul fades like a dying star. Baal will not bargain with you.’

Titus reeled. ‘I am a man . . . a Witch Finder . . .’

‘Baal knows you, Titus White. He smells your sickness. He says it is time to make your peace.’

Hazel took Titus’s hand and directed her fiercest glare at Petrov. ‘He’s stronger than you’ll ever be.’

The ground shook, nearly knocking Hazel from her feet. Cracks appeared in the flagstones. Rock chips and dust cascaded into the crevasse. A great booming, hooting noise welled up from the
darkness, battering her ears. She and Titus stumbled backwards. Petrov followed them, smiling.

‘What’s happening?’ Bramley cried.

‘Baal is amused by your words, little girl,’ Petrov said, as the shaking died away. ‘Your bravery puts most men to shame.’

Hazel thrust out her chin. ‘If I amuse him so much, let him take me. I offer my soul freely, in return for letting the others go.’

‘Don’t listen to her, she doesn’t know what she’s saying,’ Titus said, pushing her behind him.

‘Yes, I do,’ shouted Hazel. ‘I’ll do it to save Ma – you and David as well.’ She reached out her hand to Petrov. ‘Baal the Destroyer –
take
me
.’

Our healer was arrested by Witch Hunters.

When we are sick, we have no one to look after us.

The Bee and the Honeysuckle
by Katherine Agar

A
thousand thoughts and a thousand fears charged through Hazel’s mind as she said the words, but one shone harshest and most painful of all:
I’ve condemned Bramley to this fate too.

Holding an image of her mother walking in the sunlit Glade, she teetered on the edge of the crevasse and whispered, ‘Take me, please.’

Petrov edged around her, sniffing, studying, assessing. ‘You magic is strong . . . but crude. Baal knows there is another Wielder here. Where is she?’

‘I’m here. I am the witch, Hecate Hooper.’

Hazel whirled around and saw her mother emerge from behind the altar, still holding the bloodied handkerchief in her hand.

‘Yes,’ Petrov hissed. ‘Hecate, the Wielder of Life. Baal has heard tell of you.’

‘Then he knows what use I could be to him,’ Hecate replied.

A pit of despair opened up in Hazel. ‘Ma,’ she shrieked, ‘don’t you
dare
!’

Hecate nodded to Titus, who returned the gesture and took a firm but gentle hold of Hazel.

‘Your mother knows best,’ he said, as Hecate walked towards Petrov with Tom clutched in her arms. ‘This is the only way we get to stay alive.’

‘No, no,
no
!’ Hazel struggled to free herself, kicking and thrashing, but Titus held on grimly.

‘If you will let the others go unharmed and seal this rift forever, I will go with you willingly,’ Hecate said.

Petrov’s smile nearly split his face in two.

‘Baal . . . agrees.’

The flesh around him loosened and slipped down, releasing his skinny arms. He held them out towards Hecate. ‘Baal gives his word, but you must come now. Other events demand his
attention.’

Hecate turned to Hazel, her face calm, her eyes bright. ‘I’m sorry, dearest daughter. But try to understand why I’m doing this.’

With a hungry leer Petrov swooped down, gathered her and Tom up in his arms, and lifted her from the ground.

With a scream, Hazel sent out a burst of fire, forcing Titus to let her go. The world blurred as she dashed after her mother, trailing sparks and tears. Knowing it was already too late, Hazel
jumped over the edge.

Already far below, the tongue coiled back into the Underworld, carrying her mother away.

The breath caught in Hazel’s throat as her cloak drew tight around her neck. She hit the rock face with a bone-shaking thud, her arms flailing, then felt herself being dragged back into
the church and away from the edge. ‘Let me go!’ she screamed. ‘I want to go with her.’ In her fury she didn’t feel the floor shake as the crevasse closed up, or hear
Titus trying to calm her down. All she saw was her mother disappearing into blackness, before she did the same.

A fog engulfed Hazel’s mind.

The cold stone floor pressed against her back, Bramley warmed the nape of her neck. She was dimly aware of strong arms gathering her up, rough material against her cheek, bumpy movement, glass
crunching underfoot, and words spoken in a baritone rumble. Then a rattle, a blinding light and a breeze.

She opened her eyes and saw she was outside under a perfect blue sky. But how could the world still turn unhindered when it had been knocked so far off its axis?

Her mother.
Gone
.

A voice came to her as if through a wall. She forced her eyes open. Titus, looking down at her, brow furrowed. Blood pumped, magic gathered. She shook her head clear and the world encroached
again.

‘Can you walk?’ he was saying. ‘Hazel, come back to me.’

Come back to me.

‘I’m all right.’ Her voice sounded far away. ‘You can put me down now.’

Her legs wobbled, but Titus stayed by her side, his shadow cast long in the morning sun. Tombs and crypts came into focus. Ahead, at the entrance to the Garden of the Dead, was David, pushing a
hunched, bound and blindfolded Murrell ahead of him.

‘I’ve arrested him,’ Titus said. ‘But we need to leave quickly before his people regroup.’

Hazel stopped, aware of a presence behind them. Before she even turned around, the smell told her what it was.

Rawhead padded towards them between the rows of gravestone, sniffing the air like a hunting dog. Hazel had only ever seen it shadowed in dusk and darkness, and she was unprepared for the full
horror revealed in the morning light. The demon was sleek and lethal, and it had their scent.

Titus and Hazel backed away, the distance between them and the demon less than twenty paces.

‘You go on,’ Titus muttered. ‘Follow David. I’ll take care of this.’

‘You’ve got no weapons,’ Hazel whispered back. ‘It’ll kill you.’

‘Just go, will you?’

Hazel took a step back and slipped, almost losing her footing. A rotten, fishy smell overpowered Rawhead’s blood-stink. It was the remains of the Shabriri demon. The Grinder glinted at her
from where she’d left it behind a gravestone – a thousand years ago.

An idea broke through the haze and she grabbed Titus’s arm. ‘Keep backing up,’ she said, gathering the final embers of her magic into a ball around her hand. She raised her
arms, waiting for the right moment.

Rawhead stopped closer, jaw lowering like a drawbridge.

‘I really think we should run,’ Bramley said.

‘Your master’s over there,’ Hazel cried, standing her ground. Rage and a need for vengeance built inside her. ‘But you’ll have to go through me first.’

Rawhead’s back legs quivered, tongue slipped between its teeth.