Nineteen
It took them less than ten minutes to hand over control to the trustworthy 5th gen Marks; and to be in the Land Rover for a long drive north.
The roads were almost empty. The world had been shook by fear, a state of emergency had been announced and everyone stayed at home while official-types tried to recreate normality.
The two men drove non-stop to the Lake District in silence. Once or twice James attempted to engage Hunter in conversation, having the opinion that Hunter knew more than he’d let on. But Hunter remained in stony silence, paying full attention to the roads as they hurtled down them.
It was an early winter’s evening and they were driving in near darkness now, the headlights cutting through the black countryside. Eventually they were driving down the familiar winding roads that led to the edge of Keswick. They were almost holding their breath as they turned the final bend to look on Bev Murphy’s cottage.
Everything looked quiet and untouched. They kitted up and made their way down the path to the front door. It was unlocked, and when Hunter opened it, inside it was dark and silent. Hunter paused, but he couldn’t feel any magic in the area.
He clicked the hall light on and the two men went into the familiar, modern interior of Bev’s cottage. They did a quick sweep of the rooms. They were all empty, with no indication of where Mrs Murphy and her daughter were. The last witch-hunters to stop by had been right, there was no sign of anything happening.
Perhaps, perhaps Sophie and her mum had been out, and had either been taken or caught up in the fights. But Hunter fought back the fear of these mental images, he needed to stay focussed.
James was on the house phone to Astley Manor, clocking in and picking up any new reports. Hunter busied himself by going over the house again. By the front and back door he saw the amulets that he had given Sophie only a few days ago.
Hunter hesitated. Something pricked his senses. It was so faint that he could hardly feel it. He turned on the spot, then began to move slowly in different directions, even pressing up against the walls to try and find the source of the magic. But wherever he went, the magic got neither stronger nor weaker.
“James.” Hunter called out uncertainly.
Suddenly he staggered, unbalanced, and the lights flickered and then snapped off.
Hunter waited, but couldn’t sense anything else. He stumbled about the hallway, trying to find the light switch. Finally he felt it, he flicked the switch several times, but nothing happened.
“Hunter!” There was a crash and some strong swearing from James as he tripped over lord knows what in the dark. “Hunter, the phone’s dead.”
Hunter frowned, felt in his pocket for his mobile and pulled it out. The screen still glowed, but there was no signal.
By this time James had pulled out his torch and made his way to Hunter. “What do you think it is? Ambush? I knew we were walking into a trap.”
“Shut up a minute.” Hunter replied. In the silence, nothing disturbed his senses. “I can’t sense anything.”
“You mean there’s no witches in waiting?” Asked James hopefully.
“No, I mean I can’t sense anything. At all. There’s no trace or residue. That wasn’t magic.” Hunter replied, knowing it sounded ridiculous. He didn’t know how to explain it. He somehow knew that the earlier hint of magic was responsible, but the spell hadn’t been performed here.
“The street lights are out.” James mentioned, looking out the window onto an unlit world. “Why would witches knock out the power grid for the Lake District?”
“My honest opinion?” Hunter asked as James turned back to him. “I think it is part of something bigger. We need to get back to the Manor.” He paused, pulling out his own torch, adding a little more light to the dark house. “Sweep the house for any clues Sophie might have left, then we go.”
They kept together this time, twin beams of light flickering over every surface in a quick assessment of the cottage. It helped fight the fear of the incomprehensible happenings, to think, to move, to concentrate.
They’d just come out of Sophie’s room after a thorough search, but finding nothing. Hunter stopped in the hall, he thought he heard, or sensed, a third person breathing. It was such a small sound, only half-heard that he wondered if it were his desperate imagination.
He flashed his torch down the corridor, but it was empty. About to confirm it as a trick of his nerves, Hunter felt his heart contract as the torchlight that touched the walls dimmed and became indistinct. It was as though a black fog was inside the house. As though the shadows were growing.
“James.” His voice was strangled.
“What is it?” James asked in a returning whisper, coming back to him. But stared at the darkness with a sudden understanding.
“This is Hunter Astley of the Malleus Maleficarum Council.” Hunter called out steadily. “We are here to demand the safe return of Sophie and Beverley Murphy.”
Hunter drew his gun, holding it low. James kept close behind and silently followed suit.
There was an echo of humourless laughter within the confines of his own mind. Hunter frowned, not overly disconcerted, witches seemed to enjoy whispering directly into the mind as a means of terrorising victims and witch-hunters alike.
“You have no authority over me, Astley.” The words cut into his mind, eerily with the effect of his own voice. “But I am glad to have found a way to gain your undivided attention.”
Hunter glanced over to James, wondering if he too heard voices. But it was impossible to read his expression in the dimmed torchlight.
“If you want to see them again, come.”
Hunter wondered at the command. He stared into the shadows that suddenly expanded, then stopped just in front of them. It was so persuasively solid, that Hunter had to stop himself from reaching out to touch the darkness.
“The Shadow Witch wants me.” He said simply to James, and stepped.
If he’d been asked how he knew what to do, he couldn’t have answered, in fact, the little voice of sense in Hunter’s head was screaming at him as he stepped into the all-consuming darkness. It was warmer than he’d expected, and the shadows clamped onto him with a certain softness, muffling sound and blocking light, with all the effect of being wrapped in a huge black duvet.
The darkness faded to grey, and Hunter felt solid ground beneath his feet and cold air in his lungs again. He looked about, he quickly figured he was in an empty room. There was a dark window, a wooden door and a bare wooden floor, all lit by a single yellow bulb.
“Well, that was an experience.”
Hunter span round, in utter shock to find James standing behind him. “No James, you shouldn’t be here. Go back now.”
“I go where you go, remember.” James answered with a sorry shake of his head. “Besides, I think it was a one-way trip.”
Hunter paused, suddenly paying more attention to their predicament. Hunter no longer had his torch in his hand - wait, hell, he no longer had his gun, knives, kit bag. His hands patted down his body, feeling the unnatural absence of weapons. Then his hand flew to his throat. Yes, there was still the metal chain and the old dog tags. Not that that was much comfort at the moment.
Another look around the bare room and Hunter noticed the lack of shadows. Whatever path had been opened was now well and truly closed.
James seemed oddly calm, accepting whatever nightmare he’d entered with courage. “Well, we’ve confirmed that the Shadow Witch can transport herself and others. Although I think I managed to gatecrash this one.”
“Yeah, well, let’s hope it’s to our advantage.” Hunter replied, pacing the room. He walked up to the window, it was large enough to admit a person if they could just open it. He pressed his hand against the cold pane - he could feel the rhythm of magic expertly woven over the glass and its frame. Even if they could break through the spell and smash the window, several iron bars prevented escape.
Not out the window then.
Hunter went to the door. Here there were no spells to keep them in, instead there was a heavy oak door with lock, and probably bolted from the other side.
“We stuck here?” James asked mildly.
“Looks like.” Hunter replied, equally calmed by the knowledge that they couldn’t actively do anything.
“Jolly good. How long do you think it’ll be before-“
James broke off as there was the sound of a key in the lock. “Ah, perfect timing.” He grumbled.
The thick wooden door opened and a woman stepped in. She took one (rather shocked) look at James and went out again, the door locked behind her.
“Short but sweet. Do you think they’ll send us home now?” Joked James.
They didn’t have long to wait before she returned, this time with company. Half a dozen male and female witches came into the room. They took their cue from the original woman and surrounded the two witch-hunters.
“Which of you is George Astley VII?” The woman asked.
“I am.” James piped up before Hunter had a chance to speak.
“Shut up with your Spartacus routine. I am George Astley, and I shall prove it if you doubt me.” Hunter responded, defiance in his voice and steel in his gaze. “I want to see Sophie Murphy. Now.”
The woman-witch smiled, almost bristling with the joy of having power over these defenceless witch-hunters. “You are in no position to be making demands, Astley. You will do precisely what the Shadow Witch commands, and see only those she allows.”
The witch nodded to her companions who stepped forward and roughly seized the men’s arms, yanking them back. Hunter felt the sold touch of metal against his skin and the soft click as his wrists were handcuffed behind his back. He forced himself not to struggle or fight back, as much as his nerves screamed for action.
“Are the cuffs really necessary?” He asked, for the sake of asking.
“Let’s just say we can’t take too many precautions, where you are concerned.” The witch replied curtly, then turned to lead the way out of the door.
Hunter and James were pushed into step, the witches always holding them, surrounding them.
“Hmm, I remember the last time I wore handcuffs - you remember Dervla?” James started prattling.
“James, I don’t think this is the time for that particular story.”