*****
The brown-haired girl woke up in a large bed with soft sheets, an early morning breeze rippling through the white cotton curtains and filling the room with cool and pleasant air.
“Good morning.” Hunter said gently as he stood in the doorway, waiting for his guest to wake up. “How are you feeling?”
The girl sat up sharply, but then groaned, pressing her hand to her aching head. “Where am I?”
“Still in Venice, in my apartment. My name’s Hunter by the way.” He smiled politely. This was usually the part where people thanked him.
She frowned, a certain intelligent harshness returning now that she was fully awake. “Why? You had no right to take me anywhere. What did you do, drug me?”
Hunter waited patiently for her to finish, a slight smirk at how easily people forget what was hard to believe. “It’s nice to feel appreciated for saving your life.” He replied calmly and innocently. “I’ll put on some coffee, come on through when you’re ready.”
He walked into the main room, smiling as he did so.
The girl sat dazed for a moment, then slowly slid out of the covers and stood up. She was still in last night’s clothes, the smell of smoke and alcohol clinging to them. She didn’t hesitate for long and Hunter heard her bare feet padding into the very luxurious open plan apartment. She stood next to the sofa, watching Hunter suspiciously in the small kitchen.
“So last night was real? I mean, what happened, and why?”
Hunter didn’t reply immediately, but brought through two cups of steaming coffee and invited his guest to sit down. “If you don’t mind me asking, had you known those girls long?”
The girl shrugged, “A few days, they were at the same hotel as me. I was on holiday alone and they were friendly, inviting me out day and night. I thought they were ok.”
“It was their job, to gain your confidence. But they were going to kill you, to sacrifice you, last night. They were witches.” Hunter glanced up as he finished speaking, watching her carefully after this revelation.
“Witches?! As in ‘fire burn and cauldron bubble’? You’ve got to be joking.”
“No, I am completely serious.” He replied with an apologetic smile. “Witches are real, and to be blunt, they’re all black-hearted, evil… I’m sorry you got involved. If we were in England I could offer you something to erase the memory - but as it is…”
“Are there a lot of witches?”
Hunter shrugged. “Depends on what you mean by lots? There are too many in my opinion. If I tried to put a number on them, perhaps ten thousand worldwide.” He paused to drink his coffee. “Does that surprise you?”
“I don’t know; it’s not something I’ve previously considered.” The girl replied quickly and rather sharply. “But I suppose if you count all the fortune tellers and-”
“No.” Hunter broke in with a rue smile. “All those harmless, normal people that play with the idea of using magic - they aren’t witches. Witches are an entirely different breed of human, at least one parent has to be a witch; you can’t become one by wanting it. And they don’t waste their power telling fortunes at fairs either. Instead, they create illnesses and plagues; they torment victims with illusions and nightmares; they can bring storms, fires and floods. They do all this and more, for their own gain, or sometimes just because they enjoy it.
“Their powers are only limited by their strength - they gain a temporary boost from draining the life from victims; that is why they perform sacrifices, their thirst for power is insatiable. Sorry, I don‘t mean to frighten you.”
The girl sat there quietly for quite a while, naturally taking time to comprehend all this. Finally she spoke with an obvious scepticism. “So… if those girls are witches, and I was the sacrifice - what does that make you?”
“A witch-hunter.”
She raised a brow. “A witch-hunter named ‘Hunter’? How very original.”
Hunter sighed. “You’re a very pleasant, friendly character, aren’t you? So, you know about me, do I get to learn your name?”
“Sophie Murphy.” She replied without hesitation. “What… what happened to the girls - I mean, the witches?”
Hunter paused. “The two female witches weren’t very powerful creatures. They agreed to be bound. But the male witch that was in charge was executed on site.”
“You killed him?” Sophie’s voice shook.
It sounded bad, but people just didn’t understand. “He wasn’t willing to cooperate, I hope you don’t mind.” Hunter replied with a certain bite. Oh yes, he could act the hero and save her and get away unscathed, but he must do it without killing violent witches? Sure.
“So… bound? What does that mean?” Sophie asked more quietly, helpfully shifting the focus.
“Oh, it means they submitted to arrest. Then their powers are ‘bound’, effectively removed so they can never use them again. Then the witch serves time in prison, same as any convict.” Hunter replied, giving the brief version of binding. The witch-hunter’s handbook devoted about three dreary chapters on the subject. “You’ve got nothing to worry about from those girls, they’re powerless and it may be a lifetime before they’re free.”
They were interrupted as the door flew open. A young man entered, slamming the door behind him before turning to glare at Hunter.
“You couldn’t do it, could you? You couldn’t go even two bloody days without looking for trouble?” A thick Yorkshire accent shouted out as he turned to throw down his coat and two bags in the kitchenette. “You call me up at 3 in the mornin’, and it’s me that’s gotta fly out and clean up. I’ve already rang the Italian branch of the Council, we’ve got a meeting with ‘em this afternoon - they’re not happy, Hunter - you know the rules. You notify them if you’re operating or hand it over to one of theirs.”
Hunter sat back, appearing unfazed by this little outburst. When the young man had finished, he spoke quite coolly. “Sophie, this is my colleague, James Bennett. James, this is Sophie, the girl that would have been sacrificed by the time I had followed the proper lines of authority.” Although he spoke calmly enough, there was a hardness in his tone.
James reined back his frustration as he held out his hand to shake Sophie’s, while giving her an appraising glance. “Sure, spurred on by a bonny face.” He muttered to no one in particular.
There was no denying the warning in Hunter’s voice this time. “Just take her statement, Mr Bennett.”
It took half an hour for James to take down everything Sophie had to say, then a further hour for her to answer his unending questions into every tiny detail. Finally he sat back, closing his notebook. “Right, thank you, Miss Murphy. I’ll get this all typed and copied for the Council… ah, there’s just one more thing.”
He reached into his briefcase, and after ruffling through many stuffed-in papers he pulled out some sheets and handed them to Sophie. She took them hesitantly, glancing down at the thick paper covered in text.
“It’s a non-disclosure contract.” He explained, leaning over so that he could see the writing he already knew by heart. “I’m sure you can understand, it’s to protect you and us from… well, other witches finding out, or idiot interference.”
“He means the media and general stupidity of the human race.” Hunter added as he hovered about the formal conversation.
Sophie looked between the two of them and back down to the contract. “So signing a piece of paper is supposed to guarantee my silence. I can see some flaws there.”
“It legally and, ah, otherwise binds you to silence over the subject.” James said seriously. “You will be unable to speak of it to anyone outside of the Malleus Maleficarum Council. Speaking of which, we’ll organise you a contact for when you get back to England in case you want help, memory modification or the like.”
Sophie continued to stare at the contract with an emotion resembling disgust. “And if I didn’t sign it???
?
Hunter leaned in deadly serious, “We make sure you don’t talk. As we said, it’s for your own protection. I suggest you sign.”
Sophie slowly picked up a pen and scrawled her name at the bottom of the page. James swiftly snatched it away from her and stuffed back in his briefcase. The three sat in silence for a few minutes before Hunter stepped up. “I’ll see you out, Miss Murphy.”
As he opened the front door for her, Sophie gazed up at him questioningly. “When do I see you again?”
“If everything goes to plan?” Hunter replied, leaning against the open door. “Never.”
Two
Spring was warming to summer.
Amongst the rolling hills and the green pastures of the English countryside in the picturesque village of Little Hanting life went on as normal. It was a quiet, sleepy place, with fields of cows and rattling tractors. There were old stone houses built in clusters. The grandest of which was Astley Manor, set in a large estate. No one could remember a time when there wasn’t the quiet, unobtrusive Astley family. George “Young” Astley VI had died unexpectedly five years ago, leaving the manor and the care of his widow in the hands of his then 20 year old son, known to all as Hunter.
And at this very moment, Hunter was seated in one of the large rooms, reading over a report written up by the ever-present James. Hunter sighed, even witch-hunting required paperwork in this crazy modern world - but thankfully Hunter could shift all that onto James’ workload. He preferred the more active part of his job than this paperwork. And James did a tediously good and thorough job of it. James hovered over him, waiting for his response.
“Yes, that’s all in order. Send a copy to the MMC.” Hunter passed the thick sheaf of papers back.
The Malleus Maleficarum Council, the secret branch of witch-hunters under the pay of the crown; or MMC for short. All witch-hunters reported to them and were bound by their laws.
Hunter stood up and walked over to an old cabinet, one of those numerous antiques that filled his family’s sprawling homestead. With a clink of glass he filled two glasses and passed one to James. “Here’s to the end of that, then.”
James took the drink. It had been an easy one this time, a single male witch in the East Midlands causing very localised trouble. He was comparatively weak and, faced with Hunter and James, he had succumbed to be bound from his magic and be registered with the MMC, to live quietly from now on. After the necessary jail time, of course.
“Excuse me, sir. There is a young lady here to see you.” The mild voice came from the doorway. The family’s long-serving butler waited for Hunter’s attention. “A Miss Murphy. She is waiting in the sitting room.”
“Thank you, Charles.” Hunter replied, quite perplexed. Murphy? It sounded familiar. He exchanged a confused glance with James, before they rose together to meet the unknown guest.
A woman sat straight-backed on the settee, her long, dark brown hair casually tied back. She turned her head at their entrance and met them with a defiant stare.
“Mr Astley, Mr Bennett. I am Sophie Murphy. You may not remember me, but you came to my aid a couple of months ago - in Venice.” The young woman spoke calmly and confidently and remained seated.
“Ah, Miss Murphy, of course.” But Hunter frowned. “Forgive me, why are you here? The Council provided you with a contact?”
“Yes,” Sophie replied. “But I didn’t want to speak to a low-level pen-pusher. This won’t take long, why don’t you sit down.”
Hunter gaped, speechless. He couldn’t believe the girl’s bloody cheek; inviting to sit down in his own home. On the other hand, he was curious about what the determined-looking girl could wish to say to him. Both he and James took their seats.
“I’m sure you can understand, after what happened, after I returned home it jarred with all the - the normality of the world. I had to learn more. And what I learnt was terrible. I want to be of use to you, to the Council, I want to join the witch-hunters.”
Hunter sighed. To be honest, it wasn’t uncommon for those rescued from the witches to feel in debt to the witch-hunters. And there was a perfect place for these untrained post-victims…
“Well, the Malleus Maleficarum Council always needs to employ people for its offices. There’s lots of ways to help.” Hunter replied. Yes, lots of ways to help, stuck in four walls organising counselling for victims, processing artifacts from raids, registering bound witches… More than a little bit dull.
Sophie seemed aware of that, and she shook her head. “No. I want to join the witch-hunters. I want to do something, Mr Astley.”
Hunter grew uncomfortable at this, he did not enjoy recruiting witch-hunters. “It’s not that simple, Miss Murphy, are you sure you won’t consider an office position?”
It wasn’t something to be taken lightly, everyone with the MMC put their lives on the line just by associating with witch-hunters. But to be a witch-hunter, to enter a world of darkness and fear, to never be off duty from revenge and persecution, to gamble with your life every day until a guaranteed early death. No, Hunter did not enjoy recruiting naïve people to join this hard life. But one glance at Sophie told him that she wouldn‘t be easily dissuaded.
“Miss Murphy, I understand how you feel, but the best witch-hunters are born, you can’t just become one by choice. No, don’t interrupt. My father was a witch-hunter, and his before him and so on, over the generations I have gained a certain… protection. A protection that you don’t have.”
Sophie sat quietly, then rounded on James. “And what about you? Are you a predestined witch hunter?”
James looked uncomfortably towards Hunter. “Ah, no. I’m like you. New to this. What’s called a first generation. Even though I’ve been at this for five years now and I’m fully trained - or as much as any can claim t’ be, I’m dependent on Hunter here for my safety, and I’m seen as nowt more than a lowly assistant t’ MMC.”
“Then I have made up my mind. I’ll become a witch hunter, whether it is with your Council or not.” Sophie replied quickly, a clear challenge in her voice. “It’s up to you now, Mr Astley, are you going to help me?”
Hunter sat back, regarding the girl. She had guts enough, but he didn’t like new people, besides the guilt, they couldn’t handle things as well as he could. “James, a private word, please.” He said quietly, then stood up, leading the way out into the corridor, aware of Sophie’s eyes following them.
James closed the door behind him and shrugged. “I know what you’re thinking, Hunter, but she’s got the right attitude. Why don’t we get in touch wi’ MMC and give her a go. After all, we always need to build our numbers…”
Build our numbers. Or in other words replace those lost.
Hunter sighed, the decision would technically lie with the Council, but both he and James knew that his opinion would weigh heavily on the outcome. “Sure, let her throw her life away. Get in touch with the MMC, James. Suggest putting her with Brian Lloyd - he doesn’t currently have an assistant.”
James pulled his mobile out of his pocket and wandered down the empty corridor; while Hunter turned and re-entered the sitting room.
“James is talking to the Council now. Can I get you a drink while we wait?” Hunter asked as he closed the door gently behind him.
Sophie nodded, knowing she‘d won her case. “Tea, please.”
Hunter pressed the intercom and shortly asked Charles to bring up some tea. Sitting back down again he stared towards Sophie. She was bloody stubborn, maybe she’d be one of the few first generations to survive this career. “You’ll be joining Brian Lloyd as an assistant-”
“Not you?” Sophie broke in.
Hunter frowned, not happy to be interrupted. “No.” He replied abruptly. He didn’t want the trouble of taking on an untrained assistant. “Mr Lloyd is a good man, he’s been hunting for years and he’ll teach you a lot. He’s a fifth generation and can protect you while y
ou learn, then you’ll work under him.”
There was a light knock on the door and Charles walked in, carrying a large tray. “Anything else sir?”
“No, thank you.” Hunter replied, lightly dismissing him as he leaned forward to serve the tea. How very British; having a nice cup of tea whilst conversing about witches.
“You keep talking about generations, what do you mean?” Sophie asked, accepting her cup.
“Exactly what I say.” Hunter replied, sipping at the hot drink. “People like you, and James, are referred to as first generations, because that’s what you are. If you live long enough to have children and they continue witch hunting, they’re second generations. Mr Lloyd is a fifth gen, meaning that his father, grandfather, great- and great-great-grandfather all worked for the MMC. Which means that he is highly regarded at the Council.”
“And what are you, then?” Sophie asked quickly.
“I’m a seventh generation.”
“So you’re even more ‘highly regarded’?”
Hunter paused, staring down into his hot tea. When he continued, it was more haltingly. “Yes. For two reasons. First, I mentioned protection - it turns out that when the parent fights witchcraft, the children gain a certain resistance to it. It’s like evolution in fast forward. By the third generation, they can perceive magic being used, they can deflect minor curses. By the fifth generation, they are stronger, faster…”
Sophie waited, but it seemed Hunter intended to leave the sentence hanging. “And? What about when a family gets to seven generations? What about you?”
Hunter now avoided her gaze. “Obviously I’m even better equipped… You have to understand that we don’t know much about the skills of sixth and seventh gens. There are so few of us. Which bring me onto my second point - there are hundreds, perhaps thousands of first gens. Only about half of these survive long enough to even have families. And those of us that become a well-known witch-hunting family become a target for all witches.” He now looked up to gauge her reaction. “You didn’t think this would be a nine to five, did you? So many families utterly destroyed by witches to prevent the next generation of hunters. And then you have to start from scratch.”
“I am not naïve, Mr Astley, I can boast to be somewhat aware of the risk of it all.” She sipped the hot tea, then gazed with that constant frosty defiance at Hunter. “Besides, your family seems to have survived these dangers - even prospered.”
It was clear that she assessed Astley success with the luxurious, sprawling manor. Hunter smiled at her confidence, but was a little unnerved at how cold Sophie was. Oh well, at least she was strong, who knew, perhaps she’d be ok. “Ah, well, over the generations we’ve learnt how best to protect ourselves. Astley Manor, for instance, has its own protection.”
He paused and looked at her carefully, gauging the girl’s potential, before suddenly deciding why not. “Come, I’d like to show you something.”
Hunter led the way into the back of the house. He took out a key and unlocked a heavy door. It was dark inside the room, heavy curtains drawn across every window. Hunter clicked on a light and walked in.
“This is one of the best libraries in Britain - witch related libraries, of course.” Hunter gestured to the rows of shelves, the room was stuffed with books, papers, files… “It’s one of the perks of 200 years of Astley family witch hunting.”
He moved over to a large glass case, looking down at it with a smile. “My personal favourite.”
Sophie went over, peering curiously at the large yellowed sheets, bound with what looked like leather straps. Faded ink was shaped in medieval handwriting that looked familiar, assumedly Latin. “What does it say?”
“Malleus Maleficarum, maleficas ut earum hæresim, ut phramea potentissima conterens. Which roughly translates as ‘The Hammer of Witches which destroyeth Witches and their heresy like a most powerful spear’.” Hunter read out the first couple of lines, his fingers tracing above the words. “It’s from the-”
“Malleus Maleficarum: ‘The Hammer of Witches’ or ‘Witch-hunter’s Handbook’. Published 1487. You have an original printing, impressive.” Sophie suddenly recited.
Hunter looked at her in surprise.
“As I said, I’ve been doing my own research.” Sophie added with an off-handed shrug. “You can find out about anything on Google.”
“Yes, well.” Hunter walked over to a bureau and picked up another book, relatively new compared to the rest. “This is something you won’t see on the net. The Malleus Maleficarum - 37th Edition. The Handbook gets updated every thirty years or so. This was brought out four years ago.” He handed her the book. It was small, only A5, but thick. And when she opened it and flicked through the pages, the text small and dense.
“These are given to witch-hunters only.” Hunter said, reclaiming his copy. “The Council will give you one when you are ready. I’m sure you’ll find it as interesting as reading the Bible, but it’s a sorry necessity to know it well. In the meantime, there is something I’d like to give you.”
Hunter turned to a little dark door and another key was taken out. It was cold on the other side and as a pale light flickered on, Sophie followed down a set of stone steps. As she reached the bottom she shivered. It was a large stone room, which had originally been designed as a wine cellar.
Now it was like a private museum for the occult. One case displayed a score of knives and daggers, all remarkably designed. A long shelf held a bizarre collection of bottles - containing what Sophie dare not guess. Everywhere there was the glitter of silver bowls, the gleam of bronze bands.
“What is this stuff?” Sophie asked, still gazing about in amazement.
“Just stuff collected over the years. Things my family have confiscated from the witchkind. Some of it is quite useful.” He pulled at the chain around his neck and lifted out a soldier’s dog tags. “This, for example. We think it was originally used for protection during World War Two. It’s served me very well when I’ve gone up against witches. It deflects all sorts of spells and attacks - it must’ve been a very strong witch that made it.”
Sophie looked disgusted. “You horde dead witches’ stuff? And then use it?”
“It’s not as bad as it sounds. Well, ok, maybe it is. But we’re not going to turn down extra protection. Anyway, it’s safe. Dangerous stuff is disposed by the Council. Everything else is analysed, then returned to the witch-hunter. Most of us have an amulet of some sort.”
Hunter turned to a cabinet and took out a silver necklace with a cloudy stone hanging from it. “Look, I’d like you to take this with you.”
Sophie reached out and took it, then turned it over carefully in her hand. “I don’t know what to say.” She replied quietly, her eyes lowered.
Hunter shrugged. He wasn’t one to throw gifts at relative strangers, especially not when the gift came from his own collection, but he felt incredibly guilty about setting Sophie up for a dangerous life.
“HUNTER!” James did insist on shouting in Hunter’s house, even though Astley Manor was equipped with a state-of-the-art intercom system.
Hunter traipsed up the stairs again, followed closely by Sophie.
“Hey, it’s sorted.” James said quickly, “Sophie’s gotta go straight to Brian Lloyd. He’s his usual grumbling, unhappy self about it, but he’s expectin’ her.”
“Right! That’s great.” Hunter turned to Sophie and shook her hand briefly, “Nice meeting you again, Miss Murphy. Brian will give you a good start, you’ll learn a lot. James will give you directions and see you out.”
And that was it; Hunter turned and left for the second time expecting not to have to see Sophie Murphy again.
Three
Despite his promise to keep his distance, to let the girl get on with her training, business carried Hunter to Brian Lloyd’s door. James was visiting family up north, and Hunter decided to use the time to go see Brian. The
fact that he could discretely check on Sophie’s progress had of course never occurred to him.
As he strolled up the driveway, he looked up at the familiar house. It was detached and roomy, though nothing compared to Astley Manor. Still, Hunter had spent a lot of time here. After his father had died – or more correctly, been killed – Brian had stepped in. The MMC were desperate for the 7th gen Hunter to reach his full potential, preferably while keeping him tethered to the Council. So they had sent 5th gen Brian Lloyd, to continue his training.
There weren’t many people that Hunter was scared of, but Brian was one of them. Tall, stocky, with close-shorn hair, he looked tough and was an unforgiving bastard. But he was good at what he did and in Hunter’s opinion, he was always right. So it was with some nerves that he knocked on Brian’s front door.
“Don’t stand there gawping, boy. You coming in or not?” Without waiting for an answer, Brian went back into the house.
Hunter sighed, things obviously hadn’t changed. He stepped through into a large study where Sophie sat, deep in reading a musty old volume.
“Oi, be useful, put the kettle on.” Brian barked at her.
Sophie shot Hunter a cold look and took herself out of the room.
“So, how are things going?” Hunter asked with a smile. He’d had some equally pleasant experiences of training with Brian. It was almost satisfying to see that the old man was treating his next trainee with the same curtesy.
“I don’t like you throwing your weight with the Council, boy. Sending me a bloody girl. What use are girls?”
Hunter gave his old mentor a sideways glance. Ah yes, Brian was set in the old ways, and at 62 years old, he wasn’t about to change.
“Brian-”
“Oh aye, I know all about your modern, pc equality crap. But if she wants to help the MMC, why didn’t you stick her in an office - registering bound witches, or filing cases.”
“Because no one wants to do that boring shit.” Hunter replied, then grinned, “So I take it it’s not going well?”
“Ah well, I wouldn’t say that. She seems to be coping, picking it up well enough. Took her along to a raid, she kept her head, didn’t even throw up at all the blood.”
Hunter found himself gazing in the direction of the kitchen where there was the clatter of mugs. What do you know, maybe Sophie would make a witch-hunter after all, and he wouldn’t have to feel guilty.
“Ugh, you do like to try me, George.” Brian grumbled.
“Who’s George?” Sophie appeared in the doorway, three mugs in hand.
“Ahm.” Hunter shifted uncomfortably, trying to work out if he could get a cup of tea without giving an answer.
“You didn’t think Hunter was his actual name, girl?” Brian guffawed, blowing everything. “George Astley the Seventh, that’s him. Only he insists on adopting that daft moniker and have everyone call him it. Just egotistical, if you ask me.”
Sophie turned to Hunter, her eyes glittering.
“Look, I’ll have you know my friends started that nickname - and it had nothing to do with witches. Besides, do I look like a ‘George’? Only my mother insists on calling me it - well, and you, Mr Lloyd.”
They sat drinking tea and chatting about insignificant things for another half hour. With a meaningful look from Brian, Sophie picked up some books and excused herself.
“You didn’t just come for a chit-chat?” Brian asked suspiciously.
“No.” Hunter replied, then fell silent. There was something else that had been making him increasingly uneasy, especially after a recent event.
“A police contact got in touch recently. He had something he thought I might be interested in. A couple of months ago six teenage girls died in a suspected arson attack.”
“And why should that concern us?” Brian asked, not sure where this was going.
“Well, it turns out they were all wiccans.”
The two men sat in silence. Wiccans. Whereas witches were a whole different breed, wiccans were normal humans (normal in perspective) that treated ‘magick’ as a religion. They were generally harmless individuals, bored housewives and teens that wore too much black. They played with their candles and foretold wobbly futures through cards and the like and were a bit of a running joke amongst the witch-hunters. After all, who’d be scared of a cat after facing lions!
Eventually Brian shrugged. “Sometimes wiccans die. It could have been an accident; it could have been arson, but mundane normal people arson. If witches were involved, the MMC would have found the traces.”
“There’s more.” Hunter sighed. “And I don’t know what to make of it. Last week, we took on a small coven, four witches. Three were killed, one bound. But as soon as the binding was complete, she burst into tears, saying crazy things: that she didn’t know what she was agreeing to. Then she committed suicide a day later. Something didn’t feel right so I had James do a background check. Turns out she was a wiccan.”
Ok. That was enough to get Brian’s attention.
“But… wiccans cannot gain anything from witchcraft.”
“I know.” Hunter muttered.
“What proud witch would allow one to join them. They think wiccans are scum.”
“I know.”
“And the binding, a wiccan would have no powers to be bound from, so why would she agree to be bound?”
“I know.”
“So… are they taking on wiccans as servants? Or using them to swell their ranks? It’s unheard of.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Hunter agreed. It didn’t seem to fit, but he was scrabbling to make sense of it.
Brian sat, idly scratching his chin as he stared into space. He was a living legend, one of the oldest, longest-running witch-hunters. He’d faced every threat out there and never backed down. If he couldn’t find an answer, who could?
“Aye, leave this to me, boy. I’ll look into it. Now, why don’t you bugger off so I can get some work done.”
Hunter smiled again and shook hands with his old mentor. Yes, time to leave, there were other sources he could get working too.
As he left he passed Sophie who was sitting in the front garden, a book on her lap. She looked up as he said goodbye and there was the briefest smile on her lips, “See you, George.”