*****
Sophie dragged her bag down the wide main staircase, she hated getting Charles to carry her stuff when she could do it herself.
Hunter glanced out the window, checking for her taxi. “You’re sure about this? The MMC can send someone.”
Sophie dropped her bag by the front door. They’d already been over this. “I know, but I need to do this. If the Shadow Witch goes after our families, I want to be the one to protect my mum.”
They had no idea where the witches would hit next, and it was logical that anyone connected to Hunter and Sophie were in danger and should be protected.
“I could come up with you.” Hunter said, pulling her close.
“You have enough to do here.” Sophie argued, pushing him away.
Hunter turned to pick up a small wooden case, about the size of a shoebox. He pressed it into Sophie’s hands. “Now, the protective amulets will work best in the furthest four-”
“Corners of the house, and as many doorways and windows as they’ll cover.” Sophie finished impatiently, taking the heavy box. “James has already drilled me on this.”
“I know, I’m sorry.” Hunter apologised. Suddenly interrupted by the sharp blast of a car horn outside. Well, here as her taxi, come to take her to the station. “I’ll miss you.” He said seriously.
“Good.” Sophie replied, finally deigning to smile and kiss him lightly before lugging her stuff to the waiting car. She opened the door then stopped, turning to look at Hunter with those fierce eyes. She hesitated, as though she wanted to say something, but in the end just frowned and got into the car.
Hunter watched as the taxi pulled away down the gravelled courtyard and then off down the long drive. Sophie was right, there was work to do, and she had been trained well over the past six months, she’d be ok.
James was waiting in the library, and it was easy to see he was annoyed. Hunter couldn’t blame him, it must have been awkward working around Hunter and Sophie lately.
“She gone?” James asked gruffly.
“Yes. Anything to report?”
“Nothing new.” James sighed, “All authoritative figures in Britain are under MMC security, America and Europe are following suit. Russia’s still not on board.”
James handed Hunter some papers. “As for our own work, a name popped up. Sara Murray, she was the 1940s Shadow Witch. Born 1916 in North England, died 1945. No known descendants. Sorry it’s nothing useful.”
Hunter flicked through the papers, taking in only a few words. What was the point? So far, being better informed had not helped them against the witches. What was the Shadow Witch waiting for?
“Never mind.” Hunter muttered. “When are we next on duty?”
“Thursday. We’re on rota along with John Ward for seven days on Downing Street.” James replied.
“Right.” That was better, being out there, even if they weren’t prepared. “But James, this time no swearing at every politician you meet.”
Sixteen
It was nine o’clock in the evening, outside it was dark and miserable. Inside the building, the empty corridors were dimly lit by the glowing exit signs. The Council staff that were on night-shift were tucked away in little rooms, with no idea anything out of the ordinary would occur.
The light flickered and the shadows began to move, sliding across the plastic floors and twisting up into a physical being. The female figure was dressed entirely in black, a heavy hood pulled up, completely shadowing the face from view. The witch walked through every defence and protection as though they did not exist, and the guards were not alerted to her presence. She let herself into an empty office with a gloved hand. On the glass door, bold letters spelt out ‘Bound Witch Office’. The witch swept past the empty desks to a door at the back of the room. It was locked, but the witch had taken the pains of procuring the key, there was a faint click as it unlocked.
Beyond the doorway, a short series of steps led to the floor of a long dark room, with the faint gleam of metal shelves that stretched into the darkness. The witch knelt down and pressed her hand to the concrete floor, a crack of pale light appeared, then ran the distance of the room, criss-crossing and lighting the bottom rows of a hundred shelves.
Everywhere there were amulets and stones, each containing the essence of power from every bound witch of the past 150 years. All irretrievable, irreversible - unless you had the key.
The witch-hunters had been greedy and naïve in keeping these amulets - did they think they could use the stolen magic of witches somehow? Or had they never found a way to truly destroy them? It didn’t matter either way.
The witch took out a bronze dagger. The security of this place was pathetic. The MMC had thought themselves safe, they had thought themselves very clever indeed. There was only one key in the world and they’d given its secret location to one trusted member of the Council.
Did they really think this was protection enough against the Shadow Witch and her followers? It had taken a while to track down, but the key, the bronze dagger, was hers.
The witch knelt down again and drove the dagger on the throbbing light of the crack with all her strength. For a moment nothing happened, then the light flashed red and flared up from the floor, sparking and spitting. The light touched one amulet, then another, they all cracked with a piercing scream until the room vibrated with the sound of a thousand broken vessels.
Beneath the shadow of her hood, the witch smiled. All of her bound kin were free - let’s see how the MMC would handle the mass uprising of all the quiet little witches locked up together in prisons in their hundreds.
The witch retrieved the dagger, her trophy, and turned to leave, her job was done. The only thing left was to leave her signature.
The Shadow Witch held her arms out, and felt a familiar rumble as her magic built up. With an almighty blast it was released, throwing aside concrete, brick and metal. The entire wing of the building was rubble, and the Shadow Witch was nowhere to be found.
Seventeen
The world was turned upside down. There were worldwide reports of mass breakouts from high security prisons. There were attacks on MMC headquarters and strongholds. The general public were driven into fear at the orchestrated and sudden violence, they struggled to explain it, grasping wildly at terrorism, or even more wildly, witchcraft as inexplicable occurrences happened in every town and city in the British Isles.
Hunter and James were dragged from sleep by an emergency phone call. The witch-hunter on the other end could hardly remain calm enough to pass on the message - the impossible had happened, a witch had managed to get into and destroyed the MMC headquarters and now all bound witches in the UK were re-empowered. They acted in an organised manner, which meant they must have been planning this for a while.
Hunter and James raced to reinforce the nearest prison for witchkind. James drove, as Hunter’s senses violently sparked with the strength of magic that almost deafened him. Both were nervously aware of the enormity of what lay ahead.
The big grey compound was alight with fires and the glow of spells and illusions. The injured witch-hunters were being pulled back to relative safety, while the survivors fought desperately to keep the witches contained.
Hunter and James ran into the fray without a second thought. All about them, witch-hunters were firing into a half-illusion crowd of witches. Magic was flying erratically in every direction, spells to distract, spells to burn, spells to kill.
A burning block of stone suddenly flew into a dense area of witch-hunters, and there was screaming mixed with the thunder of collision. Hunter pulled James out of the way of flying debris.
“Get the injured to safety.” Hunter shouted over the noise.
James nodded and headed into the bloody and broken mess. He wasn’t a coward, but all 1st gens had their uses away from the actual battle.
Hunter turned back to the front. A black shadow was rippling and spreading
over the ground towards them with an incredible speed. Hunter’s sharp eyes broke through the haze to see hundreds of oversized spiders scuttling towards them.
“Spiders. Knives.” Hunter shouted down the line.
The other witch-hunters didn’t hesitate but pulled out long knives (and one or two swords). The wave of arachnids hit. Hunter slashed through the first wave with quick and deadly accuracy, no time to feel fear of the dog-sized spiders.
To his right he could see a witch-hunter fall to the powerful venom, and the spiders broke through to the second line. But he didn’t have time to think about it, as more and more of the creatures scuttled on and Hunter fought to keep cutting them down.
More gun-shots rang out from the far wing of the witch-hunters, and the plague of spiders began to abate as their creators were killed. They had a brief chance to catch their breath, but Hunter noticed the thinning of the witch-hunter lines as casualties were pulled back.
They needed a miracle.
Everything got quieter, stifled and slowed. The world got darker, a darkness that even Hunter’s eyes couldn’t pierce. Hunter’s heart pounded with fear as he felt a familiar rhythm to the blanket of magic. The Shadow Witch, it had to be.
There was a voice, muffled and just beyond hearing. Then everything switched back to normal.
The noise and the cold returned. Hunter looked about, trying to find an answer for what just happened, but the other witch-hunters appeared not to have noticed, or even affected by the odd period.
A drop of cold water hit Hunter’s face and he looked up. The previously clear night sky now rolled with thick, ominous clouds, tinged with colour. A storm was coming unnaturally fast.
Shouts rose up from the witch-hunters, bringing Hunter’s attention back to the fight. Like an organised force, the witches threw out a thousand vicious illusions that swooped towards the witch-hunters.
There was a crack of thunder across the sky just as the wave of illusions hit. The line of tired witch-hunters wavered, and lesser gens attempted to fight the incorporeal monsters. With his highly trained senses, Hunter saw through the mass of illusion and saw the witches run away into a growing black shadow. His heart pounded again as they just vanished. That was impossible, witches couldn’t physically disappear or transport themselves. The Shadow Witch. It was the only explanation.
Hunter snapped to as screams and shouts rose again from the ranks. He went to move but suddenly felt a stinging pain across his shoulder. He saw blood start to trickle from a shallow cut. Hunter looked up briefly. The storm clouds seethed and boiled and suddenly thousands of shards of ice were pelting down into the witch-hunters, cutting, slicing, blinding. The wind picked up, driving the sharp pieces harder against them as they started to run in every direction, slipping on the ground as it turned white beneath their feet, chased by the ice.
Eighteen
It was a sad dawn. Half of the witch-hunters had been killed, the rest were sporting various degrees of injury. No one had escaped unscathed. Word filtered through of similar results across the country. The MMC was in tatters.
Astley Manor had been converted into a makeshift headquarters for the MMC. After all, it was famous for housing and protecting seven generations of witch-hunters. No one wanted to face the fact that no protection had yet stopped the Shadow Witch.
Hunter limped through the busy rooms, noting that everyone was bruised, and sporting cuts and bloody bandages. But they were alive. That’s what counted. They’d given some of the rooms over to casualties and the doctors and nurses they’d dragged in. Others had been designated as control and communication for the remaining rabble of MMC staff and witch-hunters.
Hunter was looking for someone in particular. James had come into his own over the past few hours, fielding calls, making arrangements for medical care, and keeping track of everyone.
Hunter found him as soon as he got chance to. “James, I still haven’t been able to get in touch with Sophie.”
It was true, since returning to Astley Manor that morning they had been trying to locate every witch-hunter - even 1st gens. Hunter had been trying Sophie’s mobile and her mum’s number all morning, both without success. In the present climate, and with Sophie’s recent run-in with the Shadow Witch, this was very worrying.
James checked his watch. “You’re right, there should’ve been contact by now. I’ll have a couple o’ witch-hunters up there swing by her mum’s, check it out.”
A witch-hunter came up, interrupting them. “Mr Astley, we’ve managed to track the Shadow Witch’s movements.”
Oh yes, even when James was the most competent person in the room, because it was his house and he was famously a 7th gen, everyone turned to Hunter as their general in this time of war.
“Go on then, give us the summary.”
The witch-hunter shuffled his papers nervously, obviously too dependent on coffee. “The Shadow Witch struck us, er, the UK headquarters first. Then every European and the two African divisions within the next three hours. They report similar outbreaks.
“Then when night hit America, the Shadow Witch attacked their MMC, then Canada, Mexico, each South American division.
“We’ve warned the eastern MMCs, and Australia. But what they’ll be able to do…” The witch-hunter finished, then stood there somewhat awkwardly.
“It seems impossible - one witch hitting every country in the world in 24 hours, and still being able to attack us back at the prison.” James muttered. “How though?”
“Did you never wonder how Father Christmas did it?” Hunter asked bitterly, taking out his frustration on those around him. “It’s a Shadow Witch, remember, magic without limits. I think she is very much capable of disappearing from one place and reappearing in another. And I think she can move others too - back at the prison I saw the witches retreating into a shadow and vanishing. And remember what Steve said - that the shadows grew and wrapped around when they took…” Hunter broke off, but after a deep breath continued. “That’s how she was able to get into Steve’s house, the MMC, how she took over Sophie - all those amulets, wards, protections are nothing to her. Because she can become nothing.”
When Hunter finished, his pulse raced with the excitement of the revelation. Wait, excitement, shouldn’t it be fear? But, whatever, he knew he was right, he had to be.
“But, if nowt can stop her, she could attack here.” James voiced, trying to sound calm.
“No, I don’t think so.” Hunter replied, then hesitated, glancing at the witch-hunter that still hovered with them. “At any rate, they’ll have to find us first. Can you check on the PM and royal family?”
The witch-hunter jumped was caffeine-heightened nerves. “We managed to relocate them before the witches hit London.”
Hunter frowned, the man really didn’t get the hint. “Then go help organising our forces.”
They watched the man slink off. “Well?” James asked quietly.
Hunter led off to a rare quiet spot in the house, James fell into step beside him.
“I think Astley Manor is safe.” Hunter confided in a quiet voice. “After all, Old George was linked with the last Shadow, and the Manor was never attacked, even after he eliminated her. I think the house has had more protections built in than anywhere else - the stones for instance. The fact that no witch has ever attacked the Manor.”
“And you couldn’t say this in front of t’other bloke?” James asked, completely unsure of why his friend was being so secretive.
Hunter shrugged. “There’s something going on around us that I don’t understand, and I have a feeling it’s something that’s no good. Something the MMC won’t like, even if it aids us.” Hunter shook his head, he didn’t know how to describe it. “Besides, I don’t want to raise false hope, I don’t want the witch-hunters thinking they are safe, now that they are here.”