A Witch Alone (The Winter Witch Trilogy #3) Read online

  ‘Down here,’ I gasped and we both swerved sideways, making for the alley.

  The witch cried something again in Russian, her voice harsh and cracked. We took no notice and, as I glanced over my shoulder, I saw her point imperiously at a car, a shiny Mercedes. It gave a groan and slithered heavily across the tarmac, the tyres screaming as the rubber ground against the road. There was a horrible shriek of metal against stone and it crunched itself into the narrow alleyway, blocking our escape.

  Frightened faces appeared at the windows of the apartment above – but the witch woman just opened her mouth and roared, like a lion. The blast of magic shook the walls of buildings all around – and the faces were no longer there; the occupants just seemed to disappear. I felt her breath like a searing wind against my face, her magic scouring like a snowstorm, biting through flesh and blood and bone.

  ‘You bitch!’ Emmaline yelled. She drew back her fist and flung a vicious blast of magic at the witch, a blow strong enough to kill an outwith, if one had stepped out at that moment. But the witch only laughed and buffeted her attack away like the blows of a child.

  Then she blew.

  Suddenly the air was as cold as a Siberian winter. When I tried to move my feet, they resisted. I looked down and realized the rain had frozen into a sheet of ice and my shoes were frozen to the concrete pavement. In a panic I yanked and yanked, and my shoes came away, but already I couldn’t feel my fingers and my toes were numb. The Neva was icing over. Hoar-frost bristled from the cars and lamposts.

  But the most terrifying thing, the thing that really made me shiver, was that the witch didn’t seem to care who saw her, didn’t care what the outwith might think. No rules seemed to bind her. What had she done with the faces at the window?

  I looked at her mad, beautiful face, her wide blue eyes, her feet bare against the frozen ground. Her Medusa hair was matted with ice.

  ‘Wh-who are y-y-you?’ I asked. I almost couldn’t speak, my teeth were chattering so much. Beside me I could feel Emmaline shaking violently, so hard it was almost not shivering at all, but more like a kind of convulsion.

  ‘I … come … friend,’ said the witch hoarsely. She smiled and I saw her teeth were black and jagged.

  ‘Em,’ I said, ‘we have to run.’

  ‘G-go,’ Em said, her teeth gritted to stop them chattering.

  We ripped our feet from the pavement, scrambled over the bonnet of the crumpled car, and then ran.

  Our breath made white clouds in the frosted air. Our feet slipped on the frozen paving stones, fingers freezing to metal railings as we tried to steady ourselves. And behind us I could hear the effortless thud, thud, thud of the witch in pursuit. We turned at random down side streets, feeling her chilly breath at our heels. It was cold – so cold. There was sweat on my spine but it only made me shiver harder as the cold wind screamed past us, bitter with frost.

  My breath tore in my ears and beside me I could hear Emmaline panting desperately.

  Then we rounded a corner and the Neva was in front of us again, a bridge spanning it. And I recognized it; our hotel was across that bridge.

  ‘Come on!’ I sobbed and we forced our tired legs to put on a burst of speed.

  For a minute the air was warmer, we were outpacing her. Then I heard a scream of frustration from the witch and a huge gust of icy wind blasted at our backs. And the witch was on us. I felt a hand claw at my hair, my feet slipped from under me.

  I fell headlong, crashing to the stone pavement with a force that knocked all the breath from my body. I clawed at the slippery, ice-covered flags, trying to get back to my feet, but the witch had me in her grip, her cold hands around me, her hair blowing across my face in the gale, blinding me. She was crushing me, crushing all the breath and warmth from my body.

  ‘No!’ Emmaline screamed. She drew back her hand and then flung a ball of fire. The witch flew into the air and then fell, sprawling on to the pavement. For a minute she lay gasping and Emmaline was running towards me, shrieking, ‘Anna! Get up! Run!’

  But before Emmaline could reach me, the witch sprang again – this time at her.

  Magic swirled around our heads, snow and flame mixing together into a whirling, bewildering dance. The air filled with the sound of hissing and boiling, the smell of burning and fear. I saw Emmaline’s face, flame-coloured and in agony, locked in a fierce embrace with the witch, and heard them both screaming curses at each other, their voices cracked and unintelligible.

  Smoke and magic and steam wreathed around them.

  ‘Stop,’ I croaked, heaving myself to my hands and knees and trying to pull enough breath back into my body to cast a spell. ‘Stop!’

  I pulled my hand back, ready to fling a spell, but it was almost impossible to see who was who in the dizzying darkness. Then Emmaline shrieked something and the witch seemed to fly backwards off her, as if she’d been punched in the gut, straight into my arms. The force of the collision sent us both slithering unstoppably across the icy surface of the bridge, and my head cracked against a lampost with such force that for a long minute I couldn’t see anything at all – just blackness and blood. I could hear Emmaline’s terrified sobs, feel a hot, slippery wetness on my face. There was blood pouring down into my eyes, my own blood was blinding me.

  Then I heard pounding footsteps and a voice screaming out a curse.

  I clawed the bloodsoaked hair out of my eyes. Marcus – he was racing across the bridge, his face full of fear and fury.

  ‘Ábréoðe!’ he roared. The witch flew into the air, crashing into the other parapet of the bridge with a force that made the railings buckle. Marcus followed it up with another huge blast and the railings screamed in protest. One of the railings snapped with a sound like gunshot.

  ‘Smert!’ howled the witch. She drew back her hand and Marcus drew his, each ready to fling a crushing blow. But Marcus was faster. A bolt like white lightning shot from his palm and the witch screamed. Shards of ice flew on her breath, like frozen daggers, then the railings groaned and gave a metallic screech – and suddenly she was gone, just the twisted, mangled ends of the railings showing where she’d gone over.

  There was a sickening crack as her body hit the frozen surface of the Neva.

  For a minute I did nothing. Just sat, panting. But the silence stretched out and I crawled to the parapet to look over.

  There was nothing there – only a black, swirling hole in the ice and something struggling, far downstream, beneath the icy surface. Then I couldn’t see even that.

  On the other side of the bridge Emmaline hauled herself shakily to her feet.

  We stood, panting for a moment and then we staggered across the road into each other’s arms.

  ‘Oh my God, Em!’

  ‘Your head!’ she sobbed. ‘Anna, your head!’

  ‘It’s fine.’ I touched the back of my skull cautiously with my fingers, then winced. It wasn’t fine. It felt horribly and ominously spongy. But I wasn’t dead, which was the main thing.

  We pulled back and looked at each other. I was checking Em’s face for damage – she seemed to be, incredibly, OK.

  ‘You look like you barely survived a bar brawl,’ Em said.

  I put my hand up to my face, feeling the crusting blood, then I spat on to my sleeve and scrubbed it across my face. God only knew what I looked like, but I didn’t want to be arrested for GBH if I could possibly avoid it. At least my hair was dark – if I could just get the worst off my face, I could probably make it home without being spotted.

  I was just about to ask Emmaline whether she had a tissue, when I heard a low snarling groan from behind us and we both turned in horror.

  ‘Marcus!’

  He was lying slumped against the railings of the bridge, his face grey. His eyes were open, but there was blood spreading across his shirt. A lot of blood.

  I ran across and knelt beside him on the flagstones. They were still cold but already free from frost.

  ‘Wh-what happened?’ I stammered.
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  ‘Damn … icicle … that bloody witch …’

  I looked down at his shirt, but whatever had been there had already melted. There was melt-water mixed with the pooling blood.

  ‘We’ve got to stop the bleeding,’ I said shakily. I started to peel back the bloodsoaked shirt to see what was beneath.

  ‘Get off!’ he growled, his voice twisted with pain. He shoved me away with one arm and shielded his body with the other, keeping me physically away. ‘Don’t touch me – please.’

  There was sweat on his face and his skin was the colour of clay.

  ‘Christ!’ Emmaline looked at me, horrified. ‘What do we do? Is he dying?’

  ‘I’m not … bloody … dying …’ Marcus said, his teeth gritted with pain. ‘But we need to get out of here. Now.’

  ‘You’re not in any condition to move,’ I said. ‘Let me look, please. I can help heal you.’

  ‘If you touch me,’ he said, very low, ‘I will kill you.’

  I almost believed him. Then his eyelids fluttered shut and I realized that what looked like fury was actually extreme, unbearable pain – too much for anyone to deal with.

  Emmaline was trying her phone, ringing Abe I guessed, but at last she shook her head and then looked up and down the bridge, biting her lip.

  ‘Marcus is right, we can’t stay here. That bitch didn’t give a toss who saw her – probably half the KGB is on its way – not to mention whoever polices magic in this godforsaken place.’

  ‘How can we get him home?’

  ‘I can walk,’ Marcus gasped.

  I looked at him. He didn’t look like he could walk. He looked like he was bleeding out. But he heaved himself to his feet with a sound like a sob and, leaning heavily on my shoulder, he did actually manage to take a step. Emmaline hurried to his other side; he took another. And then another.

  Somehow we managed. Marcus hobbled, pitifully slowly, between me and Emmaline. We wound our arms beneath his shoulders and took as much of his weight as we could. After just a few feet my own muscles were screaming in protest. Marcus’ weight felt like he’d crush me to my knees and my head had begun to throb as if there was a drum beating inside my skull. But I gritted my teeth and carried on doggedly putting one foot in front of the other. Whatever I was suffering, Marcus had it worse.

  We were about half way to the hotel when we rounded a corner and almost ran into Abe. He skidded to a halt, his chest heaving.

  ‘Anna, Em – what happened?’ he panted. ‘I came as fast as I could.’

  ‘We were attacked,’ Em said shortly. ‘Anna and I nearly bought it. Marcus bailed us out. And he’s bloody heavy.’

  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ Abe said hastily. He pushed Emmaline out of the way, intending to take her place at Marcus’ side, but she shook her head.

  ‘Take Anna’s side. She’s got incipient concussion or something.’

  For the first time Abe seemed to register the streaks of drying blood on my face and his face went ashen.

  ‘You weren’t joking were you, when you said you nearly bought it?’

  ‘Nope,’ Em said shortly.

  ‘Can you walk?’ Abe asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. Not very well, it was true, but better than Marcus.

  Abe pushed me aside and shouldered Marcus’ weight, leaving Emmaline to support his other side. I trudged along beside them, listening to Emmaline’s hoarse breathing beneath the sound of Marcus’ tearing, agonized breaths. After a hundred yards I could see she was nearly done in, her feet stumbling and tripping on the pavement. I made her swap and we carried on our slow way. It was better with Abe taking Marcus’ other shoulder; he was strong enough to carry most of the weight. But I was still unutterably thankful when we reached our hotel.

  ‘I hope to God there’s no one on the desk,’ Abe muttered. He stuck his head around the door to reception and then nodded. ‘We’re fine. Let’s go, quick.’

  We hobbled across reception, but it took all three of us to heave Marcus’ sweating, gasping body up the stairs and through the door to his room. Abe lowered him gently on to his back on the double bed and he lay still, his eyes closed, his skin glistening with a sick sheen.

  ‘Will you let me take a look at that wound?’ Abe asked. His black brows were drawn into a worried frown.

  Marcus shook his head, his eyes still shut. ‘No. Leave me alone.’

  ‘I could help heal you,’ Abe said. ‘Look, I know we haven’t got along – I’ve been a knob, I admit it. But you saved Anna and Em’s lives. I owe you for that. Let me give you a hand.’

  ‘No,’ Marcus said. He opened his eyes and the fierceness in them made even me quail. ‘No.’

  ‘Marcus—’ Abe began.

  ‘Go,’ Marcus hissed with such venom that in Abe’s place I would have fled. But Abe only stood, his arms folded, his face worried. Then he shook his head.

  ‘All right. I can’t make you. I’ll be up the corridor in the girls’ room if you need anything.’

  ‘Can I stay, Marcus?’ I asked. But he shook his head.

  ‘No. Leave me alone, please, all of you.’

  ‘OK,’ I said reluctantly. He closed his eyes and we turned towards the door and made our way up the corridor.

  Back in our room I said, ‘Take off your boot, Em.’

  ‘When we’ve looked at your head,’ Em said shortly.

  ‘Please, just let me—’

  ‘Anna, are you stupid or something? What good will a bit of paper do if you’re dead from a brain haemorrhage?’

  ‘Paper?’ Abe said, looking from Emmaline to me.

  ‘Don’t ask,’ Em said bitterly. ‘Only the source of all this bloodshed, folded up under my insole.’

  ‘It’s the prophecy!’ I said desperately. ‘Don’t you understand? We found it – that’s what she was after.’

  ‘OK, I understand, but I think Em’s right,’ Abe said. ‘The riddle’s lasted this long – I think it’ll last a few minutes longer. Let me look at your head.’

  He bent my head forward, probing with gentle fingers at the top of my skull, but he didn’t say anything, even when I swore and pulled away as his fingers touched a sore place.

  ‘What do you think?’ Em asked. Abe shrugged, but his eyes were worried.

  ‘Hard to say. There’s too much blood to tell.’

  ‘I’m going to wash it out,’ I said, moving to the sink.

  ‘No!’ Abe said, at the same time as Emmaline cried, ‘Don’t!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because if you’ve got something seriously wrong, I don’t want you rinsing bits of your brain down into the sewers,’ Abe said.

  ‘Look, I’m conscious, I’m walking, I’m talking. I think I’ll be fine. Just let me get the blood out of my hair and you can see what the damage is.’

  Abe looked at Emmaline and they exchanged a glance that said, What can you do with someone like her?

  ‘All right,’ Abe said at last. ‘But you’d better let me help. I don’t want you sluicing away anything vital.’

  We stood at the sink and Abe poured cup after cup of warm water over my hair, while the plughole ran red as a butcher’s drain. While he washed my hair, Emmaline talked, filling him in on the discovery of the poem, the fight with the witch, our futile attempt to flee, and Marcus’ rescue. Abe said nothing.

  Every now and then I felt his fingers gently exploring the patch at the top of my head, checking that he wasn’t making things worse. A gross smell filled the room; like an abattoir – blood and hot water mingling into a grim, iron-scented steam. But at last the sink was running pink and I could feel the huge clot at the top of my scalp was almost dissolved.

  Em passed me a towel to wrap around my shoulders and I sat on a chair at the window, beneath the light, while she and Abe examined my skull.

  ‘It’s not as bad as it looks,’ Abe said at last. ‘I think you’ve just lost some skin and hair. But I’m seriously worried about concussion. From what Em said, that was quite a whack.’

 
‘So? Do you think I should go to some Russian A&E and wait for the witch’s mate to turn up?’

  Abe’s heavy black brows knitted together and he shoved his hands crossly into the pockets of his jeans.

  ‘What do you suggest then?’ Emmaline said.

  ‘I’ve hit my head before,’ I said. ‘I remember what they said last time. I think I know what to look out for.’

  ‘Oh you’re impossible,’ Em snapped. Then she sighed. ‘OK. Well, I guess there’s nothing for it.’

  She sat down on the end of the bed, pulled off her boot, and a piece of paper fluttered out on to the floor.

  For a moment I didn’t do anything – I couldn’t. My heart was thudding too hard, my hands were cold and numb and, for a second, I wondered if perhaps Emmaline and Abe were right and I was on the brink of some kind of aneurysm.

  Then I picked it up and opened it out.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  A Rydelle

  A childe shalle be born on the Feaft of Kynges

  A childe of the Rook yet fowle she be not

  And though she doth Fly, yet hath she no Wings

  Born on a Chille Day but Merrie begot.

  Sonne of the Wintere, yet stille she be Maide

  Her Tongue speaks untruth, tho’ she doth not lye

  Her Brightest of Years shalle be fpent in the shade

  And though she is Drownéd, yet she shalle not die.

  She shalle walk Alone from her uery first Crie

  Alone in this world from her first to last Breath

  For, in this world where all Mortals must die,

  She reigns alone: the Mistresse of Death.

  We stared at the page, all three of us in silence.

  ‘The Mistress of Death …’ Abe said at last. ‘Does that mean … ?’

  He stopped and the sick foreboding that had been coiling in my stomach for so many months threatened to choke me. Death. Everything seemed to lead back to that word. All the deaths of the past few months pressed around me, drowning me in their shadows, and I felt the old, old fear wash over me again. The Mistress of Death. Was I some kind of horrendous WMD – a Typhoid Mary of witches? Was that what Corax had wanted from me?