‘It’s time for me to go.’
He pulls a ring from his finger and takes my right hand, slides it on to the index finger.
‘For you, my father’s ring, and his father’s before him.’
He takes the knife and cuts his palm and holds his hand out.
‘My blood is your blood, Nathan.’
And his hand is there, his flesh, his blood. Carefully I take his hand with both of mine. His skin is rough and cold and I raise his hand to my lips and drink his blood. And as I suck and swallow I hear the strange words that he whispers in my ear. His blood is strong and sweet and warm in my throat and my chest and stomach and the words curl into my head, intertwine with my blood, making no sense but wrapping me in what I know, and I smell the earth and feel its pulse through my body, through my father’s body and from his father before and his father before that, and at last I know who I am.
As I let his hand go I look up and see his eyes.
My eyes.
Marcus gets to his feet and says, ‘I take my responsibilities as a father seriously.’
And as he moves back the snowflakes begin to slowly, slowly fall again. The wind strengthens, buffeting me and picking up the snow from the ground. I can only just hear Marcus say, ‘I hope we meet again, Nathan.’
And the snowflakes are falling more thickly and the wind has built to a gale and the snow is a white blur around the two of us.
The snowflakes fly in my face and he’s gone.
The ring is heavy. It is thick, warm. I can’t make out the shapes on it in the poor light. I turn it round my finger and feel its weight and then I kiss it and whisper thanks. I am a witch.
I have met my father. Too briefly, but I have met him. And I think he must know that I don’t mean to kill him. He would not have given me three gifts if he believed that. My head feels clear, good. It’s an unusual feeling. I realize I’m smiling.
Then the sky above me fills with lightning and thunder drums the air.
running
I turn back to the cottage door and Mercury is there, in grey chiffon, her hair only slightly more wild than normal, but she is in a fury and she swirls and crackles with lightning.
‘I get the feeling that you have met your father.’ Her voice has lost its slow measured pace and is screeching at me.
‘Yes.’
‘He gave you three gifts?’
‘Yes.’
‘And led the Hunters here.’
‘No. The Hunters found you without any help from him. Marcus said that they have found a way of detecting your cuts. He wanted me to warn you to be more careful.’
A bolt of lightning hits the ground near my feet. ‘You should be more careful too. Where are Rose and Gabriel?’
‘I don’t know where Gabriel is. Rose was killed by the Hunters.’
Mercury screams.
‘You knew it was dangerous. You sent her in there.’
‘And yet you survived. Do you have the Fairborn?’
Her eyes are black hollows.
‘No.’
‘But Rose got it from Clay?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where is it? Does Marcus have it?’
I hesitate but then say, ‘Yes, he took it.’
She screams again and a small whirlwind swirls around her and then stops abruptly.
‘It seems that all I have is Annalise.’
‘Where is she?’
‘Safe. For now. Do you want her back?’
‘Of course.’
‘Bring me your father’s head. Or his heart. I’ll accept either.’
Mercury spins round in a cloud of grey, a mini tornado, her face appearing and disappearing in its calm centre. The tornado flies up the valley in the direction of the glacier.
The air is calm again, the snowstorm over. It’s quiet.
Will the Hunters be able to find the cottage in the dark? Of course, they’re Hunters.
Then I hear the buzz of their phones. They’re here.
A shot, and another.
But I’m already running. And running is even better than before. I’m stronger, faster, more in tune. The night is black but I can find my way with ease. And I know where I’m going. I’m going to find my friend. Gabriel.
acknowledgements
I started writing rather late in my life, not very long ago in 2010, and did my best to hide this new obsession (as it quickly became) from my friends and relatives. I certainly had no intention of making myself the object of ridicule when the most I’d ever written before was a note to the milkman. However, it didn’t take long before my husband noticed that I was up to something in our little office room until 2 a.m. every night. I decided to be brave and come clean.
‘I’m writing a novel.’
I waited. Would he laugh? Tell me I was being ridiculous?
‘Oh! OK. Sounds good.’