The Shadow Reigns (Witch-Hunter #2) Page 2

  “Mother?” He called out.

  “George, how many times must I tell you that it is common decency to wait for permission to enter.” The familiar sharp tones snapped.

  Hunter turned to see his mother, and their butler Charles, sitting by the window, playing chess.

  “One of these days you will walk in while I am indisposed, and I daresay the embarrassment will be punishment enough.” Mrs Astley added, her fingers hovering over a black rook, then finally making her move.

  “I’m sorry, mother. I won’t do it again.” Hunter replied, wincing slightly at the image she provided.

  “Of course you’ll do it again, you never learn from your mistakes – just like your father.”

  Ah yes, there it was. Hunter wondered if they could make it through a single conversation without his mother bringing up George “Young” Astley. Hunter worshipped the memory of his late father. His mother still blamed Young for ruining her life. She often wished he had left her to be sacrificed by witches, rather than give her this life. How many times had Hunter heard that over the years?

  “I haven’t seen you for a month, why have you been avoiding me this time?” Mrs Astley cut through her son’s train of thought.

  Hunter stared at her, wondering if she was really so ignorant to everything going on around her. “Mother, I’ve been an invalid. Laid up in bed for three weeks, recovering after Sophie tried to kill me.”

  “Oh.” Mrs Astley finally looked away from her chess game to see her son. Her eyes ran quickly from head to toe, but seeing no real problem, she finally met his gaze. “Sophie, that common girl you were dating? Well, I did tell you not to bother with her.”

  Hunter clenched his fists and tried not to show how much his mother was winding him up right now. She told him not to bother with Sophie? Oh, so somehow Mrs Astley could tell that Sophie was evil, and the biggest threat this century? No, more likely the stuck-up Mrs Astley was offended by her son’s interest in a “common” girl.

  Mrs Astley sighed, reading her son’s reaction. One that did not need an audience. “Charles, more tea.”

  The ever-dutiful Charles nodded, and stood up from the chess game, more than happy to leave the Astleys to yet another family interlude.

  Once the butler had gone, Hunter drifted over to the table and chessboard that were set by the window, to get the most of the winter sun. He could see that Charles’ white pieces could checkmate his mother in three moves. It wouldn’t happen of course, Charles always let Mrs Astley win.

  “Don’t look at the board pretending you know how to play chess, George.” Mrs Astley snapped.

  “I do know how to play chess, mother. James taught me years ago.” Hunter replied calmly.

  “Oh, don’t mention that odious boy!” Mrs Astley fumed, something about the Yorkshireman always seemed to rile her up. “He is still staying here, I presume? You should start charging him rent.”

  “Mother… things have changed. Witch-hunters need somewhere safe to stay.” Hunter said, trying to change her way of looking at it.

  “And that Marks fellow – running around like he owns this place! I imagine he always had his beady eye on the Manor, when he used to come visit Young. Now he goes and fills it with all sorts!”

  Hunter waited impatiently for his mother’s rant to end. “No mother, I own this place. And as lord of Astley Manor, I turned it into a centre of control for the MMC, I have encouraged witch-hunters to use it as a sanctuary. And I pushed Anthony Marks to take command.”

  Mrs Astley sat thin-lipped, considering this. “I am not sharing my rooms.” She eventually announced.

  “No one is asking you to, mother.” Hunter replied with a touch of exasperation. “They are being housed in the village too, there’s space enough.”

  “What?” Mrs Astley looked up at her son with surprise. “The villagers will not take kindly to you pushing house guests on them.”

  Hunter narrowed his eyes at his mother. “The villagers were evacuated three weeks ago to save them from the witches.”

  “Oh.” Mrs Astley took this bit of news in. “So that must be why Mrs Harsmith has not been to visit. I assumed she had the flu again.”

  Hunter was caught at that familiar place between wanting to laugh at her, and being thoroughly annoyed by her. He decided to take the safest path.

  “I will leave you to your tea and chess, mother.”

  Three

  “Oi Hunter, wake up!”

  Hunter groaned and rolled over, tucking the warm sheets tighter about himself.

  “Any time today mate.”

  Hunter cracked open one eye to see James hovering by his bedside, holding a candlestick for light. Funny how his family’s stash of old-fashioned items were finding use again.

  “What’s this about, James?” Hunter croaked.

  “We’re going running this mornin’. Get up.”

  “What? What time is it?” Hunter asked, pushing himself to sit up in his bed.

  “Nearly six am.”

  Hunter groaned. “Come back at a more reasonable time.”

  “Get your arse out of bed Hunter, before I send your mother in.” Threatened James. “We need to get you back to your old self. Which means back to our old training routine.”

  Sensing he wasn’t going to win this one, Hunter finally got up and dug out some running gear.

  “Meet you downstairs in five.” James stated, ducking back out.

  *****

  The sun wouldn’t be seen for another hour, but the world was bright with the lightness of the snow. It wasn’t too deep, only an inch or two in most places, and it had a thick frost on the surface that was childishly satisfying to crunch through.

  It was bloody cold, and Hunter jogged on the spot to try and keep warmth and sensation in his body. James stretched next to him, then stood straight and gave a nod.

  The two men set off at a jog – their routine was to keep it steady for a quarter lap of the estate, then kick it up a gear. This morning though, when Hunter would usually be the first to run, he was lagging behind, his breath burning his lungs and an unfamiliar dizziness threatening to take over.

  James looked back, and slowed a little. “You know, I’m liking being the fastest for once. Makes up for all those times you left me in the dust.”

  Despite the cheeriness of his voice, it was obvious that James was worried about Hunter. Not just the here and now, but what would happen if the witches attacked while he was like this? James had never gone into a situation without knowing the strong, fast Hunter was beside him.

  “Quick break?” Hunter suggested, embarrassed that he needed one already.

  James nodded over to the old gatehouse that wasn’t far away. The door was unlocked, and soon they were inside the single, simple room. It wasn’t warmer inside this old building, but at least they weren’t standing in snow for five minutes.

  James kept moving with some stretching exercises, waiting for Hunter to carry on the run; to talk; anything.

  “This is embarrassing. I’ve never been this weak.” Hunter eventually muttered.

  “Yes you have. It’s been a year since you were recovering from that coven attack in Wiltshire, remember?”

  Hunter paused, he’d been so wrapped up in this near death experience, he had forgotten about that one. “Oh yes. And then you persuaded me to take a holiday. So I did, and ended up meeting the Shadow Witch.”

  “So I won’t recommend a holiday this time.” James shrugged.

  Hunter flexed his knees, feeling his muscles protest. “I can’t believe how unfit I am.”

  “I can.” James replied. “Oh come on, when was the last time we went running? Ever since you’ve been shacked up with Sophie, I haven’t seen you on a single mornin’ run!”

  Hunter was surprised at James’ outburst and was immediately defensive. He’d had a lot to think about these last few months. Charlotte’s murder; the destruction of the MMC; the woman he loved wanting to kill him. But Hunter had to confess that Jam
es was right, he’d been too distracted by Sophie, neglecting his friend… but she had been too tempting to tear away from. Not that it mattered now.

  “She fooled me too.” James said quietly, reading Hunter’s thoughts. “Oh, I thought she was a frigid bitch at times, but I trusted her too.”

  Hunter looked over to his friend. Any response that sprung to mind was pathetically incapable of expressing how foolish he felt. Not that he wanted to get into this right now, or anytime soon.

  “Let’s get moving.” Hunter said, heading back towards the door. “We’ll take the shortcut back to the house, and do the full lap tomorrow.”

  James shrugged. “Fine. Then after breakfast we’ll practise combat. I’m looking forward to knocking you on your arse for once!”

  Four

  Hunter was pleasantly surprised at his rate of recovery. After a week of training, he was as strong as James, and then he started to win some of the spars and was soon running ahead of him once more. The Yorkshireman pretended to be sour over his new losing streak, but he was (not so-) secretly relieved that Hunter was getting back to his old self.

  Not only that, but slowly others began to join them in the pre-dawn run, and even more joined the sparring sessions. Witch-hunters and soldiers that were restlessly waiting for this war to progress first came to watch out of curiosity, most of them never having seen Hunter in action. Hunter suspected Marks and Hayworth had encouraged them to participate, and after being initially annoyed at the invasion of his privacy, Hunter welcomed them. They moved the session from the indoor hall to the courtyard as numbers grew.

  It quickly became habit that Hunter would drift through the men and women that fought barehanded, or with short poles. He would offer correction and advice where necessary, but on the whole it was uplifting to see the level of skill.

  A couple in particular impressed him. A sergeant from the army, Ian Grimshaw proved unbeatable in hand-to-hand combat, grappling and flooring every opponent. When Hunter spoke to him, Sergeant Grimshaw was a very quiet man in his late-thirties, who just happened to turn his hand to martial arts from a young age.

  The other was a 3rd gen witch-hunter, Alannah Winton, a petite brunette Welsh girl who was scarily accurate and fast with the poles. When asked about her background, she just grinned mischievously and told them that they should see what she could do with real knives!

  Hunter quickly promoted them to step in and help the others, he watched as Ian and Alannah moved through the others with purpose.

  Near the end of each session, everyone began to wind down, and stayed to watch Hunter. It had been annoying at first, to have the audience, but Hunter quickly shut them out.

  Normally he fought James, but today both Ian and Alannah faced him. All three held the short poles, and stood as the three points of a triangle. Ian and Alannah were kitted out with padded vests and gloves, but Hunter shunned the safety equipment. He knew that he was too strong and fast to allow anyone to actually land a hit, he allowed himself to be more than a little arrogant in that respect.

  Hunter took a deep breath, letting his shoulders drop down and relax. He felt his usual wave of calm and confidence wash over him; he raised his eyes to look at his opponents, waiting for them to attack.

  Alannah was the first to move, and she didn’t hold back. For someone so young, and standing half a foot shorter than Hunter; she was strong and fast – faster than he expected a 3rd gen to be. She swung her pole at his right side, which Hunter deflected with a resounding crack; then brought her knee up to his exposed left side. Surprised at her dirty move, Hunter barely got his arm in place to stop her. He went to grab her leg, but Alannah read his intention, and pulled back before he could unbalance her.

  Before Hunter could recover, there was a blow to his right shoulder. For a man so big and looming, Ian could move bloody quietly – Hunter hadn’t even noticed him! Ignoring the spike of pain, Hunter spun round, raising his pole just in time to deflect his second strike. He threw his weight behind the move, and pushed Ian back.

  Hunter rolled his injured shoulder, and smirked at his own over-confidence. It was going to get him killed one day.

  This time they both came at him, Alannah forcing him to block high, while Ian tried to slip past his guard. Hunter grunted as Ian’s hastily deflected blow caught a rib. ‘Move faster,’ Hunter scolded himself.

  He twisted away, causing Ian to unbalance, and catching Alannah with a bruising crack on her outstretched arm. Alannah was the first to reach him again, she moved quickly and rattled out a few sharp attacks that Hunter had to focus to parry. The Welsh girl was more than impressive, despite her youth.

  Partially distracted by having to stop Alannah knocking his head off, Hunter had momentarily forgotten Ian and was shocked to feel a pair of arms pin around his chest. He struggled against the iron grip – he had seen others unable to break out, but it surprised him that neither could he. He took a deep breath and prepared to throw Ian over his shoulder; he felt Ian’s muscles tighten and lock down in anticipation for the move.

  Hunter closed his eyes and… and no longer felt the constricting arms around his torso. There were gasps all around, and Hunter opened his eyes to see that he was standing behind Ian…

  Hunter glanced around and saw only shock on the faces of the audience. Ian span round, his expression one of confusion, as he looked from his hands to where Hunter now stood.

  It finally dawned on Hunter that he had instinctively blinked the short distance to escape the grip. That was useful, but-

  “That’s cheating, Astley.” Anthony Marks stood in front of the crowd, his arms crossed over his chest, as he assessed the other witch-hunter. “But it looks like you’re ready for duty. Report to myself and Hayworth when you’re finished up here.”

  Hunter nodded, and watched the older witch-hunter retreat. He turned back to his opponents, who stood a little dazed, and looking a little cheated.

  “Ah, no hard feelings guys?” Hunter asked.

  Alannah shrugged, pushing her sweaty fringe out of her eyes. Ian stared towards Hunter, but then gave a rare, crooked smile.

  “Hey, we’re on the same team. Can’t wait to see you pull that shit out on the witches.”

  *****

  As Hunter approached the dining room, he thought about knocking, but it seemed ridiculous to knock in his own house, so he walked straight in.

  General Hayworth was standing in the room with another man that Hunter found familiar.

  The General looked up to see Hunter, then turned to speak to the other man. “Sergeant Dawkins, can you send for Marks. And bring the list.”

  Hunter watched Dawkins leave, suddenly remembering the sergeant that had played the guinea pig when Hunter had been experimenting with transporting himself and others in a blink. The man appeared different now he wasn’t looking pale and nauseated.

  “Anthony told me you’re ready to go?” General Hayworth took a seat at the dining table and motioned for Hunter to join him.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be, sir.” Hunter replied. He found it odd that he should be invited to sit in his own house, but everyone was quickly signing up to the attitude that this was just another base for the MMC, in which Hunter was just another witch-hunter.

  The far door opened, and Anthony Marks and Dawkins walked through. Dawkins carried a thick folder, which he promptly set on the table.

  “Dawkins, this is your project, so if you wouldn’t mind.” The General said, opening the floor to his second-in-command.

  Dawkins nodded, his hand resting importantly on the folder. “After the fall of your MMC, we’ve been trying to recover as much data as possible. I’ve been heading the team in charge of listing MMC employees. This is the most current list of witch-hunters and last known locations.”

  Dawkins opened the folder and lifted the first few sheets, setting them aside. “These are confirmed fatalities.”

  Hunter looked at the papers covered in dense writing with morbid curiosity. He didn’t reall
y want to concentrate on those they’d lost.

  Dawkins took a slightly thicker wedge of papers from the folder. “These are witch-hunters relatively local to Little Hanting. We’ve already sent teams to attempt contact, with varying success.”

  The Sergeant tapped the still-considerable stack. “And these are the ones further afield.”

  “Now that you’re up for travelling again, we need to make use of your… talent.” The General broke in. “We need real time communication and answers, not wasting fuel on days of travel with no promise of result. You will co-ordinate with Sergeant Dawkins, who will prioritise the most likely locations. You will establish communication protocols with any groups, and bring individuals here. Plus, I want reports on any updates about the witches and their leader.”

  Hunter sat a little perplexed by his orders. He was a witch-hunter, the MMC sent him targets and he took the necessary actions. He wasn’t a soldier, but Hayworth was treating him as one. Maybe that would be a good thing, making the MMC a more controlled, and militarised establishment.

  Marks cleared his throat. “We’ve assigned you a team. Alannah Winton, 3rd gen; Sergeant Grimshaw; and Lieutenant Coulson. You leave tomorrow on your first assignment.”

  Hunter looked up at Marks. “With permission, sirs, I’d like to include James Bennett in my team.”

  Marks looked over to Dawkins, questioningly.

  The Sergeant stayed quiet for a moment, then shrugged. “I suppose I can spare him from my team. If the famous Hunter Astley insists.”

  Hunter didn’t know how to take Dawkin’s comment, but hoped it was misunderstood humour. He was surprised that someone else valued James, when he had only ever been a lowly 1st gen to the MMC. But then Hunter felt guilty for his surprise.

  “Is there anything else, gentlemen?” Hunter asked.

  After a chorus of ‘no’, Hunter stood and excused himself.

  Five

  The following morning, Hunter met the rest of his team at breakfast. The five of them were quiet and awkward. How did one act when suddenly expected to work with, and put their life in the hands of four strangers?