Page 35 of The Snow Witch

Meggie had been preparing to ask the goddess and the Universe for help. That was all. She was using the blackthorn stick to lean on, to help her walk as she was still in pain from the way she had been handled at the funeral and the babe had shifted position again, pressing on her back and locking her hips.

‘There is no ritual, Charles.’

‘Do you think I am a halfwit, Meg?’ Charles slid from his horse and stood in front of her. Meggie looked up at him, realising just how tall and powerful he was compared to her. Her heart began to pound. He could hurt her here, easily. He could take from her whatever the other woman had refused him.

Charles took another step towards her and raised his hand. He touched her cheek and pressed his fingers against her skin, then trailed his forefinger down her neck to the top of her bodice. Her cheek was still bruised from the funeral, blue-black and sore to the touch. But she did not let him see that it hurt her.

‘Please. Let me be.’ Her voice was not as steady as it could have been. And oh, how she wished she had completed that poppet of him: the wax figure she had thrown into Coventina’s Well, hoping it would cleanse the evil from it. She was still scared about the demon she had seemingly conjured – worried that she had gathered parts of Charles Milburn’s energy and trapped it there somehow. He was all over this place; he had tainted every inch of Newbrough. Her cottage was tainted because of what he had asked her to do and the sadness Meggie experienced when she did his work.

She did not know enough about how that dark magic all worked. She only knew that she had scraped the thorns off the blackthorn stick she was using today – nothing unusual, she did that frequently – but all the while, she thought about how she could have stabbed those thorns into the poppet, just as it said in the book. But then she had thrown them in the fire, lest she decided to remake the poppet and Coventina shunned her because of it.

‘No. I do not think I can let you be.’ His smile was devoid of compassion. ‘You are here. And I am here. And it is very cold. You, my dear, can warm me.’ He pushed her and she stumbled. Her fingers tightened on the dagger as she slipped on the icy grass. His hand came out again and grabbed her hair. He pulled it and her head jerked back so her face was inches away from his.

She could smell the whisky on his breath, the sweat on his body. He pulled her closer and she could feel him through the fabric of her gown and her cloak…

‘Please…’ she tried again, trying to step away from him.

Instead, his other arm grabbed her around her waist and crushed her to him.

She gasped, terrified. She needed to distract him, to protect herself…

* * *

Charles was frustrated as hell. First, that Ellen bitch in the village had slammed the door in his face; now, this wretched rag-bag of skin and bone thought she was above him and was making it too damn hard to fuck her.

If she just let him do it, he would leave her be! Who the hell would do it in the snow out on these godforsaken hills if they didn’t have to? His balls were aching and he needed to release his frustration somehow…

He pushed Meg onto the ground and she yelped in pain as he held her there. He tried to release himself from his breeches with one hand as he knelt over her, but then he yelled in anger as something cold and icy and sharp hit his face and he found himself inhaling something that made his nostrils and throat burn.

The bitch had thrown snow into his face and scrubbed it into his skin! It was not just snow, but snow that had frozen over and the sharpness was the ice crystals that scratched and burned his cheeks and forehead. As he was spitting it out, she launched another handful at him, pushing it into his face as he inhaled, and he was forced to let her go as he choked on it.

Somehow, she rolled to the side, and she was trying to crawl away, but then he grabbed her arm and wrenched it around her back. The clouds were coming in across the valley and the snow was falling more thickly, but he didn’t feel the cold – his temper kept him warm enough.

She shouted out in pain, but he dragged her to her feet, ignoring her cries, and pushed her against the wall of the Well as the blizzard began to whirl around them.

Far in the distance was a crack of thunder, echoing around the secluded area, and the horizon flashed briefly with lightning.

‘You think that is funny, do you?’ he growled. ‘You think you can do that to me? You think a childish handful of snow will stop me taking what I want?’ He pulled her away from the wall by her arm, then slammed her back into it. ‘Well, it will not.’

And as he raised his other hand to slap some sense and obedience into her, a swift motion to the side of him caught his eye.

‘Burn in Hell, Charles Milburn,’ she hissed. Then Meg Noble lifted her arm higher. In her hand she held a small dagger. The sky turned black as a snow cloud blotted out the daylight and another flash of lightning burst across the ruins of the fort. ‘I am not someone you can take.’ Her hand plunged downwards and the dagger buried itself in his upper chest, below his shoulder, just as another crack of thunder boomed above them.

Charles gasped, feeling the painful drag as she pulled the blade out and prepared to do it again. Her lips were moving soundlessly, and he had a genuine fear that the bitch was cursing him.

Then thank God, thank God, he heard the sound of horses’ hooves and shouting, and up over the moors from Newbrough came a group of people, coming at them through the blizzard.

Charles looked down at his chest and saw the blood blooming red against his white shirt. He threw Meg roughly away from him, pressed his hand against the wound and glared at the bitch. It hadn’t caused much more than a gash, but the second strike could have hit its mark.

The voices of the group carried in the wind that seemed to have whipped up out of nowhere, and a man on a white horse, stark against the low, black sky, led the procession, followed by a line of men – and women – on foot. Charles glanced at Meggie and laughed shortly as he saw it catch her attention too. The expression on her face was suddenly terrified. Her hand was still in the air, the blood-stained dagger in it, dripping into the snow.

Charles knew what this was – he could see the staff in the man’s hand, see the black cloak floating around him. See the Bell Man. See the villagers pointing excitedly at Meggie. Oh hell, she would pay for it now, would she not!

Because this was Cuthbert Nicholson, the man he’d heard about. This was the Witch Pricker.

‘You are finished, witch,’ hissed Charles. He turned and faced the crowd and raised a hand. ‘Here! She is here! She attacked me!’ he cried. He staggered towards them. ‘She cursed the ground, she summoned Satan and he held me down as she tried to kill me!’

‘No…’ Meggie cried. ‘That is not what happened…’