Page 59 of The Snow Witch

Nicholson was sprawled in the bed, on his back, snoring. The moonlight was trickling thought the mullioned windows, and Emory could see the so-called witch-pricking stick by Nicholson’s bed, on top of his cloak. Emory glared at the stick, and forced himself to walk closer. He did not want to think how many women this had harmed. He did not want to think about how it determined whether a woman bled or not; whether she lived or died. But he had to know – revenge for Meg was urging him forwards and he approached the thing.

Quietly, he reached down and picked it up. He could feel the evil emanating from it, so bad, it almost burned him. Then, as he examined the thing, he felt something like a hidden catch on the shaft. Emory pressed the button, and something glinted at the end of the stick.

A pin.

He pressed the button again.

The pin retracted.

‘Mother of God!’ he breathed, horrified. The stick was nothing more than a torture device, built to try innocent victims and find them guilty of witchcraft at Nicholson’s whim. If they didn’t bleed, they were deemed witches – but if there was no pin – the accused wouldn’t bleed. It was all based on what Nicholson desired.

The rage consumed Emory – the unfairness, the evil, the whole idea of it. And what this man had done to Meg, because he wanted to kill her, he wanted to make her suffer…

That was enough to draw the veil of red across his vision again. He bit back a yell, still having enough wits about him to know that he was in a precarious position and someone could come running into the room to see what the commotion was. Instead, he took the kerchief from his neck and twisted it into a rope of sorts, staring at the man the entire time. This had not been his original plan – his original plan was to simply stab the man and be done with it. But that would be too quick for this monster. Emory wanted to see him suffer.

Emory took a deep breath and made his move.

And somehow, he was on the bed, kneeling on the man’s chest, pressing his gloved hand over Nicholson’s face. Nicholson woke and writhed and struggled, trying to scream, fear in his bloodshot eyes, but Emory was too strong for him. He grabbed the man’s long, straggly hair and yanked his head from the pillow, silencing him with a knee in his face, wrapping the kerchief around his neck. He pulled and pulled on it, his gaze never leaving Nicholson’s face.

And when it was almost over and almost done, he took the dagger and raised it above Nicholson’s chest. ‘Do you bleed, Nicholson?’ he hissed. ‘Let us see.’ Then he plunged it into the man’s body.

Emory felt her presence as he did it. Felt her hand curl around his, lending him the strength to force it as deeply as possible. Blood began spilling out of Nicholson’s chest, and Emory pulled the dagger out, feeling detached as more blood spurted out of Nicholson like a fountain.

‘How do you like it, Nicholson?’ he whispered. ‘Does that satisfy you? At least I have proved you weren’t a witch. You are now free to go.’ He climbed off the bed and bowed elaborately to the man as he thrashed his last on the straw mattress, the bedding flooded scarlet.

Emory peered into his eyes, forcing himself to watch as the life drained out of Nicholson. ‘That was for Meg,’ he murmured. Then he turned and threw the window open, and slung his leg over the sill. Taking one last look at the scene behind him, he fled.

39

NOW

As Violet was driving back up the road to the Well, her phone rang. She jumped, but pressed the Bluetooth button and answered it.

It was Jake.

‘Hello! Looks like we’ve got access to and from the site now,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Don’t know if the offer’s still on for a rescue mission?’

‘Ahh…’ Violet cringed. ‘I’m… umm… busy now. Sorry.’

For a second, there was only silence on the line. Then: ‘Busy? Oh, okay. Not to worry.’ He sounded like he’d ramped up the fake cheer for that last comment and she felt guilty. ‘What are you up to? Corbridge? Or Hexham again? Just thinking with the weather, towns are a good bet.’

‘The Well. Oh—’ She closed her eyes briefly, wishing almost immediately that she could take that comment back. But it was too late.

‘The Well? Fuck’s sake, Violet. That place is dangerous. There’s like a foot of snow, it’s uneven paths. Who’s going to pull you out if you slip today?’

‘I won’t need pulling out!’ Now she was cross because, obviously, attack was the best form of defence. And yes, she had already been today and had not needed pulling out then.

In fact, she’d been twice.

‘I’ll be careful,’ she said. ‘I’m⁠—’

‘You’re what?’

‘I’m meeting someone…’ It was a hideous lie and she knew it.

‘You’re meeting who? Meggie? The dead witch?’

‘No. Ollie.’