Revenge of the Witch Read online

  “What was the creature I killed?” I wondered. “I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

  “Most likely it was her familiar—a creature from the dark that did her bidding. You did well to put paid to it with your staff.”

  It was rare to receive praise from the Spook, and it made me hope that maybe this wouldn’t be the end of my apprenticeship.

  We had almost reached the valley floor when I heard a noise. Someone was approaching through the mist ahead of us.

  “Did you hear that?” I asked my master.

  “Better to be safe than sorry,” he said.

  I tensed as he readied his staff, then relaxed as he lowered it, seeing that it was Peter who was shuffling out of the mist toward us.

  He looked a mess. His clothes and hair were covered with stinking slime, but at least he was walking upright again. Then I noticed the knives at his belt—and the expression on his face . . . I’ll never forget it! He looked content, pleased with himself. He looked like someone satisfied with a job well done.

  “I’ve dealt with the body of the pig witch,” he told us. “She won’t be coming back from the dead.”

  I stared at him; at the blood smeared across his lips.

  I knew then that Peter had eaten her heart.

  CHAPTER XI

  HAIRY EARS

  THE Spook made Peter wait at the top of the hill while we did what was necessary. It was dawn now, and Peter had fully recovered his human senses, though he seemed to have little memory of his time as a pig. He barely reacted at the news that his father was dead and seemed bemused by what had happened; no doubt he would feel sorrow later.

  The mist had gone—no doubt it had been part of the witch’s dark magic, summoned to cloak her lair. As we approached the farm, the wintry sun came out, but there was no warmth in it.

  I found a spade in the barn, and we buried the remains of the pig witch in one of the pens. The ground was frozen, and the digging proved difficult. The Spook left it all to me, but I didn’t complain. I knew that I was lucky to be alive.

  After that we went over to the slaughter pen, undid the chains, and lowered the bodies to the ground. Next we located the Spook’s silver chain, and I retrieved my staff and bag before climbing the hill to rejoin Peter.

  On our way to Blackburn, we found a priest willing to say prayers over Mr. and Mrs. Sanderson and Peter’s father. Priests don’t usually care for spooks, but if this one was nervous, he didn’t show it: He helped us find a horse and cart to bring the bodies to the churchyard, even performing the burial service himself.

  After the prayers, the three bodies were laid to rest. As we left the church, the bell mournfully tolling in the distance, it started to snow. We were going to have a white Christmas, the first for many years. It didn’t usually snow until January or February.

  “Is your mother still alive?” the Spook asked Peter.

  Peter shook his head sadly. “She died from a fever soon after I was born. My dad brought me up by himself. He was a good dad. He taught me a lot about the job.” I saw two tears trickle down his cheeks.

  “It seems to me that your dad has prepared you well to follow in his footsteps. Is that what you propose to do?” the Spook asked kindly.

  Peter shrugged. “I’d like to . . . though the cart and tools are still at Sanderson’s farm. You can’t pull a big cart like that without a horse.”

  I remembered the large skeleton I had come across—it must indeed have been his dad’s horse.

  The Spook nodded, put down his bag, and reached inside for his purse, then counted out four silver coins. “Here, Peter,” he said. “That should buy you a horse with a bit of wind.”

  At first I thought Peter was going to refuse, but then his face creased into a sad smile. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “I’ll think of this as a loan, and one day I’ll pay you back. And if you ever want any pig slaughtering, I’ll do it for free!”

  We left Peter on the outskirts of Blackburn. After saying good-bye to him, the Spook set off, striding on ahead. I remained behind for a moment. Peter and I had been through a lot together, and I sensed that he wanted to say something.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you,” he said, shaking my hand. “I shouldn’t have gone off into the valley like that. I could have gotten us both killed.”

  “You did what you felt you had to do, Peter,” I replied with a smile. “Your father might still have been alive, and you wanted to help him.”

  “We should have waited for Mr. Gregory, like you said. He sorted it out in the end. He’s a good man and a great spook. You’re lucky to have someone like him to train you.”

  I nodded, and took my leave, setting off in my master’s footsteps. At one point I glanced back, but Peter had already gone. I wondered if I’d ever see him again.

  I caught up with the Spook, and we continued at a steady pace toward Chipenden. We passed a church and heard the congregation singing Christmas hymns. I remember thinking that it wouldn’t be much of a Christmas for Peter.

  Later we stopped to cook a couple of rabbits I’d caught. I sat staring into the fire and thought about what I’d been through. It terrified me—not so much the horrors I’d seen; it was more about the illusions the witch had conjured up.

  For a moment the embers began to shimmer, and fear and panic squeezed my heart. What if my escape hadn’t been real? What if the pig witch had been playing with me and I discovered that being with the Spook was the illusion? I might find myself back in the slaughter pen! What if she wasn’t dead after all? I thought.

  I began to shake and moan softly to myself as I imagined her eyes staring at me out of the darkness. Maybe she was already reaching toward me, eager to grasp my hands and cut off my thumbs. Perhaps her familiar was ready to spring at my throat.

  “What is it, lad?” asked the Spook. He came around the fire and knelt facing me, resting a hand on each shoulder.

  So I told him.

  “You’ve been through a terrible experience, lad,” he said quietly, “and it’s only natural that you should feel that way. But it will pass. Trust me on that.”

  I took a deep breath, and he nodded before returning to his seat on the other side of the fire.

  We sat in silence for a while, and then I told him what my father had taught me—about all our senses combining to give us a version of what was real.

  “What if this isn’t real?” I gestured about me, pointing at the trees, the hedges, the distant hills, the sky. Terror made my body tremble again. “What if we all share the same illusion about this world and there’s something else out there, another reality that we can’t see? What if things are out there watching us?”

  The Spook stared into the embers for a long time before he replied. “I think that anything is possible, lad. But it’s a mistake to dwell too much on things like this. All we can do is deal with what we do see, hear, smell, touch, and taste. We’ve just got to get on with our lives and do the best we can.”

  I nodded, and then I realized something. “I never saw the flying pig.”

  “Aye, and that’s because it didn’t exist. It was born of Peter’s terror and the magic of the witch.”

  “I hate witches!” I exclaimed. “When I’m a spook, I’ll make them my priority. I’m going to have a really big garden with room for lots and lots of pits!”

  “What makes you think I’m going to allow you to complete your apprenticeship?” demanded the Spook. He had been behaving very kindly toward me, which had made me think that my training might continue in spite of the mistakes I’d made. But he went on fiercely: “You’ve clearly had little time to improve your skill with the chain and catch up on your notes—and you went against my express order not to leave Chipenden! That instruction was for your own good, lad. That alone is reason enough to send you home!”

  My heart sank, and I was filled with despair. How could I face my father?

  “However,” the Spook went on, his voice softening a little, “there are a few t
hings in your favor. You’ve shown resourcefulness and bravery, and from what you told me, that chain you cast at the witch wasn’t so very far off the mark. And it’s far harder to face a dangerous adversary from the dark than a practice post. So consider yourself lucky, because I’m going to give you another chance. But it’s time to knuckle down to some hard work and justify my faith in you.”

  “I won’t let you down—I promise I won’t let you down!” I told him, filled with relief and gratitude.

  When we arrived back at Chipenden, the Spook told me that I could have a rest the following day and stay in bed as late as I wanted. But that was the only concession he made to the terrible ordeal I’d been through, and he made it clear that he expected more from me.

  Nothing had really changed. The encounter with the pig witch had simply delayed the inevitable. There could be no more procrastination.

  I was determined to do my best in the future, but at least I had a lazy day ahead of me first. The sun had been up for hours when I finally dragged myself out of bed. I was far too late for breakfast, but a round of chicken sandwiches was waiting for me in the kitchen. They were delicious, and I was grateful—it would be quite some time before I could face bacon again, I reflected.

  But then, despite being given the day off, I headed out to the practice post and worked hard for nearly two hours. I felt more confident after casting the chain at the pig witch, and it seemed to me that I really was starting to improve. I returned to the house far happier, pleased that I’d made an effort.

  As I went in, I caught sight of myself in the small mirror that stood on the mantelpiece above the fire. I lifted it down to see if my face was dirty after all my exertions. All at once I panicked. I wasn’t dirty, but were my cheeks plumper? Had my nose changed? Then I checked my ears. Were they slightly bigger? I’d just convinced myself that they were no different when I noticed something that made my hands shake so badly that I almost dropped the mirror.

  There were tufts of brown hair sprouting from each ear.

  I ran out to the western garden, where the Spook was practicing with his staff, flicking it from hand to hand and stabbing it down repeatedly into the stump of a dead tree. As I sprinted up to him, he stopped what he was doing and stared at me. I was so breathless that at first I couldn’t get the words out.

  “Take a few deep breaths, lad. Take your time, gather your thoughts, and then speak slowly and clearly,” he told me.

  “It’s my ears!” I blurted out. “They’re still under the spell of the pig witch. Look at them!”

  My master came close and examined each ear in turn. “They look like normal human ears to me, lad.”

  “But look at the hair sprouting from them!”

  “Oh, that!” exclaimed the Spook. “That’s nothing to worry about. Just get used to it, lad. You’ve always had hairy ears.”

  It is now almost a year since that day, and at last I’m making real progress with my training. My notebook is up to date and I intend to keep it that way. I don’t find it easy, but I force myself to work hard at the practical skills a spook needs, such as digging pits to bind boggarts in, fighting with my staff, and casting the silver chain.

  I was with the Spook when he dealt with a fierce witch north of Ribchester. All I had to do was hold his bag while he bound her with his chain. At first I felt like turning and fleeing, but I banished my fear and stood my ground; my legs didn’t even tremble. My experience with the pig witch near Blackburn has certainly toughened me up.

  I’m definitely improving with the chain, and the Spook says he’s pleased with me.

  You see, I don’t want to come face-to-face with a fierce witch unless I am to able to cast the chain and bind her. I hate witches, and once I’m a spook, they’ll be my priority.

  I’ll be the best spook witch hunter who’s ever lived!

  Will Johnson

  EXTRACTS FROM WILL JOHNSON’S NOTEBOOK

  WITCHES

  Circe

  I’ve researched the story of Circe in my master’s library. There seems to be more than one version. My favorite concerns Odysseus, a Greek hero. He must have been a seventh son of a seventh son, because he showed some resistance to her. Using dark magic, Circe turned his men into swine (pigs), but he managed to get them turned back into humans again. Unlike my master, I think the story might be true—though Circe was probably using spells of illusion.

  In addition to the transformation of people into pigs, I think there are some further similarities between Odysseus’s encounter with Circe and mine with the pig witch. First, Circe was supposed to be the daughter of Helios, the sun god. It was really warm near that temple on the hill, and the sun was high in the sky. The marble building was similar to an illustration I found in one of my master’s books—it was supposed to be a Greek temple.

  Mr. Gregory won’t add Circe to his Bestiary, but if I ever write my own book, she’ll definitely be included. In fact, was that pig witch really Circe? I wonder. If so, she had traveled a great distance from Greece to the County. But she didn’t reckon on meeting someone prepared to eat her heart . . . Peter Snout finished her off good and proper!

  Pig Witches

  Pig witches are not really a distinct category of witch. The one I met at Sanderson’s farm was the only one the Spook has ever encountered. He believes that despite her obsession with pigs and resembling one facially, she should be placed in the category of bone witch.

  Pendle Witches

  Pendle Witches live in Pendle, hence their name. But it is important to note that by Pendle, we do not just mean the hill itself. It is a large, lawless district that includes at least three large villages (Roughlee, Bareleigh, and Goldshaw Booth). There are also several clans, the main ones being the Malkins, the Deanes, and the Mouldheels.

  Within each clan, they practice magic in similar ways. Some drink blood; others take the thumb bones of their enemies. These may be categorized as blood witches and bone witches respectively. By such means, they generate and enhance their magical power.

  Lamia Witches

  There are several types of lamia witch. The ones called vaengir can fly, but all types are slow shape-shifters. In what is termed the domestic form, they look like normal human females—except for a line of green and yellow scales that run the length of their spines. You would never guess that a woman was really a lamia witch. Shifted into their feral shape, these witches have long sharp talons and teeth, and are capable of ripping a man to shreds in moments.

  Water Witches

  As their name suggests, they live in or near water. They frequent rivers, lakes, and canals but avoid the sea. In common with most witches, they are afraid of salt, which burns them and takes away their power.

  They are ugly, with big fangs, and immensely strong. In one sense, they have regressed and are no longer fully human. They cannot speak, and understand little of what is said to them. Sometimes they have a human keeper who organizes their hunting and provides a secret refuge for them. Their strongest urge is to drink blood. A frenzied group will sometimes rip a victim to pieces.

  Celtic Witches

  Little is known about Celtic witches—other than they don’t form clans; they work alone. Nor do we know much about the type of magic they use. They live in Ireland, far from the County, and worship one of the Old Gods called the Morrigan, whose other name is the Goddess of Slaughter. We know more about the goddess than her witches.

  Romanian Witches

  These witches live in big houses and are wealthy. Their covens don’t meet in the flesh because they are able to project their souls out of their bodies in the form of glowing orbs. If people see the orbs dancing in the sky, they are drawn toward them and face certain death, for the witches absorb their life force. I am glad that Romania is a long way from the County!

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  JOSEPH DELANEY lives in Lancashire, England, right in the middle of boggart territory. His village has a boggart, called a hall knocker, which was laid to rest under the steps of a house near the church. Most of the places in The Last Apprentice series are based on real locations in Lancashire, and the inspiration behind the stories often comes from local ghost stories and legends.

  www.josephdelaneybooks.com

  Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

  BOOKS BY JOSEPH DELANEY

  The Last Apprentice: Revenge of the Witch (Book 1)

  The Last Apprentice: Curse of the Bane (Book 2)

  The Last Apprentice: Night of the Soul Stealer (Book 3)

  The Last Apprentice: Attack of the Fiend (Book 4)

  The Last Apprentice: Wrath of the Bloodeye (Book 5)

  The Last Apprentice: Clash of the Demons (Book 6)

  The Last Apprentice: Rise of the Huntress (Book 7)

  The Last Apprentice: Rage of the Fallen (Book 8)

  The Last Apprentice: Grimalkin the Witch Assassin (Book 9)

  The Last Apprentice: Lure of the Dead (Book 10)

  The Last Apprentice: Slither (Book 11)

  The Last Apprentice: I Am Alice (Book 12)

  The Last Apprentice: Fury of the Seventh Son (Book 13)

  The Last Apprentice: A Coven of Witches

  The Last Apprentice: Seventh Son

  The Last Apprentice: The Spook’s Bestiary

  The Last Apprentice: The Spook’s Tale