Half Bad

The Choker

You’ve got to give her credit: she’s an ugly witch from Hell, but she’s a worker. She’s been up all night and most of the day perfecting a new band of acid.

She puts it on. Tight.

“You’ll get used to it.”

You can squeeze one finger between the band and your neck.

“I’ll loosen it if you want.”

You blank her.

“You only have to ask.”

You can’t even gob up, it’s so tight.

You’re in the kitchen again, sitting at the table. No morning exercises, no breakfast, but you won’t be able to eat with this thing on anyway. She can’t seriously mean to leave it like this. You can hardly swallow, hardly breathe.

The buzz from healing has gone, like it’s been used up. Your hand is swollen and has healed only slightly. It’s throbbing. You can feel your pulse in your arm and your neck.

“You’re looking tired, Nathan.”

You are tired.

“I’m going to clean your hand.”

She dips a cloth into a bowl of water and wrings it out. You pull your hand away but she takes it and strokes the cloth over your wrist. It’s cool. It feels good. Taking away some of the burning even for a second is good. She slides the cloth down the back of your hand and then gently turns your hand and cleans the palm. The dirt won’t come out but the water feels fresh. She’s very gentle.

“Can you move your fingers?”

Your fingers can move a little but your thumb is numb and won’t move at all because of the swelling. You don’t move anything for her.

She rinses the cloth in the bowl of water, wrings it out, and holds it up.

“I’m going to clean your ear. There’s a lot of blood.”

She reaches over and wipes round it; again she does it slowly and gently.

You can’t hear with your left ear but it’s probably just dried blood blocking it up. Your left nostril is blocked too.

She puts the cloth back in the bowl, blood mixing with the water. She wrings the cloth out and reaches out to your face. You lean back.

“I know the choker’s tight.” She smoothes the cloth across your forehead. “And I know you can stand it.” She’s dabbing the cloth tenderly over your cheek. “You’re tough, Nathan.”

You turn away slightly.

She puts the cloth in the bowl again, mud and blood and water mixing together. She wrings the cloth out and hangs it on the side of the bowl.

“I’ll loosen it if you ask.” She reaches over and brushes your cheek with the back of her fingers. “I want to loosen it. But you have to ask,” she says again so quietly and gently.

You pull back and the choker cuts in.

“You’re tired, aren’t you, Nathan?”

And you’re so tired of it all. So tired you could cry. But there’s no way you’re going to let that happen.

No way.

You just want it to stop.

“All you have to do is ask me to loosen it and I will.”

You don’t want to cry and you don’t want to ask for anything. But you want it to stop.

“Ask me, Nathan.”

And the choker is so tight. And you’re so tired.

“Ask me.”

You’ve hardly spoken for months. Your voice is croaky, strange. And she wipes away your tears with her fingertips.

The New Trick

The routine is the same as ever. And so is the cage. And so are the shackles. The choker is still on, loose but there. If I try to leave, I’ll die, no doubt about it. I’m not at the point of wanting that just at the moment.

The morning routine is the same. I can do the outer circuit in under thirty minutes now. That’s down to practice and the diet, which means I’m a lean, mean running machine. But mainly it’s down to the new trick.

The new trick is no easier than the old trick.

The new trick is to stay in the present . . . Get lost in the detail of it . . . Enjoy it!

Enjoy the fine tuning of where I put my fingers when I’m doing push-ups, I mean really finding the finest tuning of where my fingers are in relation to each other, how straight or how bent, and how they feel on the ground, how the sensation changes as I move up and down. I can spend hours thinking about the feeling in my fingers as I do push-ups.

There’s so much to enjoy, too much really. Like when I’m running the circuit, I can concentrate on the deepness of my breathing but also the exact dampness of the air and the wind direction, how it changes over the hills and is slowed or speeded up as it’s funneled through the narrow valley. My legs carry me effortlessly downhill—that’s the bit I love best, where all I’ve got to do is spot the place to put my foot: on a small patch of grass between the gray stones, or on a flat rock, or on the stream bed. I do the spotting, looking ahead all the time, and move my leg to the right position, but gravity does the hard work. Only it’s not just me and gravity; it’s the hill as well. It feels as if the earth itself is making sure I don’t put a foot wrong. Then the uphill section and my legs are really burning and I’ve got to find the best foothold and handhold if it’s steep, and push and push. I’m doing the hard work and gravity is saying “payback time” and the hillside is saying, “Ignore him, just run.” Gravity is heartless. But the hill is my friend.

When I’m in my cage I can memorize the color of the sky, the cloud shapes, their speed and how they change, and I can get up there, be in the clouds in the shapes and colors. I can even get into the mottled colors of the bars of the cage, climb into the cracks beneath the flakes of rust. Roam around in my own bar.

My body’s changed. I’ve grown. I remember my first day in the cage and I could only just reach the bars across the top, had to do a little jump to grab them. Now when I stretch up, my hands and wrists reach freedom. I have to bend my legs to do pull-ups. I’m still not as tall as Celia, but she’s a giant.

Celia. I admit she’s hard to enjoy, but sometimes I manage it. We talk. She’s different from what I expected. I don’t think I’m what she expected either.

The Routine

Don’t get me wrong. This is no holiday camp, but Celia would say it’s no gulag either. This is the routine:

GET UP AND GET OUT OF THE CAGE—same as ever, at dawn Celia chucks the keys to me. I asked her once what would happen to me if she died peacefully in her sleep. She said, “I think you’d last a week without water. If it rains you could collect water on the tarpaulin. You’d probably starve rather than die of thirst, given the rain here. I’d say you’d last two months.”

I keep a nail hidden in the soil. I can reach it from the cage and I can unlock the shackles with it. I’ve not managed to undo the padlock to the cage yet but I’d have plenty of time to work on it. But then I’d have to get the collar off. I reckon I’d last a year with the collar on.

MORNING EXERCISES—run, circuit training, gymnastics. Sometimes two runs. This is the best bit of the day. Usually I run barefoot. The mud is part of my feet now.

CLEANING ME, MY CLOTHES, AND MY CAGE—empty my bucket, fill my bucket with water from the stream, wash in stream, wash my shirt or my jeans if it looks like they will dry quickly (I only have one set of clothes), sweep out my cage, oil and clean the cage, locks, and shackles, though most nights she doesn’t make me put them on.

BREAKFAST—I make it and I clean up after it. Porridge in winter, porridge in summer. I might be allowed honey or dried fruit.

MORNING CHORES—collect the eggs, clean out the chicken coop, put out chicken feed and water, feed the pigs, clean the kitchen range, chop wood. The ax is chained to a log and Celia always watches while I chop. (One of my first, admittedly not well thought out escape attempts was when I tried to chop away the log holding the chain.)

LUNCH—make lunch, clean up after lunch. I bake bread every other day.

AFTERNOON EXERCISE—self-defense, running, circuit training. I am improving at self-defense but Celia is seriously fast and strong. Basically it’s an excuse for her to beat the shit out of me.

AFTERNOON STUDY—reading. Celia reads to me, which sounds sweet but isn’t. She asks questions about the things she reads. If my answers aren’t good enough I get slapped, and those slaps sting. But at least I don’t have to read. Celia tried to teach me, but we came to an agreement to stop that; it was too painful for both of us. She even said, “Sometimes you have to admit defeat,” and then slapped me for smirking.

Last week I picked up a book and started to spell out some of the words, but she snatched it out of my hands, saying she might have to kill me if I carried on. Celia has a few books. There are three witch books: one on potions, one about White Witches from the past, and one about Black Witches. She reads them to me and to herself, I guess. The fain books make a bigger pile: a dictionary, an encyclopedia, a few books on bush craft, mountaineering, survival, that sort of thing, and some novels, mostly by Russian writers. I prefer the witch books, but Celia says she is providing a “rounded education,” which seems a blatant lie. Sometimes when she’s reading these other books Celia doesn’t seem like a White Witch; she seems . . . almost human. She is currently reading us a book called One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich. She loves all these books about the gulags. She says that it shows that even fains can survive in much tougher conditions than I have to cope with. The way she says it makes me wonder if she is planning something harsher.

TEA—make tea, eat, clean up.

INDOOR EVENING WORK—thankfully this is short in winter, as it’s soon dark and I have to be outside. But for the time we are together we talk about the day, things I’ve learned, stuff like that. Celia says she doesn’t teach, she talks, and I have to learn by listening and talking back “using my intelligence.” After that, if it’s still light, I may be allowed to draw.

OUTDOOR EVENING EXERCISE—in winter when it gets dark early this takes most of the late afternoon as well as the evening. I can run fine in the dark. I can’t see, but something guides me and I let it and just run. This is the one thing that I don’t need a trick to enjoy.

As well as running, we practice combat in the dark. I’m stronger and faster at full moon. If it’s full moon Celia can’t beat me, as long as I keep out of her reach. A number of times now she has said, “Good work. That’ll do for now.” I think she might have been struggling a bit.

BEDTIME (CAGETIME)—shackle myself up if she’s in a bad mood.

NIGHT—sleep most nights, bad dreams most nights. It’s good if I just look at the stars, but it’s often cloudy, and I’m usually too knackered.

Lessons about My Father

Celia is an ex-Hunter. She won’t tell me when she retired or why. All she says is that she’s employed by the Council to be my guardian and teacher.

She guards against me escaping and she teaches me about fighting and surviving. We have now moved from unarmed to armed combat, though we are only armed with wooden knives. I asked if we could practice with guns and she said, “Let’s see if you can master the knife,” like she’s some ninja expert, which of course she turns out to be. The pretend knives are all the same unusually long and slender shape. I’m guessing that the Fairborn is like this.

Celia also teaches me about Marcus.

So it all seems to be heading in a certain direction. At first I said nothing, played dumb, but I can’t play along any more. I have to make some effort to fight back, and so the other day I tackled it head on.

“I won’t kill my dad. You know that, don’t you?”

She blanked me.

But I know blank looks and I shook my head. “I won’t kill him.”

She said, “I’ve been instructed to tell you these things. I tell you them. I don’t question why.”

“You teach me to query everything.”

“Yes, but some queries won’t get answered.”

“I won’t kill him.”

“Let’s suppose Marcus has threatened to kill a member of your family: Arran, say. The only way you can save Arran is by killing Marcus.”

“Let’s suppose something more realistic. The Council threatens a member of my family: Arran, say. The only way I can stop them killing Arran is by killing Marcus.”

“And?”

“I won’t kill my father.”

“All your family. Your grandmother, Deborah, and Arran are being tortured.”

“I know the Council would kill them all. They are murderers. I’m not.”

Celia raised her eyebrows at that one. “You would kill me to escape here.”

I gave her a big smile.

She shook her head. “And if they threatened you? Tortured you?”

“They threaten me constantly. Torture me constantly.”

We were silent.

I shrugged. “Besides, I’m not good enough to do it.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Do you think I’ll be good enough, one day?”

“Perhaps.”

“I’ll need my Gift.”

“Probably.”

“Will the Council give me three gifts?”

Silence. And the blankest of looks. I’d tried that question before and not got anywhere.

“What happens to Black Witches if they don’t get three gifts? Do they die?”

“There was one girl I know of, a Black Whet, captured when she was sixteen. She was kept prisoner by the Council, not mistreated. Of course, she wasn’t given three gifts. She became ill with a disease of her lungs and also of her mind. She died just before her eighteenth birthday.”

Would I be another experiment to see what happens? And what would happen to me?

The lessons about Marcus cover his attacks and his Gifts. There is a huge list of the witches he has killed, where, and when. By where I mean what country, town, or city, but also whether it was inside, outside, near water, mountains, streams, cities . . . By when I mean dates, but also times of day or night and phases of the moon, weather conditions . . . There are one hundred and ninety-three White Witches on the list and also twenty-seven Black Witches, though the list is probably incomplete for them. Marcus is forty-five years old now, and so in the twenty-eight years since he received his Gift that averages between seven and eight killings a year.

The numbers are dropping off, though; he peaked when he was twenty-eight with thirty-two murders in that year. Perhaps he’s getting old, perhaps he’s mellowing, or perhaps he’s killed most of the ones he wants to.

The Gifts for all these witches are on Celia’s list. He hasn’t eaten all their hearts, just the ones with Gifts that he wants.

Marcus’s Gift, his own original one, is that he can transform into animals. He favors turning into cats, big cats. Most of the evidence is from tracks, a few distant sightings, and the bodies. There aren’t a lot of survivor accounts. In fact, there are just two: a young child who hid behind a bookshelf, and my mother. The child didn’t see anything but described hearing growling and screaming. My mother said she hid too, said she never saw Marcus, so that’s a lie, though the lie only became obvious after I was born, but she never said what really happened, not even to Gran.

The majority of witches Marcus has killed didn’t have great Gifts, potion-making mostly, so he wasn’t killing those witches for their Gifts. Mostly they were Hunters who were trying to capture him, but there are others, Council members and other White Witches. I guess he had his reasons, but Celia doesn’t tell me what they are, even if she knows.

As well as potion-making the Gifts he has stolen are:

Breathing fire and sending fire from hands (Arran’s father, Council member)

Invisibility (Kieran’s grandfather, Hunter)

Moving objects by thought (Janice Jones, an esteemed old White Witch who sounds more like a crook to me)

Seeing the future (Emerald, a Black Witch. I wonder if she saw that coming?)

Disguising himself as any human being, male or female (Josie Bach, Hunter)

Flying (Malcolm, a Black Witch from New York—this ability is questionable, though it seems he can make very big leaps)

Making plants grow or die (Sara Adams, Council member—does he like gardening?)

Sending electricity from his body (Felicity Lamb, Hunter)

Healing others (Dorothy Moss, Secretary to the Council Leader)

Bending and contorting metal objects (Suzanne Porter, Hunter)

And weirdest of all:

Slowing time (Kurt Kurtain, Black Witch)

I ask about Marcus and his ancestors. Celia has told me the names of the male line. It’s an illustrious list of powerful Black Witches. They all had the same Gift, the turning- into-animals one. Still, I wonder about my Gift. Will being half White change things?

And although Marcus is no longer a taboo subject that doesn’t mean I’m allowed to know everything about him. Most of my questions are answered by a simple “That’s not relevant.”

I have asked about:

The female line of Marcus’s ancestors. Not relevant.

Where Marcus was born and brought up. Not relevant.

How Marcus knew my mother. Slap.

I know how Marcus knew my mother, though, and more, since after I returned from Mary’s, Gran told me what happened. And I wonder if Celia actually does know anything of the truth of that or any of my other questions.

One day Celia asks, “How do you think I control my Gift?”

I’m not in the mood. I’ve had to kill, pluck, and gut a chicken today. I shrug.

Next thing I’m on the kitchen floor clutching at my ears. She doesn’t often use her Gift on me; usually it’s just slaps.

The noise stops abruptly and I get to my feet, using the range to pull myself up. I’ve got blood running out of my nose.

“How do I control my Gift?”

I wipe my nose on the back of my hand and say, “You think about it and—”

And I’m on the floor again.

The noise shuts off and I’m looking at the floorboards. The floorboards and I are old friends. I look to them for the answer. They are never much good at stuff like that, though.

I get to my knees.

“Well?”

I shrug again. “You just do it.”

“Yes.” She slaps me across the top of my head. “Like hitting. I know I want to do it, where and to whom, and it’s almost a reflex. I just do it. I don’t have to think about raising my arm and moving my hand.” She gives me another slap.

I get to my feet, moving a step away as I do.

“How does Marcus control all his Gifts? The ones he stole?” she asks.

“Can he control them all?”

Celia gives me a nod for that. “There is some evidence that he uses the lightning and moves objects, leaps . . .”

“Some people can play lots of musical instruments. They just pick up the instrument and play. I guess they have to practice to become expert, though.”

Celia says, “But there is always one that they favor?”

“I don’t even have my Gift, how would—”

Those slaps really sting.

Celia is also teaching me about the history of witches. I don’t know how much to believe—I often wonder how much I should believe of anything she tells me. Anyway, according to Celia, hundreds and thousands of years ago, when the world was not split into countries but was inhabited by different tribes, each tribe had a healer: a shaman. Few of the healers had real power, but one called Geeta was special: powerful, good, and kind. She healed the sick and wounded in her tribe but also people from other tribes.

This didn’t go down well with the tribe leader, Aster, who ruled that no one outside the tribe was to see Geeta without his permission. He kept her a virtual prisoner in the village. Geeta wanted to help everyone, so she escaped with the assistance of one of her patients, Callor, a wounded warrior from her tribe.

Callor and Geeta lived in a remote cave. Geeta healed those who came to her. Callor hunted and protected Geeta. They were in love and had children: twins, two identical girls, Dawn and Eve. Geeta trained them both in witchcraft, gave them both three gifts and her blood on their seventeenth birthday. They would become great witches.

The old leader from Geeta’s tribe, Aster, was ill and he sent a message requesting Geeta to return and heal him. Although Geeta wanted to help, as she helped everyone, Callor didn’t trust Aster and he persuaded Geeta to send their daughter Eve, the younger of the twins, rather than go herself. But instead of healing Aster, Eve, the hateful vicious twin, put a curse on him and fled. Aster died after a month of agony. Aster’s son, Ash, took revenge by killing Callor and capturing Geeta and Dawn.

The story goes that Dawn, the compassionate twin, fell in love with Ash and they had a daughter. This daughter was the first of the White Witches.

Eve roamed from tribe to tribe. She also had a daughter, who became the first of the Black Witches.

I asked Celia, “Do you believe that story?”

“It’s our history.”

“History according to White Witches.”

Today Blacks mock White Witches for living closely within fain communities, for pretending to be fains. They see White Witches as becoming weaker, more fainlike, needing guns to kill, using phones to communicate.

And Whites hate Black Witches for their anarchy and lunacy. They don’t integrate within fain communities but don’t have a community of their own. Their marriages never last, often ending in abrupt violence. They usually live alone, hate fains and fain technology. Their Gifts are strong.

Celia won’t talk about the female line of my Black ancestors but she has told me the names of the male line. It’s an illustrious and yet depressing list. Each one was a powerful Black Witch and none of them died quietly in his sleep at a ripe old age. My great-grandfather Massimo committed suicide, so you could argue that he wasn’t killed by White Witches, but there is a clear trend in that direction:

Axel Edge (Marcus’s father)—died in the cells of the Council under Retribution

Massimo Edge (Axel’s father)—committed suicide in the cells of the Council

Maximilian Edge (Massimo’s father)—died in the cells of the Council under Retribution

Castor Edge (Maximilian’s father)—died in the cells of the Council under Retribution

Leo Edge (Castor’s father)—died in the cells of the Council under Retribution

Darius Edge (Leo’s father)—died in the cells of the Council under Retribution

Celia says that the name of Darius’s father is less clear, as this was around the time the Council of White Witches became a formal organization, and records before this time are poor. But from stories a few more generations can be added with reasonable certainty, which are:

Gaunt Edge (Darius’s father)—killed by Hunters in Wales

Titus Edge (Gaunt’s father)—killed by Hunters in woodland somewhere in Britain

Harrow Edge (Titus’s father)—killed by Hunters somewhere in Europe

I asked Celia, “Did any of my ancestors live a long and happy life?”

“Some of them lived to their fifties. I don’t know how happy they were.”

So it’s no wonder my father is a little cautious. And I think of my ancestors and all their pain and suffering, and I still don’t understand why. I just don’t understand. I am kept in a cage, and none of it makes sense. I don’t want to live in a cage and I don’t want to die in a cell and I don’t want to be tortured and I don’t want to kill my father. I don’t want any of it, but it just goes on and on and on.

I wonder, if I ever have a son what the future will hold for him. Maybe I’d do what Marcus has done, just leave him and hope that somehow he will have a better future without me. And yet here I am shackled up in a cage and I know it’s hopeless and hopeless and hopeless.

But even with all that suffering and pain and cruelty I think that maybe my ancestors did find happiness, even for a brief time. I think I’m capable of that, and they must have been too. I hope so. I hope so. I hope so. ’Cause if I’m going to die in a cell I want to have something first. And I think of Arran and Annalise and being in Wales and running and every breath, every breath has to be precious and worth it and something important.

Fantasies about My Father

The routine keeps me busy and tired, but there are still times when I’m in the cage and I’m not in the mood for going into clouds or doing more pull-ups, so I just think.

I still like to imagine my dad coming to rescue me on my seventeenth birthday. I’m lying here in the cage all shackled up and there’s this silence, and then a distant sound—not wind, not thunder but his anger and rage. He appears over the hills to the west and he’s flying, not on a broomstick or a horse but standing as if on a surfboard, though there’s no surfboard or it’s invisible, and he’s flying toward me, dressed in black. And the noise gets bigger, the cage just explodes apart, and my shackles fall off. He zooms around and slows down, and I jump onto my own invisible surfboard and I’m flying off with him. It’s the best feeling in the world to be with my dad and flying and leaving the broken cage behind forever.

We go to the mountains where he lives and it’s lush and green, almost tropical. There, among the old trees and moss-covered stones, beside the clear stream, we sit and I am there with my father and he gives me three gifts—a knife, a ring, and a drawing—and I drink his blood warm from his hand and he whispers the secret words in my ear and we stay together forever, hunting and fishing and living in the woods.

That one’s my main fantasy, I guess: the one I always go back to.

I have other fantasies as well. Annalise features in most of them, and there’s lots of skin and sweat and kissing and tongues. Mostly I imagine I’m with her on the sandstone slab; she’s in her school uniform, Kieran has never found us, and I kiss her and undress her, sort of slow but nice, unbutton her blouse and her skirt and kiss her skin all over.

My other fantasy is pretty similar: Annalise and I are on the sandstone slab and she undresses me, pulls my T-shirt off, unbuttons my jeans, and kisses my chest, my stomach, my skin all over.

Then there are variations: she is undressing me on a hillside in Wales; she is undressing me on a beach; she is undressing me in the sunshine, in moonlight, in a rain shower, in mud and puddles.

In those fantasies I don’t have any scars.

The most recent variation is that I am in my cage and I blast it apart just by thinking about it, then Annalise appears and we kiss and I undress her and kiss her all over and she undresses me and kisses my chest and my stomach and my back. I have all my scars but she doesn’t mind and we make love on my sheepskins surrounded by the broken bits of cage.

That’s a good one. I like it that she doesn’t mind my scars. I don’t think she’d like them really, but maybe she wouldn’t mind them too much.

And then there’s the fantasy that I don’t like to use too often, but I sometimes can’t help myself. In it I’m living in a cottage in a beautiful valley by a shallow, fast-flowing river that’s so clean and clear it sparkles even at night. The hills are covered with green trees that are almost humming with life, the forest is full of birds and animals. And my mum and dad are alive and living in the cottage and I live with them. Mostly I spend time with my dad, and we don’t sleep there in the cottage, we sleep in the forest and hunt and fish together. But we also spend time with Mum; she keeps chickens and grows vegetables. And summers are hot and sunny, and winters are cold and snowy, and we live together forever. My mum and dad grow old and are happy, and I stay with them and every day is beautiful forever.

Thoughts about My Mother

When I got back from Mary’s, Gran told me that Marcus and my mother were in love. But my mother knew it was wrong to love a Black Witch. She felt guilty about it. She married Dean and had his children and tried to be happy, but basically from the moment she met Marcus she was in love with him.

I wonder if she still loved Marcus after he killed her husband, the father of her children.

I guess when Dean found Marcus and my mother together there would have been a bit of a fight. Dean’s Gift was the ability to send flames from his hands and mouth, though it didn’t do him much good in the end, as Marcus must have fancied having that ability and he took Dean’s Gift.

When did the flames stop? Did they curl out with his last breath?

And where was my mother while all this was going on? Was she there? Watching my father eat the living heart of her husband?

And was it easy to kill herself, knowing that she’d loved someone who could do that? She loved someone who killed men, women, and children, who killed the father of her children. She loved someone who ate people. And when she looked at me, her child—Marcus’s child—and saw I looked like him, did she wonder what I’d be capable of?

Assessments

I have a monthly assessment now. Celia carries it out.

She starts off by weighing me, measuring my height, and photographing me. I don’t get to see the measurements or the photographs.

Then come the physical tests: running, circuit training. All the results are noted down. None of the results are shown to me.

After that I have to do some memory tests, general intelligence tests, and some maths. I’m all right at those. Then it’s reading and writing, which Celia says we have to do, even though we both know what the results are going to be.

That’s it.

The next day I’m left in the cage, shackled up. She drives off in the morning and gets back late in the afternoon. I don’t know if she meets someone. I ask sometimes, and my questions are ignored.

The other change, which Celia has just been told about, is that I don’t have to go down to the Council building for my annual assessment. For my sixteenth birthday the Council is coming to me. Apparently I have to look my best.

Punk

“What are you trying to achieve?”

“Eh?”

“With that.” Celia indicates my head with a slight movement of hers.

I grin.

Once a month, before the assessment, I’m allowed into the cottage bathroom for a proper bath. There is hot water, which is a peaty brown color, and soap. I shave the hairs that are sprouting above my lip and on my chin. The razor is a really crummy throwaway one, and as weapons go I have decided a pencil is more lethal. Celia cuts my hair once a month, keeping it short, but today I’ve shaved off the sides to give myself a Mohican.

“You should shave it all off. You’d look like a monk.”

“A look that says pure and holy and searching for the Truth?”

“A look that says meek and mild. A look that says novice.”

“That’s not really me.”

“It would be best not to antagonize them.”

Celia wants me to do well. It will reflect well on her, I guess.

I sit at the table. “Now what?”

“Now I wait here while you go back in there and shave that mess off.”

“You’ve no sense of humor.”

“You do look absurdly funny, I’ll give you that, but it would help things along if you shaved it all off voluntarily.”

I go back into the bathroom. The reflection of me is strange. The hair is okay, a tufty Mohican. But I don’t recognize myself. I guess I’m not used to looking at myself in a mirror. I watch myself stroking my hair, see my scarred right hand brush it back, but the face doesn’t look like me. I know it is me ’cause of the scar on my cheekbone that Jessica gave me, and there’s the scar near my ear, white against the black specks of my shaved scalp, where Niall got me. But my face looks different from the way I thought it looked. Older. Way older. My eyes are large and black, and even when I smile there’s no hint of a smile in them. They look hollowed out, the black triangles rotating slowly. I lean into the mirror and try to see where my pupils end and my irises begin and my forehead hits the glass. I step back to the far end of the bathroom, turn away, and turn back quickly, trying to catch something, a light perhaps. I don’t catch anything.

“What’s taking so long?” Celia shouts.

I pick up the razor and then put it down.

A minute later I walk out.

She laughs and then stops herself and says, “Now you’re being ridiculous. Take them out.”

I grin at her and feel my eyebrow. I’ve pierced it with three small metal rings, put a metal ring in my right nostril and a bigger one in the left corner of my bottom lip.

“It’s all part of the punk look.” I run my fingers across the choker. “It would be better with safety pins.”

“Where did you get that thing in your lip?”

“They’re all from the plug chain.”

“Why don’t you attach the plug as well? You might as well look totally mad.”

“You’re just too old to understand.”

“Can we go back to my original point? What are you trying to achieve?”

I look out of the window to the hills and sky, pale gray high clouds leaching the color from everything.

“Well?”

“Freedom from persecution.” I say it flatly.

Silence.

“Do you think I’ll ever get that?”

Nothing moves outside; the heather on the hills is undisturbed by wind, the clouds are motionless.

Later on in the evening I do a drawing. I use pencil, as we’ve run out of ink and I’ve gone off charcoal. Pencil is okay. I’ve drawn the animals and plants I see around here. Celia has put a few aside to show the Councilors. I am tempted to ask, “What are you trying to achieve with that?” but I don’t bother, as I’ll just get a blank.

Tonight I’m drawing Celia. She hates me drawing her, which is all part of the fun. Warts and all is my approach. Take no prisoners. She’ll burn it afterward. She always burns the portraits of her. I don’t take this as an artistic insult; it’s the original that’s the problem.

I do self-portraits, but just of my right hand. The melted skin is like runs of thick oil paint ending in a rounded, not quite solidified blob. The skin on the back of my hand between the smooth runs is cracked and lifting like an old painting too. My hand is art.

I did a drawing of my hand holding a long, slender dagger a few weeks ago. I thought Celia was going to faint, she was holding her breath so long. I scrunched the paper up, saying it was “rubbish” and threw it on the fire before she could stop me. I’ve not done it again; it wasn’t that funny.

My landscapes really are rubbish. I can’t get them right at all, and my buildings are boringly bad. I’ve drawn the cage, though. I captured that. I caught its sucked-out blackness, a holding-something-down-ness. I know that cage so well. It was my best piece. I told Celia we should show it to the Council. She didn’t say anything and I’ve not seen the picture since. I guess she burned it.

“They’ll be here late morning,” she says as I draw. “I’ll weigh you, photograph you before they get here.”

“Nervous?”

She doesn’t reply, and I lean away, anticipating a slap, but she doesn’t take the bait.

“I won’t mess up. Don’t worry. I’ll be a good boy and answer all their questions nicely. And I won’t spit at them until the end.”

Celia sighs.

We’re quiet again, me trying to draw her hair. I think it’s thinning; perhaps it’s worry.

“Will you be in the room when they do the assessment?”

“What do you think?”

“Probably not . . . Definitely not.”

“Then why ask?”

“Just making conversation.”

“Then make it better.”

I draw her mouth at that point. She has a great sneer that somehow makes her big lips seem less ugly and more interesting. I’d like to draw her standing to attention outside my cage, holding the key, with the look she sometimes has on her face, the look that’s almost pity. The reason she does this job, I think.

“Well?” she asks.

“Well what?”

“I know you want to ask something.”

How can she tell that?

“Umm. Well. I was wondering . . . How come you got the job of being my jailer?”

“Teacher and guardian.”

“There weren’t many applicants, I guess.” I’m finishing off her mouth now, but the downward curve of the original has softened.

She turns to me, disturbing the position she’s been holding.

“I believe I was their first choice for the post.”

“Their only choice, you mean.”

I wait, but she’s giving nothing away.

“And your life is so empty that sitting in the middle of nowhere acting as jailer for an innocent child must seem pretty rewarding.”

She’s actually beginning to smile at this.

“And I bet the pay isn’t that great.”

She nods a little.

“Imprisoning, beating, physically and mentally scarring a boy who isn’t yet sixteen years old . . . a boy who has never done anything wrong . . . they’re all the plus points of the job.”

“Yes,” she says. “They are all plus points.”

The smile has gone, but the sneer hasn’t returned. She resumes her previous pose and doesn’t look at me as she says, “Marcus killed my sister.”

Her sister must be on the list. I don’t know Celia’s surname. I’ve asked before but apparently it’s not relevant.

“What Gift did she have?”

“Potion-making.”

I nod. “Can Marcus do your thing . . . your Gift . . . with the noise?”

“Is it on the list?”

“You should watch out. I’d bet he’d like it to be.”

We are silent again.

I had sort of guessed that Celia had an issue with me, or rather with me being the son of you-know-who. It wasn’t a wild guess. Let’s face it, she was bound to know or be related to someone on the list.

I say, “I’m not Marcus.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t kill your sister.”

“It’s unfair, isn’t it? But I think that there is a chance, admittedly a small one, that he does care about you and that it irks him that his son is here.”

“Does he know I’m here?”

“No, I don’t mean here. This place is well hidden, even from his abilities.” She stretches her neck and arms. “I mean that he will know that we have you. And will assume you aren’t in any state of luxury. I’d hate to disappoint on that level.”

“Why not leave me in the cage all day, then? You can’t seriously think I’d ever be able to kill him? This training is stupid.”

She gets up and walks around the room. This is usually a sign that she doesn’t want to answer the question.

“Perhaps, but leaving you in a cage all day would be cruel.”

I’m so amazed that I don’t start laughing for a second or two. When I’ve managed to calm myself I say, “You beat me. I wear a choker that can kill me. You shackle me up at night in a cage.”

“You’re well fed. You’re sitting here drawing.”

“And I’m supposed to be grateful?”

“No. You’re supposed to sit there with a full stomach and draw.”

“I’ve finished it,” I say and push it across to her.

She picks the paper up and turns it round to study it. After a minute she rolls it up and puts it onto the fire.

I pick up the pencil again and begin another. This time I draw myself, my face as I saw it in the mirror but even older, how I imagine Marcus looks. I can tell Celia is watching closely. She is hardly breathing. I’ve never done this before. I do the depths of his eyes like mine, exactly like mine. I can’t imagine them blacker.

When I’m finished I’m not that pleased. He looks too handsome, too nice. “Burn it,” I say. “It’s not right.”

Celia reaches over to take it and studies it longer than she studied her own portrait. Then she takes it out of the room.

“It doesn’t mean he looks like that,” I call after her.

She doesn’t reply.

I pack up the pencils, eraser, and sharpener in the old tin. The lid pushes on and that’s that. Celia comes back to sit opposite me again.

“Has anyone ever come close to catching him?” I ask.

“Who knows how close they get? No one succeeds. He’s very good. Very careful.”

“Do you think they will get him one day?”

“He’ll make a mistake—it only takes one—and he’ll get caught or killed.”

“Are they using me as bait to get him?”

She sounds pleased as she says, “I should imagine they are.”

“But you don’t know how? In what way, I mean?”

“My job is to act as your guardian and teacher. That’s all.”

“Until when?”

“Until they tell me to stop.”

“What will happen to me if they catch him?”

She sticks her lower lip out. It’s huge and flat. Slowly she draws it back in, but she doesn’t say anything.

“Will they kill me?”

The lip goes out again but comes in quickly this time and she says, “Maybe.”

“Even though I’ve done nothing wrong.”

She shrugs.

“Better safe than sorry, hey?”

She doesn’t respond.

“What would you do if they told you to kill me? If they said, ‘Put a bullet in the Half Code’s brain.’” I mime a gun, pointing a finger to the side of my head, and make a shooting sound.

She gets up and walks around behind me, pushes a finger hard against the back of my skull, and makes the same sound.

I don’t sleep well. It’s not cold. There’s no wind, not a breath. The clouds are still. There’s no rain.

I’m nervous about seeing the Council. My hands are shaky. Nerves, just nerves.

I can still feel Celia’s finger on the back of my skull. I know they can kill me at any time. Who would do it and how is irrelevant; the end result is the same. But still the thought of it being Celia has got to me. I know she’d do it. She’d have to, or someone would do it to her.

The trick is to enjoy it. How do you enjoy that?

You have to find a way.

Celia has told me that Annalise is unharmed, as are Deborah, Arran, and Gran, but the implication is that that may change at any time. When I’m dead they will be safe.

That’s the upside.

I can enjoy thinking they are all alive and well and safe.

Annalise is in the woods, running around, smiling, laughing, climbing the sandstone cliff. I want to see her and touch her skin again; I want her to kiss my fingers, my face, my body. And I know it will never happen, and instead she will be with some shithead White Witch who has his paws all over her. Enjoy that!

Deborah will marry a nice guy, have kids, and be happy. I can imagine that. That’s true. She’ll have three or four kids and she’ll be a great mum and they’ll all be happy. Gran will live peacefully in her house drinking tea and feeding the chickens.

They are good thoughts. And then I remember Gran and Deborah crying on the landing. But their tears dried then and they’d dry again—maybe they already have. Maybe they think I’m dead already.

I don’t think Arran will believe I’m dead. I remember him sweeping my hair back and saying, “I couldn’t stand it.” His foot is sticking out of the bed and my fingertips are kissing his forehead, and I am crying.

A Hunter

It’s my sixteenth birthday. I’ve been weighed and measured by Celia. She’s shaved my head and removed my piercings.

It’s midmorning and I’m back in the cage, shackled up. I guess Celia thinks it makes her look conscientious.

A jeep appears on the track. In the stillness, it seems grotesquely loud. And it just keeps getting louder. Eventually it stops and they get out.

The Council Leader hasn’t bothered to come, and neither has the other woman. But Annalise’s uncle, Soul O’Brien, is here, and with him are two other men. A dark-haired youngish man, dressed in new walking boots, jeans, and a pristine, waxed jacket. He’s so pale he looks like he’s not been outside for years. In contrast the other man looks like he’s spent his life outdoors. His blond hair is mixed with gray. He is tall, muscular, and dressed in black, which gives me a clue to what he is. But it’s easy to tell them. They have a way of looking down at everyone else, even the Councilors.

Celia goes to meet them. I wonder if she will salute or shake hands. Neither.

They come over to look at me. Caged up. The Hunter has pale blue eyes that are hardly blue at all they have so much silver in them.

They all look at me, then they all turn their backs on me and look at the scenery, and then they all go inside.

It’s the usual routine for assessments after that. I’m left to wait.

Eventually Celia comes to get me. She doesn’t say anything, just unlocks the cage and leads the way to the cottage. She stops by the front door. As I walk past her and go inside I wonder if she’ll say good luck, but she’s not that nervous.

The three visitors are sitting at the kitchen table. I’m standing, of course. Outside, Celia passes the window, pacing.

Annalise’s uncle asks all the questions and makes notes. The same sort of questions that Celia has asked me every month. He squirms when I try to read, but mostly his expression is one of boredom. He never hurries, and we eventually work through all the mental tests.

He says, “That’s all my questions.”

He’s not talking to me but to the Hunter. The Hunter’s not spoken yet. Not to me, nor to them.

The Hunter gets up and walks around me, eyeing me. He’s taller than me, but not by much, and he’s solid. His chest is twice as thick as mine and his neck is huge.

He stands behind me and speaks quietly, close to my ear so that I can feel his breath. “Take your shirt off.”

I do as he says. Slowly, but I do it.

The third man, the dark-haired one, gets up and walks around to look at my back. He takes hold of my arm, and it’s all I can do not to pull away. His fingers are clammy, weak. He turns my hand over, looking at the scars on my wrists. “You can heal well. And quickly?”

I’m not sure what to say.

“Let’s go outside and see,” the Hunter says. Again I feel his breath on my neck.

The Hunter speaks to Celia. She nods and walks over to the area where we practice self-defense.

“Show me what he can do,” the Hunter says.

Celia and I do a bit of sparring.

The Hunter says to stop and calls Celia over to him for a quiet word in her ear.

Celia comes back to me and I can see she’s serious. We fight. She beats me; I let her get too close. I’ve got a bloody nose and a swollen eye.

Now I am summoned over. The dark-haired man wants to see me heal. I do it, slowly.

I think that’s going to be it, but the Hunter speaks with Celia and then turns to me and says, “Do the outer circuit.”

I do a fair pace. No point in killing myself.

When I get back the Hunter makes Celia and me fight again. But Celia is armed with a knife this time. She wins again. I have a cut on my arm. I have to heal that for the dark-haired man.

“Do the outer circuit again.” The dark-haired man says it this time.

I do as I’m told. I don’t push too hard, because I’m fairly sure I’ll be beaten up again at the end of it.

Correct. And Celia wins again. She’s obviously been told not to hold back. I get stabbed in the thigh. Deep. I’m pissed off now. I heal and . . .

“Do the outer circuit again.”

I do it but I’m not thinking about the run, just thinking about that little dark-haired man standing there, smiling.

This time when I get back the Hunter is smiling too.

I have a bad feeling.

I have to fight Celia again. I’ve just done the circuit three times and been beaten up three times already today. I do my best to keep out of Celia’s reach, and I even land a kick, but when I’m backed up near the Hunter he pushes me into Celia and it’s all over. I’m on the ground. The Hunter comes over and kicks me hard in the ribs. And again. His boots are like breeze blocks.

“Get up. Do the outer circuit.”

I know that a few ribs are broken. He does too, I suppose.

I heal them and get up slowly.

Then he hits me and knocks me to the ground again. More kicks. More broken ribs. I stay down.

“I said, get up and do the outer circuit.”

I can heal but it’s not as strong. My ability is being used up. I get to my feet slowly. Then I set off, slowly again.

I tell myself to relax on the run. Forget about them. Pretend they don’t exist. I do the circuit, but my ribs are only just healed by the time I get back.

The dark-haired man comes over and looks at my chest. The bruising has gone.

Then the Hunter comes over, carrying a sort of truncheon. I look at Celia, but she is looking down.

When he’s finished I’m just left there on the ground. The truncheon was strange. I don’t think anything’s broken, but I’m feeling odd.

The dark-haired man stands over me. “Can you heal?” he asks me. “Can you get up?”

Yeah, I can get up. I get to my knees but then everything swirls around and it’s nice to lie down.

When I open my eyes again Celia is crouched beside me.

I ask her, “Have they gone?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll just rest here.”

“Yes.”

Early evening and I’m fully healed. I’m having extra helpings of stew and bread. Celia is quiet, watching me eat.

I say, “Typical White Witches, that lot. Kind, gentle, healing natures.”

Celia doesn’t reply.

“I wouldn’t have minded, but I didn’t even spit at them.”

Celia still doesn’t reply so I try a different approach. “I can’t be that important; the Council Leader didn’t bother to come.”

“Do you know who the blond man is?”

I shrug.

“He’s Soul O’Brien. He’s recently been appointed as the deputy Council Leader.”

I nod. Interesting, Annalise’s uncle is moving up in the world. “Who was the Hunter?”

Celia gives a short laugh. And I stop eating to look up at her.

“I thought you knew. That was Clay.”

“Oh!” The leader of the Hunters came to check me out. “And the dark-haired guy? Who’s he?”

“He said his name was Mr. Wallend. I’ve never seen him before.”

I finish my stew and wipe the bowl out with the last of the bread. Then I push my bowl away, saying, “I thought I’d let you win all the fights, so you didn’t look too bad in front of them.”

“Very considerate.”

“They can’t have been too impressed, though. With me, I mean. If I can’t even beat you I’m not going to match up to Marcus.”

“Perhaps.”

“And I didn’t even try to hit Clay.”

“A wise decision.”

I think so too, but still if I’d known it was him . . .

“What?” Celia asks.

I don’t know . . . I don’t know how I feel about Clay except to say, “He killed Saba—Marcus’s mother, my grandmother.”

Celia nods. “Yes, and Saba killed Clay’s mother.”

I nod.

“Your mother . . .” Celia says this and hesitates. I don’t look at her, can’t risk breaking whatever tightrope of confession she is balanced on. “Your mother saved Clay’s life once. He was badly hurt by a Black Witch, his shoulder was being eaten by poison. Your mother was the only person able to heal him. He would have died without her help.”

I still don’t look at Celia. There’s nothing to say to that.

“Your mother had an exceptional Gift for healing. Truly exceptional.”

“My gran told me.” Though she never told me that story.

“They are interested in your ability to heal yourself.”

“And?” I look at Celia now.

“I think you’re healed enough to do the washing up now.”

Gran

The months after my assessment pass; the routine is the same as ever. Autumn comes, the nights get longer and it’s good. Winter. Snow. Winds. I’m stronger than ever. I don’t mind the rain. The frost is beautiful. My feet are tough as hide.

The snow melts, though a few pockets remain in a few hollows. The sun has some warmth in it, but I have to really stay still to soak it into my skin.

My seventeenth birthday is months away, not years.

Celia never talks about my birthday. I ask her often, but she doesn’t tell me anything.

I’m inside one day, making bread. Celia is writing at the kitchen table.

I try again, with a well-worn question. “On my birthday, will I be given three gifts?”

Celia doesn’t answer.

“If you want me to kill Marcus I’ll need my Gift.”

She carries on writing.

“Will my gran give me three gifts?”

I know they wouldn’t let me near her, not in a million years.

Celia looks up, opens her mouth as if to answer but closes it again.

“What?”

She puts the pen down. “Your gran.”

“What?”

“She died a month ago.”

What? A month ago! “And you forgot to mention it until now?”

They can tell me nothing or anything, and how do I know if any of it is true?

I throw the dough on the floor.

“I’m not supposed to mention it at all.”

So Celia’s being considerate, and for all I know that is another lie. And Gran is dead. That’s true for sure. They will have killed her or made her commit suicide, and everyone else can be killed as well if they want.

“And Arran?”

She blanks me.

I kick the chair over, pick it up, and slam it down.

And they’ll do just what they want and kill everyone and I hate them, hate them, hate them. And I’m slamming the chair down again.

“I’m going to have to put you in the cage if you carry on like that.”

I throw the chair and leap at Celia, shouting.

I wake in the cage, shackles on.

Visitors

A few weeks after Celia tells me about Gran, I’m collecting eggs. I’m thinking about Gran and her hens and how they tried to get into the house, and Gran with her beekeeper’s hat on, lifting the honeycombs . . .

I put the egg basket on the ground and listen.

Listen hard.

A faint, not-quite-there sound; distant, but somewhere in the hills.

And a clatter from the kitchen.

I run on to the wall and from there leap onto the cage to look toward the southwest, where Marcus will come from in my fantasy.

The hills sit there quietly, giving nothing away. I swivel around, looking and listening, holding my breath.

That is not the wind.

It’s a growling, a distant growling.

Celia is at the kitchen window staring at me. She hasn’t heard it but knows something is up ’cause I’m on the cage. She disappears then reappears at the front door. And now it’s there, the unmistakable sound.

Not my father. A vehicle.

“Get in the cottage!” Celia shouts at me.

A 4x4 appears as a distant black cube moving along the track.

“Get off the cage!”

But if these are people, real people—fains, walkers, holidaymakers—then I must be able to do something. I’ll tell them I’ve been kept in the cage. The choker—they might be able to get it off. Maybe I should wait until she gets rid of them and . . . club her with something . . .

But then she changes. Her body slumps a fraction. She says, “Get in the cage, Nathan.” Her voice is flat now. She knows who it is.

I watch the jeep for a couple of seconds more before jumping down and going into the cage.

“Padlock it.”

She walks toward the track.

I pull the door shut but don’t lock it. I go to the back of the cage and find my nail in the soil. I put it in my mouth, digging it into my cheek and healing it over.

The jeep revs and churns louder. It stops at the far side of the cottage. Celia walks over to it.

She’s talking through the driver’s window. Waving her hands around, in frustration it looks like. Unusually dramatic for her.

I can’t see the driver.

The jeep doors open and Celia is holding her arms wide as if she can stop them. They are almost as big as her. All in black, of course. I don’t see the driver’s face until Celia moves to the side, but I know who it is.

Have they come to kill me? What other reason? To give Celia instructions to do it? Do I padlock the cage now? It seems pretty pointless.

Clay is walking toward me.

Celia is a step behind him, and behind her are two female Hunters.

Celia says, “But I’ve not been informed about this.”

“You’re being informed now. Get him out of the cage.”

Celia doesn’t hesitate for more than a second before she swings the door open.

They can only be here to kill me. Maybe they’ll walk me to the end of the field and do it there, or not even go to the trouble of that, just do it by the cage. I’ll be buried with the potatoes. And this must mean that they’ve killed Marcus. They don’t need me any more. My father is dead.

“Come out.” Clay’s voice is casual.

I back up and shake my head. They’ll have to kill me here. And I can’t believe my father is dead.

Then I hear a buzzing in my head—not Celia, a phone. And it’s not coming from the Hunters behind Celia; it’s closer. I feel something grab my right arm and go around my wrist, and the fourth Hunter materializes beside me. He’s as big and as ugly as I remembered. Kieran is holding my arm, the handcuff now visible. I try to strike his face with my free hand but he drops down, pulling me by the handcuff, and another of the Hunters has run into the cage and grabbed my left arm. I get a kick in to a female Hunter, but then I’m slammed into the bars, my arms are cuffed tightly behind me, and I’m slammed into the bars twice more.

“Move again and I’ll rip your arms out,” Kieran growls in my ear.

The great thing about hate is that it takes away everything else so that nothing else matters. So then the old trick is easy. I don’t mind about having my arms ripped off, about pain, about anything. I whip my head back and catch Kieran in the face, a cushioned scrunch of his nose on the back of my skull.

He squeals but doesn’t loosen his grip.

My arms get pulled up so I can’t move, but they don’t get ripped off, so I’ve got to wonder how serious Kieran really is.

Kieran drags me out of the cage and pushes me to the ground, but I roll and kick up so my boot makes contact with the side of his face. Roll again and get to my feet, but the two female Hunters are on me then and the punch to my kidneys is explosive.

I’m on my knees, my face on the path.

Celia is shouting at Clay, “This is unacceptable! I’m his guardian.”

Clay’s voice is calm. He says, “The orders are for us to take him.”

There’s a boot on my head keeping my face crushed against the ground.

Celia complains, argues, says she has to come, says she’s going to come, but Clay is good. He just says no.

In the end Celia says she has to take the choker off me. She asks permission.

As she unlocks it her hands are gentle and she says, “I’m going to follow you down.”

Clay says, “No. We’re going to have to borrow your van. He’s too dangerous to risk putting in the jeep.”

“Then I’ll drive your jeep.”

“No, Megan’ll drive it. If you insist on coming I suppose you could ride with her.”

There’s a threat in his voice; Celia must hear it. Megan couldn’t hurt Celia, but she’ll go the wrong way, get lost, run out of petrol. Celia won’t risk falling out with the Hunters; she’ll stay here. She’ll do what they want.

“Oh yes, I was supposed to give you this.” Clay’s voice is casual again now.

“A notification! When did this happen?”

He doesn’t reply.

“Two days ago? I should have been told. He’s my responsibility.”

Clay still doesn’t reply.

“It says that all Half Codes are to be ‘codified.’ What does that mean?” And I know Celia is saying all this for my benefit.

“I’m just providing the transport, Celia.”

“I’ll come down—”

But Clay cuts in. “I’ve told you the situation, Celia. He’s ours.”

“And when are you bringing him back?”

“I haven’t got instructions about that.”

Codified

I’m in Celia’s van, face down on the metal floor. It’s nearly two years since I was last here, and yet the rusting paint seems familiar.

Kieran has begun to heal his broken nose but it’s well mashed. He is holding a chain that is attached to my handcuffs and wrapped round my ankles, and he jerks on it to pass the time.

Clay is sitting in the passenger seat at the front, Tamsin is driving, Megan is following in the 4x4, and I guess Celia is still at the cottage.

The only thing to do is rest, but as soon as I doze Kieran yanks at my ankles or lashes my buttocks with the chain. When he’s fed up with that he shouts to the front of the van, “Hey, Tamsin, I’ve got another.”

“Yeah?” she shouts back.

“What’s the difference between a Half Code and a trampoline?”

She doesn’t answer and I get a heavy stomp on my back as Kieran says, “You take your shoes off to jump on a trampoline.”

His next joke he says quietly, just sharing it with me. “What’s the difference between a Half Code and an onion?” He lifts my shirt up. I feel his fingers scratch over the lower part of my scars, his scars, as he says, “Cutting up an onion makes you cry.”

After four or five hours the van stops. From the few voices I hear it has to be a motorway service station. They fill up with petrol and then sit around eating burgers and chips and slurping drinks. The smell would be tempting, but I’m desperate for a piss and don’t want to think about food and drink.

It probably isn’t going to be worth it, but I say it anyway. “I need to pee.”

The chain whips across the top of my thighs. I have to clench my teeth and breathe through my nose.

When the pain eases I say, “I still need to pee.”

The chain hits my thighs again.

The van sets off. Clay is giving mumbled instructions to the driver but I can’t hear them.

Twenty minutes later the van stops. I’m dragged backward by the ankles and out of the back of the van, which is backed up into some bushes. There is little traffic noise. They’ve found a quiet spot.

“Any trouble. Anything. And you’re dead.” Kieran says it so close to my ear I can feel the spray of spit.

I don’t acknowledge him.

He undoes my handcuffs and frees my right hand.

I piss. A long, long wonderful piss.

I’ve hardly zipped up and I’m back in the cuffs and shoved into the van again. I’m smiling inside at the relief, and because I’m thinking of Celia. She is tougher than these idiots.

The journey just keeps joggling along. Kieran must be sleeping ’cause he’s not bothering me. The nail is still in my mouth, but there’s no chance of escape with three Hunters round me.

The rust of the van’s floor scratches across my cheek as I’m pulled out of the back end of the van once more.

“On your knees.”

I’m in the courtyard of the Council building, the place where I was taken from just before my fifteenth birthday.

I’m pushed down. “Your knees!” Kieran shouts.

Clay has gone. Tamsin and Megan are by the cab of the van. Kieran is standing to the side of me and I squint up at him. His nose is swollen and he has one black eye.

“Your healing’s a bit slow, Kieran.”

His boot flies at my face, but I roll out of its way and up to my feet.

Tamsin laughs. “He’s fast, Kieran.”

Kieran feigns disinterest and says, “He’s their problem now.”

I look around as the two guards reach me, grab my arms, and drag me off without a word.

They take me into the Council building through a wooden door, along a corridor, then right and left and past an internal courtyard, through another door to the left. Then I am in the corridor I recognize and sitting on the bench outside the room where they do the assessments.

I heal the various scrapes and bruises.

It’s almost like old times. I have to wait, of course. My hands are still cuffed behind me. I stare at my knees and at the stone floor.

A long time passes and I’m still waiting. The door at the far end of the corridor opens; there’re footsteps but I don’t look up. And then the footsteps stop and a man’s voice says, “Go back the other way.”

I look up and then I stand up.

Annalise’s voice is quiet. “Nathan?”

The man she’s with must be her father, and he’s pushing her back through the door. The door shuts and that’s it.

The guard stands in my way, blocking the view. I know he wants me to sit, and I hesitate but I do it, and the corridor is the same as it always is.

But Annalise was here. She looked different: older, paler, taller. She was wearing jeans and a light blue shirt and brown boots. And I replay it over in my head: the footsteps, “Go back the other way,” seeing her, our eyes meeting and her eyes are pleased, and she says my name softly, “Nathan?” and the way she says it she isn’t sure, like she can’t believe it, and then her father pushes her back, she resists, he pushes and blocks the way, she looks around his arm, our eyes meet again, then the door shuts. The door blocks all noise out; footsteps and voices on the other side can’t be heard.

I replay it all again, and again. I think it was real. I think it happened.

They take the handcuffs off to weigh, measure, and photograph me. It’s the same as before an assessment, but it’s not my birthday for months so I’m not sure if I’m going to be assessed or what. I ask the man in the lab coat, but the guard who stands watching it all tells me to shut up, and the man doesn’t answer me. The guard puts the cuffs back on, and I am back in the corridor, and there is more waiting.

When I’m taken in it’s Soul O’Brien sitting in the center seat this time. I’m not surprised. The woman Councilor is back on the right, and Mr. Wallend is sitting on the left. At least Clay isn’t here.

They start asking me questions like the ones in my assessment. I’m uncooperative, in a silent sort of way. Soul is his usual bored self, but I’m more convinced than ever that it’s an act. Everything about him is an act. He asks each question twice and doesn’t comment on my lack of response, but they soon give up and don’t even seem that bothered. After his last question, Soul whispers to the woman and then to Mr. Wallend.

Then he speaks to me.

“Nathan.”

Nathan! That’s a first.

“It is less than three months until your seventeenth birthday. An important day in your life.” He looks at his nails and then up at me again. “And an important day in mine. I’m hoping that I will be able to give you three gifts on that day.”

What?

“Yes, that may seem a little surprising, but it’s something I’ve been considering for many years, something I would be . . . interested in doing. However, before I can give you three gifts I must—we all must—be sure that you are truly on the side of White Witches. I have the power to choose your Designation Code, Nathan. I suggest that it is in your interest that you are designated as a White Witch.”

And I used to want that, used to think it was the solution, but now I know for sure that I don’t.

“Nathan, you are half White Witch by birth. Your mother was from a strong and honorable family of White Witches. We at the Council respect her family. Some of her ancestors were Hunters and your half-sister is now a Hunter too. You have a proud and respectable heritage on your mother’s side. And there is much of your mother in you, Nathan. Much. Your healing ability is a sign of that.”

And I’m not sure if he’s talking a load of bollocks, because I’m convinced my father is pretty good at healing too.

“Do you know the difference between Black Witches and White Witches, Nathan?”

I don’t reply. Waiting for the usual good-versus-evil argument.

“It’s an interesting question, isn’t it? Something I’ve often pondered.” Soul O’Brien looks at his nails and then at me. “White Witches use their Gifts for good. And that is how you can show us that you are White, Nathan. Use your Gift for good. Work with the Council, the Hunters, White Witches the world over. Help us and . . .” He leans back in his chair. “Life will be a lot easier for you.” His eyes seem to glow silver as he says, “And longer too.”

“I’ve been kept in a cage for nearly two years. I’ve been beaten and tortured and kept from my family, my family of White Witches. Tell me which bit of that is ‘good.’”

“We are concerned for the good of White Witches. If you are designated White—”

“Then you’ll give me a nice bed to sleep in? Oh, yes, of course, as long as I kill my father.”

“We all have to make compromises, Nathan.”

“I won’t kill my father.”

He admires his nails again and says, “Well, I’d be disappointed if you agreed readily, Nathan. I’ve watched you with interest every year since we first met, and you rarely disappoint me.”

I swear at him.

“And in a way I’m glad you haven’t done so now. However, one way or another you will do as we require. Mr. Wallend will ensure that.”

I’m not given a chance to reply, because Soul nods at the guards and they come up to me and take an arm each.

As I’m hauled out of the room and along the corridors I try to keep track of the directions—the lefts, the rights, the benches, windows, and doors—but it’s too complex and I’m soon in a part of the building where the corridors are less straight, and this one is descending until it becomes so narrow that one guard is in front of me and one behind. Stone steps take us farther down. It’s cold. There’s a row of metal doors on the left.

The guard ahead stops by the third door, which is painted blue, though the paint is scratched off in places to show gray beneath. It’s not a door to fill anyone with hope. He slides it open and the guard behind me pushes me through.

I’m standing in a cell. The only light is from the corridor. The cell is empty except for a chain attached to the wall, which the guard is now shackling to my ankle. Then he’s out of the door, turning the lock and slamming a bolt.

Complete blackness.

I’m still handcuffed. I step forward and make my way around the room, feeling the uneven stone walls with my toes, my body, and my cheek. Three paces to the left of where the chain is attached is the corner and then two paces farther I run out of chain. It’s the same on the right. The short chain stops me from getting near the door.

The floor is cold and hard but dry. I sit with my back against the wall. Four stone walls, one door, a length of chain and me.

But soon nausea and fear join us.

The moon is halfway through its cycle, so things are bad but not really bad. I’ve not been inside at night for a long time, though. I jiggle my feet. Then I jiggle my body. This helps the panicky feeling but not the nausea. I roll on to my side but keep jiggling and crawl into the corner and push my head into it. Some of the time I jiggle, some of the time I don’t.

I bring up watery vomit, but there’s not much of it. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, but my stomach retches repeatedly. There’s nothing to come out, but it clenches and turns, and I’m coughing up nothing, but still my stomach wants to get rid of something.

Then the noises start. I hear hissing and banging, but I’m not sure if I’m imagining them or if they’re real noises. The hissing is horrible, persistent; the bangs make me jump, they’re so loud. I try to anticipate them but I can’t. All I can do to help is to shout. Shouting drowns out the noises, but I can’t keep it up all night. I’m sick again, and I lie with my head pressed into the corner, and I hum and jiggle and shout back at the noises from time to time when they make me jump.

It’s dawn. The cell is still dark, but the nausea and noises leave as quickly as they arrived.

No one comes.

I should make a plan but I’m too exhausted to think of one.

Still no one comes.

I try to rest. I’m hungry. My mouth tastes disgusting. Will they bring food and water? Or will they forget about me and leave me here to die?

They have remembered me. They have brought water but not remembered that I need to eat as well. They have forgotten my name too.

I can’t seem to remember it either.

“I’ll ask you once more to state your name.” The young witch has stopped saying please.

I’m going with my usual plan, the one where I say nothing. It’s not the most sophisticated plan; it’s bound to cause irritation, and it’s not likely to have a profound effect on anything that will ultimately happen. But at least it’s a plan.

I stare back at her, taking in her appearance from the top of her neatly brushed, mousy hair, past her small, pale blue eyes, perfectly applied mascara, smooth, thin coating of foundation, and precisely painted, pink lipstick. Her narrow frame is well dressed in a beige suit, tights, black patent shoes. She looks like she’s made an effort, and she looks like she’s had a decent night’s sleep. She is even wearing perfume, which is floral.

And the more I look, the more overcome I am by her appearance, her prettiness, and her basic, cruel stupidity. She is dressed for some business meeting, and I’ve been kept in a cell.

And I now have a new plan. I slouch on one hip and leaning forward slightly toward her I say, “My name is Ivan. Ivan Shukhov.”

The woman looks a little confused and irritated. She’s probably trying to work out if it’s some sort of rhyming slang.

“No, you are Nathan Byrn. Son of Cora Byrn and Marcus Edge.”

I lean back and try to sound casual. “Nah, I’m Ivan. You must be after the guy in the next cell.”

“There isn’t anyone in the next cell.”

“You mean he’s escaped?”

She pulls her lipsticked lips into a smile, perhaps to show she has a sense of humor.

“We just need to ensure that you are aware of what is happening.”

“Course I’m aware of what is happening.” That wasn’t at all casual, and I have to recover my tone. “I’ve been treated like a king by the wonderful Council of White Witches. Fed the best food, given the best bed and”—I lean forward again—“been introduced to the most charming, fresh- smelling White Witches.” The guard pulls me back by one arm. “My name is Ivan Shukhov, and I am aware of what is happening. Are you?”

“You are not Ivan Something-or-other. You are Nathan Byrn and you are going to be codified.”

“I’ve no idea what that means.”

Her eyes are cold, fixed on me, pale blue shimmers glacially in pale blue.

“It doesn’t sound too good,” I say. “I kind of feel sorry for this Nathan guy.”

“You are Nathan.”

“What does codified mean? I’d like to tell Nathan if I see him.”

“It’s a sophisticated tattoo.”

“I can’t imagine you think any tattoos are sophisticated.”

She smiles. “This one is. Mr. Wallend has been working on the potion for some time.”

“What is the tattoo?”

“It’s your code, of course.”

I lean forward and the guards grab my arms and hold them back. “A brand, you mean.”

She opens the pink lips on her beautifully made-up face to speak again and I spit at them. The gob lands perfectly.

She screams and splutters, rubbing at her mouth. The guards hold me back.

The woman has backed away a pace; her makeup is not so immaculate as she wipes it with her handkerchief. She holds the handkerchief to her mouth as she says, “You are Nathan Byrn. You have a mother who was a White Witch and a father who is a Black Witch. You are a Half Code and as such you are to be codified.”

This time my spit lands on the hem of her skirt. She staggers back as if I’ve hit her. The guards still keep hold of me.

“Take him to Room 2C.”

The guards shuffle through the cell door, dragging me out, and in the narrow corridor they have to go sideways, which is better for me as I can climb the walls with my legs, even though one guard has me by the neck. They get me in front of a green metal door with 2C painted on it. It slides open and I stop struggling for a second.

Room 2C contains what looks like an operating table with lots of black plastic straps. Again I start struggling and shouting.

In the end they have to knock me out with a punch to the side of my head.

I wake and begin to gag and choke. There’s something in my mouth. I can’t spit it out. It’s rubber and metal.

The woman is standing beside me, looking down at me. She smiles and says, “Ah, awake at last.”

I squirm and squeal, but it’s pathetic so I stop. Room 2C has painted white walls and the ceiling is bare except for a light and what looks like a camera nestled in the far corner. That’s all I know about Room 2C because I can’t move to see anything else. I’m lying down, my body strapped to a table. My hands are no longer handcuffed, but they are secured, and I can feel with my fingertips that the table has a thin layer of padding under a sheet. My head is strapped by my forehead and rests in a sort of hollow in the table. It feels like there are straps over my body, arms, legs, and ankles.

I’m trying not to think of Retribution. I don’t want to think of the powder Kieran put on my back. But I have a clamp in my mouth. Is codified another word for Retribution?

The door rattles and then I hear it slide open and there is the sound of something metal being dragged over the floor. A light is shone so bright that even with my eyes closed I see a red glare. There is the sound of more dragging and the clink of delicate metal objects.

“Nathan. Look at me.”

It’s Mr. Wallend. He has very dark blue eyes with white flecks in them. He’s wearing a lab coat.

“You’re here for codification. I’m going to carry out the procedure. It may be a little uncomfortable, but I’d like you to be as still as possible. Try to relax.”

I start to squirm again.

“It’s a bit like a tattoo, only a much quicker and easier process. We’ll do the ones on your finger first. Give you the feel of it. You’re left-handed, aren’t you?”

He can’t possibly make sense of my squirming and squealing.

He pushes a metal ring over the little finger of my right hand and tightens it.

“Okay. So this is simple. Just relax. It’ll be over—”

I scream into the gag as a needle pierces into the bone of my finger.

It is drawn out.

Mr. Wallend loosens the ring and moves it up my finger. “Next one.”

I scream and curse him and move my finger as much as I can but the ring tightens and the needle goes into me again.

As it comes out I’m sweating.

He moves on to the top of my finger, over the fingernail. The needle goes through again.

I bite on the gag and stare at him, tears streaming out of my eyes.

It stops.

My heart is thudding.

That was not a tattoo.

Mr. Wallend is undoing the ring and taking it off. He and the woman peer at my finger.

“Excellent. Excellent. There’s hardly any swelling. Your body is exceptional, Nathan. Exceptional.”

Mr. Wallend walks round the table to my left hand.

“Now for the bigger tattoos. These might feel a bit more intense.”

I feel cold metal on the top of my left hand, along the line of my middle finger. I stare at him and curse into the gag.

Mr. Wallend ignores all that and gets on with his job so that all I can see of him is the top of his head. Dark brown wavy hair.

“Try to relax.”

Yes, of course, easy. Something is scraping against the inside of my hand, on my bone.

Mr. Wallend’s hair is wavy and still. I’m still too.

When the scraping stops I feel sick, dizzy.

Mr. Wallend looks up. “Not too bad, hey? Now, the thing to remember is that it won’t come off. Ever. It’s inside you now. If you try to remove it with scarring of the skin, say, it will reappear. So there really is no point in trying.”

He looks at my hand again, smoothes it over with his finger. It feels bruised and tender. “The code looks very good. Very good indeed.”

He’s moving down the bed.

“Now the ankle. Try to relax. It’ll just be a few seconds.”

I can’t help but try to pull away, however feebly. It seems more than a few seconds that it’s scraping into my bone and through into my marrow. The gag’s in my mouth and I know I mustn’t be sick.

“It takes longer on the bigger bones,” he says. “Just the last one now.”

He moves the machine round the table, disappearing from sight and reappearing on my right side.

He puts the machine on my neck.

Oh no . . . no . . . no . . .

“Try to calm yourself.” He leans forward, his face close. “It may feel a bit strange here.”

I am lying on a thin mattress, curled up. My right wrist is handcuffed to the metal bar of the bed. I can feel where I’ve been codified. My fingers and hand feel bruised. My ankle is the same. But my throat is more than that. There is a taste, a metallic taste.

I haven’t opened my eyes yet. I woke up here some time ago.

I want to go back to my cage.

An image of Mr. Wallend comes into my head and he smiles at me. I open my eyes.

This cell is different from the stone cell. This one has a medical feel to it, like Room 2C. The room is lit by a weak, white glow emitted from a small light in the corner of the ceiling. In the other corner of the ceiling is a camera. The cell is empty except for the bed.

I raise my left hand to look at it.

B 0.5

It’s a black tattoo. The one on my ankle is the same.

So much for being designated as a White Witch. To them I’ll always be half Black.

I heal my hand and finger. The bruised feeling goes. The same works for my ankle and my neck. Slowly the taste fades and the buzz arrives. I curl up and look at the tattoos on my little finger. Three tiny black tattoos: B 0.5.

I need a plan.

The light is on so that they can watch me. I resist looking at the camera.

The nail is still in my mouth. I bite through my cheek and slide the nail out with my teeth and tongue, taking it with my left hand as if I’m wiping my lips. Picking the handcuff lock isn’t difficult, though I have to do it while hiding what I’m doing. I leave the cuff on but open.

Now I have to get in role.

I start shaking and then fling my legs around, make choking sounds and grabbing at my throat. I only have to keep it up for twenty seconds before there is the sound of a bolt sliding back. I roll onto the floor, my right hand still looking like it is cuffed to the bed. My eyes are open but hidden under my arm.

The legs and bottom of the lab coat of Mr. Wallend rush toward me; he really must be worried. The black boots of a guard stop in the doorway.

Mr. Wallend bends over me, and I pull him down, punch his face, roll up to standing, and stamp on his balls.

The guard is in and grabbing at my arm. I kick his knee. There’s a crack and the guard grunts and falls backward, but his arms are long and there’s no room to get back from them. He’s pulling me with him and I twist and roll to the side where I can kick his knee again. He’s still got my arm, and his other arm swings over and catches my ear with a glancing blow. I slither around and kick him in the face. His grip loosens, and after another kick I pull away from him. He is quiet. Mr. Wallend is quiet too.

I get up and out, slide the door shut, and bolt it.

I’m holding the bolts in place and leaning against the door, in shock at how easy that was. My ear is throbbing fast, in time with my heart. I heal my ear.

If anyone else was watching the camera they’d be here by now.

I go left, passing Room 2C, and then turn right, away from the cell and up the stone steps. Along the corridor to the left, the way I was brought in, and still no one is coming. I slowly swing open the door at the end and peer through. Another corridor that’s vaguely familiar, but they all look pretty much the same. I stride down it, past an internal courtyard, which I have definitely seen before, but I can’t remember how it relates to anything else.

I keep going. It’s not looking familiar now. I go left and left again. The door at the far end begins to open and I nip down another corridor to the right and dash as quietly as I can to the door at the end. It’s bolted. I can hear footsteps down the far corridor.

The bolt is stiff, but I can jiggle it across. Faster . . . faster . . .

The footsteps are getting louder.

I slither through the door, closing it silently behind me.

I want to laugh at my luck, but I hold my breath and flatten myself against the door. I am in the courtyard where Celia’s van picked me up and dropped me off. Her van is not here. There are no vehicles. There is a high brick wall with razor wire on the top. In the wall is a solid metal gate to allow vehicles in, and near the gate is an ordinary wooden door. It’s probably locked, alarmed, protected by security spells of some kind, but maybe just a spell to stop people getting in, not getting out . . .

I keep close to the walls as I move quickly round the edge of the courtyard. The wooden door is bolted top and bottom. These bolts slide easily.

The whole thing feels too easy.

And I’m now terrified of what’s on the other side of the door—the disappointment of seeing a guard standing there.

I open the door slowly, silently.

No one’s there.

I am shaking. I step through the door and close it quietly behind me.

It’s an alley. Narrow, cobbled. And above is the sky; it’s gray and overcast, early evening.

A person walks past the end of the street. An ordinary person talking on a mobile phone, just walking, looking ahead. Then a car goes past and a bus.

My knees feel weak. I don’t know what to do.