Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
W hat was being a witch? Really, when you came down to it, it meant having knowledge that others didn’t possess. And, if Bee was to be believed, the strength to see things how they really were. And she was the witch for Unholy Island. The Ward Witch. Bee had said that her blood worked because she belonged to the island. Looked at clearly, that meant the island belonged to her, too.
‘I know you’re in pain,’ she said out loud, addressing the shop. ‘It’s abominable. But I think I can clean the books. I will find a way, if such a way exists.’ She wanted to reach out and pat the nearest shelf, but didn’t want to waste time. Kate had just tried her lighter again. There were perhaps seconds before she was successful.
Esme had one weapon of her own. The small penknife that she used for the ward ritual. She drew it from her skirt pocket.
Kate’s eyes widened in something close to amusement. ‘Are you going to stab me, Esme? I would like to see you try.’
Esme kept the blade sharp. As a much younger, more troubled woman, she had struggled with self-harm. Cutting herself had been a relief and a way to escape her reality, but not, ultimately, a very effective one. Now, she felt the same rush of calm energy that she had always felt before preparing to slice into her skin. The feeling of having a purpose and a path. When she had been self-harming, living in a group home and struggling to cope with the misery of her day-to-day existence, cutting her skin had provided a path. A route she could follow with the promise of euphoric release, however brief, that was free and available and entirely under her own control.
Long before beginning training as a nurse, she had developed the skill of cutting into skin. She knew the angle to hold the blade and how much pressure to apply for the perfect depth of cut. She looked at Kate, knowing that her blade was sharp and that, despite what Kate thought, she probably could do some decent damage, if it wasn’t for the powerful circle of protection. It wasn’t the size of the blade, after all, that made the difference. With a slice to the artery in Kate Foster’s neck or thigh, she could do real damage.
Instead, she opened her left hand and sliced quickly across the palm. It was exactly the right place. Wrist was too dangerous, too much blood, and a shallow cut on the hand would heal more quickly than on other parts of the body. At the same time, she sank to the floor, onto her knees, and pressed her bloodied hand to the floor.
Esme didn’t know if she was saying the words out loud or just inside her head. Either way, they were loud and sure. She called on the shop to wake up and protect itself. She called on the island, her island, to protect her. She didn’t know if the pulse she could feel was her own, thundering in the line of fire and pain that ran across her palm or from the ancient oak boards of the shop’s floor. She hoped it was the latter and repeated her supplication. And then again.
The doors blew open and the front window shattered, letting in blessed fresh air. It cut through the petrol fumes but would also provide extra oxygen for a fire. Then the walls began to shake, books were shuddering on the shaking shelves, some falling. The lights flickered wildly.
Esme looked up in time to see Kate Foster’s face with an almost comical expression of surprise. The floorboards were lifting around where Esme had her hands pressed down. They wrenched upward with a ripping and splintering, the cracking wood loud as gunshot. The solid planks jutted up, breaking the painted circle. Kate cried out in pain as jagged pieces of wood flew, embedding into the arms she had thrown in front of her face to protect herself.
The circle was broken and Luke was on his feet. He lunged at Kate and connected. His arms wrapped around her from behind and was shaking the hand holding the lighter, forcing her to drop it. He lifted her bodily and began moving to the front door.
Books were flying from the shelves now, and the wind inside the shop was wild. It roared and swirled with far more force than could be expected from the openings, the air moving as if with purpose.
Trying to stand up was more difficult than Esme expected. Her hand felt stuck to the floor and pulling it away took every ounce of her strength. Her forehead broke out in sweat and her whole body felt clammy as she stumbled back. Her whole hand was a ball of pain, now, and it radiated up her arm. She doubled over with the force of it.
Kate wanted to bathe them in fire, to burn away their knowledge. She had heard about all of those poor women through the years, being persecuted for their vision and know-how, their strength and their differences. She had learned entirely the wrong lesson. She could still feel the pulse in her palm, but it felt like it was the pulse of the shop, maybe even the island. All she knew was that she wanted to put her hand back onto the floor, to complete the connection again.
Luke was struggling to stand in the doorway, the wind seemingly focused on knocking him down. Kate was struggling and kicking, fighting him all the way. Her feet kept catching the bookshelves and the building seemed to shudder each time. Whether in pain or fury, Esme couldn’t tell.
‘I’m getting her out,’ Luke shouted, his voice still clear amongst the howl of the wind and the shaking of the building. ‘Let us leave.’
‘Let him out,’ Esme spoke to the shop. She sank back onto her knees and put her hand onto the floor. ‘Please.’
The shop seemed to calm a little, although the wind was still whipping Esme’s hair and she could feel a vortex of air pulling around her body as if trying to topple her. Through watering eyes, she saw Luke back through the front door, Kate Foster’s legs kicking at him now, and her whole body bucking like a wild animal.
Getting up from the floor was a little easier this time. Her hand throbbed, and she used the counter to keep herself upright. She took a shaky step toward the door, and then another. The shop was still shuddering, and there were books falling, but they were no longer flying from the shelves and in danger of slamming into her head. She felt very tired, though, and the force of the wind around her body was too strong. It would be so much easier to just lie down. The smell of petrol was catching in the back of her throat and her head was dizzy with it. Her hand was still bleeding. Perhaps she had cut too deeply after all. Lost the knack. That was what she got for being mentally healthy, she decided.
She was moving. Crawling on her hands and knees now, although she didn’t remember falling back to the floor. The wrecked floorboards made the ground into an obstacle course. Splinters of wood were tiny spikes of pain, and they helped her to keep thinking. Little bright sparks of clarity. Stars in a darkening sky.
Esme felt tired. She was still inching forward because part of her had told her she ought to move. Ought to be fleeing. Or freezing. One of the two. She moved her uninjured hand forward and planted it on the floor. Followed with a single knee. Every movement a triumph. Hand. Knee. Pain. Pulsing pain.
A calm voice in her mind informed her that she wasn’t making sense. That her thoughts were rambling and that she wasn’t paying sufficient attention to her surroundings, her situation. The fumes were toxic. She had expended energy communicating with the shop. But she needed to do something. She couldn’t go to sleep yet. There was something important.
‘Take my hand.’
Her vision was blurry. Tears, wind, fumes, exhaustion. She blinked and it cleared enough to reveal a rectangle of light. The light was abruptly cut by a large shape. The shape spoke again, sounding sort of cross. ‘Esme! Come to me. Take my hand.’
She was in the bookshop. The entrance was tightly packed with bookshelves, and the rectangle of light was the doorway to the street. She had crawled toward the exit, at least. The shape was Luke and he had his arm outstretched, crossing the threshold. His body was on the outside, and she wasn’t sure if he was able to step inside. His arm was shaking, but his hand was reaching for her.
Time had slowed and everything felt impossibly difficult. She told herself to get to her feet. And that seemed impossible, but somehow she did it. Then she told her arm to lift, her fingers to find his, but it took its sweet time. Moving as if in a dream. A bad dream. The one where you were stuck to the floor, and the monster was coming.
Then her skin brushed his and time snapped back to normal. The muted sounds of the shop and the wind and somebody screaming obscenities all rushed in.
Luke’s fingers wrapped firmly around Esme’s, gripping tightly and pulling her forward. And then she was through the doorway and out. The fresh air out here was sweet and clean and she felt her chest expand, her lungs inflating with the first proper breath in what felt like hours.
She stumbled against Luke’s chest and felt his arms wrap around her. She put her arms around him and held on.