Gran says, “They’ve healed well. They look like they’ve been there for years.”

I arch my back, bend forward, and then roll my shoulders. There’s no pain there now; the tightness has gone.

“The creams have done some of the work but so have you. Your healing abilities have begun.”

All witches can self-heal faster than fains. Some a lot faster. Some instantly. And I know Gran is right. I feel so good. Buzzy, on a mini high . . .

But the healing has finished now. The first night after the creams are off I curl up in bed, at last able to lie in any position I like. It feels good, but not for long. I start to sweat, and the headache I have been ignoring grows until my skull feels like it is going to break open. I go to the kitchen for a drink of water, but that makes me feel sick, so I sit on the back doorstep, and the relief is instant. I stay there in the open doorway, leaning against the wall. The sky is clear, and the full moon seems heavy and huge. It’s quiet and still, and I don’t feel tired. I look around and see that my shadow lies long and dark across the kitchen floor. I get a small knife from the drawer, taking my time, feeling the nausea build again while I’m in the kitchen, but as soon as I return to my spot on the back step it disappears.

I balance the knife in my hand, wondering where to try first.

I make a small cut with the point of the knife in the pad of my index finger. I suck the blood and then look at the cut, pulling the skin apart. More blood, another suck, and then I stare at the cut and try to heal it.

I think, Heal!

More blood appears.

I relax, look at the moon, feel the cut, the throb of my finger. Feel it. Keep my awareness on it and on the moon. It takes I don’t know how long. A while. But I know something is happening because I’m smiling, can’t stop it. The buzz is there. This is fun. I push the point of the knife into my fingertip again.

The next night I try to sleep in my bed but am sweating and nauseated soon after it goes dark, so I go outside and instantly feel better. I sleep in the garden and go back to the bedroom before Arran wakes up.

I do the same the third night, this time only going back inside when Arran is getting dressed.

“Where did you go last night?”

I shrug.

“You’re not seeing Annalise?”

“No.”

“If you are . . .”

“I’m not.”

“I know you like her, but—”

“I’m not! I just had a bit of trouble sleeping. It was too hot. I slept outside.”

Arran doesn’t look convinced. I walk out and Deborah is there on the landing, brushing her hair, pretending not to have been listening in.

When we are in the kitchen having breakfast Deborah leans toward me, saying, “It wasn’t hot last night. I think you should tell Gran about not being able to sleep.”

I shake my head.

So Deborah announces to us all, “I’ve been reading up on post-traumatic stress disorder.”

Arran rolls his eyes. I stab my cereal with my spoon.

“The reaction to shock can be delayed. Nightmares and flashbacks are typical. Anger, frustration . . .”

I glare at her as I put a huge mound of cereal in my mouth.

Gran asks, “What are you talking about, Deborah?”

“Nathan has suffered a terrible trauma. He isn’t sleeping. He’s sweating.”

“Oh, I see,” Gran says. “Are you having nightmares, Nathan?”

“No,” I insist through the cereal.

“If he is having nightmares, and certainly if he is suffering from stress, then bringing it up at the breakfast table is not very thoughtful,” Arran says.

“Gran can probably give him a sleeping potion, is all I’m thinking.”

“Do you need a sleeping potion, Nathan?” Arran asks.

“No, thanks,” I say, stuffing more food in my mouth.

“Did you sleep well last night, Nathan?” Arran puts on a tone of extreme mock concern.

“Yes, thanks.” I speak through the cereal.

“Yes, but why didn’t you sleep in your own bed, Nathan?” Deborah looks from me to Arran as she asks.

I stab at the mush in my bowl. Arran glares at Deborah.

“You’re not sneaking off to see Annalise?” Gran asks.

“No!” Bits of cereal spray on to the table.

Gran stares at me.

Why does no one believe me?

“You still haven’t said why you didn’t sleep in your own bed last night,” Deborah says.

Arran says, “We all know he likes to sleep outside, Deborah.”

I bang my spoon hard on the table. “I didn’t sleep in my own bed ’cause I felt sick, okay! That’s all.”

“But that—” Deborah starts.

“Please be quiet. All of you,” Gran interrupts. She massages her forehead with her fingers. “I need to tell you something.” Gran stretches her hand out to hold my arm and says, “There are many different rumors about Black Witches and their affinity with the night.”

I stare at her, and her eyes are concerned and old and serious, and locked on mine. Black Witches and their affinity? Is she trying to tell me that I’m some kind of Black Witch because I’ve slept outside for a couple of nights?

I pull my arm out of her grasp and get up.

Arran says, “But Nathan isn’t a Black—”

“There are stories about weakness too,” Gran says. “Some Black Witches can’t stand to be indoors at night. They are stories. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t true.” Gran massages her forehead again. “Being indoors at night drives them mad.”

Arran looks at me and shakes his head. “This isn’t happening to you.”

Gran continues, “I should tell you one of the stories. It’s important for Nathan.”

By this time I’m backed into the corner of the kitchen. Deborah comes to stand with me. She puts her arm round me and leans on my shoulder whispering, “I’m sorry, Nathan. I didn’t know. I didn’t know.”

The Story of the  Death of Saba

Saba was a Black Witch. She had killed a Hunter and was on the run. Virginia, the leader of the Hunters, and a group of her elite were on Saba’s trail. They had tracked her across England, through countryside, cities, and towns, and they were closing in.

Saba was exhausted, and in desperation she hid in the cellar of a large house on the edge of a village. She must have been desperate or she wouldn’t have tried to hide. It doesn’t work, hiding from Hunters. She must have known that they would track her there. And they did. The Hunters found the house and quickly surrounded it. There would be no escape for Saba. Some of the Hunters wanted to charge into the cellar, but Virginia didn’t want to lose anyone else. There was only one way into the cellar, through a trapdoor, and Virginia ordered that the entrance be blocked up for a month, by which time Saba would be either dead or so weak that she could be captured with no losses on the Hunters’ side.

Virginia knew that most of her Hunters weren’t happy about this. They wanted revenge, glory, and a quick end to Saba and this hunt. Virginia set a guard on the entrance to the cellar to stop Saba escaping but also to ensure none of the Hunters disobeyed her orders.

Night fell, and the Hunters found places in the house and its gardens to sleep. But no one slept, because soon after dark, terrible screams came from the cellar.

The Hunters ran to the trapdoor, thinking that one of their number had disobeyed Virginia’s orders, had entered the cellar, and was being tortured by Saba. But, no, the guard still stood at the blocked-up entrance. The screams came from the cellar and carried on until dawn. The Hunters tried to sleep and covered their ears or plugged them with bits of material from their clothes but nothing would stop the sounds from piercing their heads. It felt as if each one of them was screaming too.

The next morning the Hunters were exhausted. These were all tough men and women, the toughest, but they had been hunting Saba for weeks, and now they were drained.