My words are true because my blades have taken them both, stabbing faster than a blink, straight in under the bone shields. Now the kretch is blind again. This time it will not be given the chance to recover. This time only death awaits it.
I stab and cut as if in a frenzy. But each blow is measured; each slicing of its flesh calculated and precise – until it is weak and the ground is soaked in its blood.
Oh, Mr Wolf! What a big heart you had!
Now I hold the heart of the kretch in my hands. At first it continues to beat, but soon it is still and begins to cool. I cut it into tiny pieces and scatter the bloody fragments on the ground. Finally I dismember the body and scatter it to the wind.
The crows will feast well.
But its thumb-bones I keep. Later they will join the others that I wear around my neck.
My favourite weapon is the long blade: I use it for fighting at close quarters. Think you can beat me? It is already buried in your heart!
THE KRETCH IS dead, and now I keep my promise:
the ones who slew Thorne must all die too.
So I begin the hunt.
I break the back of Lisa Dugdale.
I hang her from an oak by her toes;
I drain her blood;
I take her bones.
I drown Jenny Croston in a deep cold pond.
I hold her head underwater while her limbs thrash;
I drain her blood;
I take her bones.
Maggie Lunt begs like a frightened child.
I kill her quickly; my knife splits her heart;
I drain her blood;
I take her bones.
Finally I catch and slay Bowker, the mage;
I take his bones;
I drain his blood.
Thus Thorne is avenged –
For who is left to say:
‘We took her bones’?
None, because all are dead,
And I took theirs.
I am Grimalkin.
I sense your threat! How strong are you? Are you worth my time? Shall I look for you in my mirror!
I SIT CROSS-LEGGED, sheltering by a hawthorn hedge, and remove the Fiend’s head from the leather sack. I place it on the grass before me.
It is a sorry sight indeed, and I smile. They have not attempted to unpick the stitches from his remaining eye, but the green apple and rose thorns have been plucked from his mouth. The head groans, showing the yellow stumps of teeth.
‘I win again!’ I cry. ‘Despite all that your followers attempted, you are still in my power. The kretch and your servants are dead!’
The Fiend does not reply. Even when I prod the lid of the stitched eye hard with a stick, it does not flicker. The head is cold, still and silent, almost as if the Fiend has deserted it and returned to the dark. But that cannot be because he is trapped within it.
He does not reply because, for now, he is defeated. I have won, his followers are slain, and he cannot bear to confront the victor. I have damaged him badly and I feel deeply satisfied.
I no longer have an apple or thorns at my disposal; instead I use a tangle of nettles and hawthorn twigs, ramming them into the Fiend’s mouth with considerable force. Then, with a smile of triumph, I thrust the head back into the sack.
This stage of our battle against the Fiend’s servants has ended successfully. So now it is vital that Tom Ward travels to Malkin Tower to study what his mother has bequeathed to him. I will offer him all the help he needs so that he can discover the means by which we can finally destroy the Fiend!
But the closer we come to achieving that aim, the greater the danger will become. No doubt soon there will be another threat.
A witch cannot scry her own death but she can do it for another. Recently I have foreseen a new threat to Alice. The mirror went dark so it allows a little hope. But I am deeply concerned. Four of us: Themas Ward, John Gregory, Alice and I are bound together in this enterprise.
I fear that not all of us will survive.