Burn Mark by Laura Powell Read Free Book Online Page B

inquisitorial family as well. For Endor fanatics, that would be justification enough.
    Lucas looked at Bea’s hand, resting on the stone beside his. However close they became, they would always be two different bodies, two separate souls. So how must it feel to invade another person’s consciousness, like some witches did? To tether another soul to yours and move their body to your command? Maybe that’s why Gideon’s so enthralled by the bridle , Lucas thought. He doesn’t just fear the power that witchkind has. He envies it.
    The motorcycle revved again, matching the buzzing in his ears. Although he remembered little of last night, he dimly recognised the surge of feverish disorientation. Waves of pins and needles had begun prickling through his skin.
    ‘Lucas, are you OK?’ Bea was frowning in concern.
    ‘I’m fine – I –’
    I’m going mad.
    But no, no, he wasn’t. Bea could see that. Bea would make sure he was all right. Her soft touch would soothe the itch in his blood; her rosebud mouth would hush the rising din. All he needed to do was keep his focus. He smiled, and leaned towards her.
    ‘Lucas!’
    Philly was marching across the lawn. Her make-up was smeared and her hair dishevelled, and she was clutching a bottle in one hand. ‘What’s this,’ she said belligerently, ‘what’s this I hear about you causing a scene with Gid?’
    Lucas and Bea drew apart. ‘It’s got nothing to do with you,’ said Lucas curtly, over the drumming in his ears.
    ‘Yes, it bloody well does if you keep making an idiot of yourself in front of my friends. Gid—’
    ‘Gideon’s never going to look twice at you whether I’m around or not.’
    There was a nasty pause.
    Then, ‘You pompous arse ,’ Philly exploded. ‘You know what your problem is? You’re so damn pleased with yourself the whole hexing time. You –’
    Her voice joined the buzzing in his skull, the hissings in the shadows. Both increased to a new intensity.
    ‘Be quiet,’ he said, keeping his voice low, so as not to add to the uproar all around. For some reason, one of Philomena’s hairgrips was in his jacket pocket, and he grasped it savagely. He couldn’t hear himself think.
    Philomena ignored him. She ignored the whispers and nudges of the group outside the conservatory. She ignored Bea’s hostile stare. Philomena’s evening had not been a success, and its assorted frustrations had now come to a head.
    ‘I’m warning you, if you carry on acting so superior –’
    On and on. Lucas closed his eyes, trying to concentrate on the dewy balm of the night garden. He envisaged scooping up its peace and pressing it against Philomena’s jabbering mouth. Tightening his grip around the hairgrip, he bent back its thin metal as he begged for silence. A curb of iron, a cloud of numbness. Be quiet, be quiet, he mouthed, like a prayer. Quiet . . .
    ‘The thing is, Lucas, what you fail to appre—’ Philomena coughed. ‘You fail –’ She made a retching sound, like Nell after the bridle. ‘You –’ Her voice died to a rasp, then a whisper. Then, nothing. She blinked woozily.
    One of her friends, who had been hovering near by, came and put her arm around her. ‘Come on, Phil,’ she coaxed. ‘Let’s go inside. We’ll get you some water and you’ll be absolutely fine.’
    They set off towards the house, Philomena croaking in faint protest, her hand around her throat.
    ‘ Hex ,’ Lucas swore.
    ‘She’s off her face,’ Bea told him. ‘Don’t worry about it.’
    Lucas was, in fact, feeling better. The pressure had lifted and heat retreated. ‘All the same, I’d better check she’s OK.’ He got up, slightly unsteadily.
    ‘That’s funny,’ said Bea, and pointed. ‘Look at the bells.’
    The conservatory door, like all entrances to the house, had a row of boxed iron bells over the threshold, ready to sound the alarm if a witch hexing a bane approached. All three had begun to quiver.
    Bea was more intrigued than worried. ‘Weird. I