Witch Fire by Laura Powell Read Free Book Online

however little choice he’d had in the matter.
    But these concerns were already fading in the light of a new, more pressing question.
    What kind of task did Jack Rawdon have in store for them?

Chapter 5
     
    Glory was dreaming of the Burning Court.
    Its white-tiled walls sloped up to the mouth of the huge chimney that formed its ceiling. An audience of inquisitors waited behind a viewing pane.
    She herself was waiting at the balefire’s stake. Bundles of wood were stacked around her legs; an electric fuse led from under them to the observation room.
    Glory stood in stillness and silence. She had no choice. She’d been given a drug to immobilise her body and numb the pain. While her heart hammered fit to burst, her reflection in the glass was perfectly serene.
    She knew what was about to happen. She’d had the dream so many times that her subconscious mind could anticipate each step. That didn’t mean she could stop it, though. That didn’t mean she could escape the moment when her reflection changed, so that she was staring at another woman, a wide-eyed blonde, in the mirrored glass. Her mother.
    And that moment was followed by the instant of true horror: when she realised the drug didn’t work, that her nerves and senses hadn’t been numbed, and she was about to burn alive . . .
    As always, Glory tried to fight, to thrash, to scream. As always, she couldn’t move. Not so much as a twitch of an eyelid, as the first spark leaped from the wood, and the fire swept upwards with a spit and cackle.
    Through the rising smoke, she could see the audience in the observation room. This was the part of the dream that changed: the faces of the people who watched her burn. Tonight it was Lucas, standing next to Troy. Auntie Angel, arm in arm with Peggy.
    As always, she tried to beg them to help. As always, they watched, patient, smiling, unconcerned, as the flames twisted towards her. At any moment, the fire was going to lick at her feet and writhe upwards through her flesh, flaying her to the bone.
    Her tongue was frozen. So was the breath in her lungs. All the same, a scream, swollen, unstoppable, was bursting through her body –
     
    Glory woke up. Her hair was damp with sweat, and she was breathing as hard as if she’d run a race. When she turned on the light, she nearly cried out for real. In the course of the nightmare, she must have been clawing at her arms, for the cuts and scratches left by yesterday’s fae-healing session had opened again, and speckled the sheets with blood.
    Cursing, she clambered out of bed. Wasn’t she ever going to grow out of this thing? She was a legally registered witch. The Inquisition wasn’t going to come for her in the night; boots on the stairs, fists on the door. Yet the old nightmare showed no signs of fading.
    She glanced at the photograph of her mother she kept beside the bed. They didn’t look much alike. Edie was a natural blonde, with small, delicate features, and a guarded smile. The kind that always leaves, never looks back , that’s how Auntie Angel had described her. The only time her mother was truly vivid for Glory was in her dreams.
     
    As Glory was leaving for work – late, as usual – she passed Peggy on the stairs. Patrick had attended his first Residents’ Association meeting on Sunday evening, and had spent the following morning at a local computer club, teaching the oldies how to use the internet. Now he and Peggy were going to meet the construction crew who were refurbishing the children’s play area. Maybe this was why he’d been so cheerful at breakfast. The fact her dad was up at all was a novelty. In Cooper Street, he had rarely surfaced before twelve. Glory noticed that Peggy was wearing a new lipstick, and frowned.
    Normally, she quite enjoyed her docklands commute. This morning, the Thames glittered in the sun, and the sleek ranks of apartment blocks and offices glittered too. But Glory walked head down, too preoccupied to notice.
    WICA was not a part