Half Wild (The Half Bad Trilogy Book 2) Read online

  But these are more than tattoos, more than brands: they’re some form of magic too. If the Hunters get me, if Mr. Wallend gets me, they’ll cut off my finger and put it in a witch’s bottle and then I’ll be in their power. They could use it to torture me or to kill me at any time by burning the bottle. That’s what I think they’d do. The tattoos are their way of having control over me. They’d use it to try to force me to kill my father.

  Except I won’t ever kill my father. I couldn’t, even if I wanted to, because my father is still the most powerful Black Witch I’ve ever heard of and I’m nothing compared to him. I mean, I can fight OK and I can run OK but that’s not ever going to be enough against Marcus.

  Shit! I’m thinking about him again.

  I should go back to thinking about my body.

  Sometimes my body does strange things. It changes. I need to think about that more. I need to try to work out how it changes, why it changes, and what the fuck it changes into.

  I don’t ever remember it but I know it happens because I wake up naked and a little less hungry. Though sometimes I’m sick, vomiting up the night’s meal, then retching again and again. I don’t know if it’s cos my body can’t take what I’ve eaten. I eat small animals mainly, though I don’t remember catching them. But I know it’s happening cos there’re little bones in my vomit and rags of furry skin and blood. There was a tail once. A rat’s tail, I think. I know I change into some kind of animal. It’s the only explanation. I have the same Gift as my father. But I don’t remember any of it: not transforming, not being an animal, not transforming back. Nothing until I wake up after it all. I always sleep so I guess I must be exhausted by it.

  I got a small deer last night. Woke up next to its half-eaten body. Haven’t puked that up. I think my stomach’s getting used to it. I’ve been hungry, dead hungry, but now I’m not. So I guess that goes to show you can get used to anything, even raw meat. Still, I could murder a proper meal. A burger, chips, stew, mash, roast beef, and Yorkshire pudding. Human stuff. A pie. Custard!

  Careful!

  Best not to think about what I can’t have: that’s the route downhill. Must be careful with my thoughts. Mustn’t drift into the negative. And I’ve been good at staying positive today, so I can reward myself by thinking about other people, even my father, but I have to be extra careful with thoughts about him.

  I met him. I met Marcus. He didn’t kill me, which I never really thought he would, but given his reputation it could have gone either way.

  I went through most of my childhood believing Marcus didn’t care for me but it turns out he was thinking of me all the time, just as I was thinking of him. And he always planned to help me. He searched me out. Then he stopped time for me, which I’m guessing isn’t a simple thing to do, even for him. He performed my Giving ceremony: let me drink his blood and gave me three gifts. And the gold ring he gave me, his ring, is on my finger, and I rotate it and hold it to my lips and feel its heaviness and taste the metal. The bullet my father took out of me, the magical Hunter bullet, is in my pocket. I sometimes feel that too, though I’m not sure I even like having it as it’s a Hunter thing. And the third gift he gave me, my life, is still with me. I don’t know if that really counts as I’ve never heard of any gift not being a physical thing before but he’s Marcus and I guess he knows what he’s doing.

  I’m alive because of my father. I have my Gift because of my father, and that Gift is the same as his. Most witches struggle to find their Gift, maybe taking a year or more to work out what it is, but I didn’t even have to look for mine. It found me. And I don’t know if that’s a good thing. Best to think of something else . . .

  My family is a positive thing to think about. I don’t often go negative when I’m doing family. I still miss Arran but nowhere near as bad as when I was Celia’s prisoner. Those first weeks in my cage I missed my brother so much. But that was years ago . . . two years ago, I think. The Council took me just before my fifteenth birthday, just before Arran’s Giving. Yes, it’s over two years since then but I know he’s OK and Deborah too. Ellen, my Half Blood friend, contacted Arran, showed him a picture of me, and I saw a video of him, heard his message to me. But I know that they’re better off without me. I can never see them again but it’s OK because they know that I’m alive, I’ve escaped, and I’m free. Being positive is what I do and that is a positive thing because the longer I’m away from them the better it is for the people I care about.

  Sometimes I sit in the cave entrance, maybe lie down and sleep there for a bit, but I’m not sleeping too well and generally I feel more comfortable waiting up here in my tree where I have a good view. The mountainside is steep here; no one’s going to come strolling by on a whim. But you never know. And Hunters are good at hunting. I try not to think about Hunters too much, although pretending they don’t exist isn’t sensible. So, anyway, I sit up in my tree and when it’s dark, like now, I allow myself to remember the old days, before I was taken by the Council, before Celia, before they kept me in my cage.

  My favorite memory is of me and Arran playing in the wood near Gran’s house. I was hiding in a tree and when Arran finally spotted me he climbed up to join me, but I went further and further out on a thin limb. He begged me to stop so I moved back to sit with him, much like I am now, me leaning back on him, our legs astride the branch. And I’d give so much to sit with him like that again, to feel the warmth of his body supporting mine. To tell that he’s smiling from the movement of his chest, to feel his breath, his arm round me.

  But it’s best not to think too much like that. Best not to think about what I can’t have.

  I remember Gran too, with her bees, her boots and chickens, and the muddy kitchen floor. The last time I saw Gran was when they took me away. I was in the Council building and was told that Celia was going to be my “guardian and teacher.” That was the first time I saw Celia, the first time I heard her sound, her Gift that could stun me. It seems like a lifetime ago. Celia felled me with her noise and they carried me away and I had one last sight of Gran looking old and frightened, standing alone in the middle of the room where I had my Assessments. Now I look back, I think Gran knew she’d never see me again. Celia told me she died, and I know they drove Gran to kill herself like they did my mother.

  I know now—

  What’s that?

  Footsteps! At night!

  My adrenaline kicks in.

  Control yourself! Listen!

  Light footsteps. Light enough to be a Hunter.

  I turn my head slowly. See nothing. The cloud cover is heavy and no moonlight gets through to me here in the forest.

  More footsteps. More adrenaline.

  Shit! That’s more than adrenaline—that’s the animal in me.

  Then I see her. A small deer. Nervous.

  And the animal adrenaline is ready to burst out, the animal in me wanting to take over.

  Calm! Calm! Breathe slowly. Count the breaths.

  One in slow and out slow.

  Two in slow—and hold—and out slow.

  Three in slow—and I can feel it in my blood, setting it on fire—and out slow.

  Four in slow and it’s the animal in me, whatever it is that makes me change.

  The deer moves away and is quickly lost in the gloom. But here I am, human, and the deer is not dead. I can control my Gift. Stop it anyway. And if I can stop it maybe I can allow it too.

  I’m grinning. For the first time in weeks, I feel genuinely positive about something.

  I’ve done well today, stuck to the lists, haven’t strayed too far onto the negative. I can reward myself with some good thoughts, things I reserve for special occasions. My favorite ones are of Annalise. And this is what I remember . . .

  Me and Annalise

  The two of us are sitting on the sandstone escarpment, our feet dangling over the edge. Annalise is fifteen; I’m still only fourteen. My
leg is close to hers but not quite touching. It’s late autumn. We’ve met here once a week for the last two months. Since we’ve been meeting we’ve only touched once, the second time we were here. I held her hand and kissed it. I still can’t believe I did that. I was sort of carried away, I think. Now I think about it all the time, and I mean all the time, but I can’t seem to do it again. Annalise and I talk and climb and run around but even when we’re chasing each other I never catch her. I get close and then I can’t do it. I never let her catch me either.

  She’s swinging her legs. Her gray school skirt is clean and pressed and neat. The skin on her legs is smooth and lightly tanned and the hairs on her legs above her knees are fine and blonde. And my leg is millimeters from hers but I know I can’t make it go any closer. I force myself to turn my head to look at something else.

  The cliff is steep and the drop is long but doable as the landing is on sandy soil. The tops of the trees are moving and rustling, almost talking to each other, gossiping, and leaves fall in little gangs. A cluster descends toward us and even before she moves I know Annalise will try to catch one. She stretches out her hand, her arm, and then her body over the edge of the cliff. She’s going too far but she won’t get hurt if she falls, although maybe I should grab her, hold her. But I don’t move. She laughs and reaches out even further and catches the leaf, taking hold of my sleeve at the same time, and still I don’t touch her. I pull my arm back so that she’s safe but I don’t touch her.

  She’s got the leaf. A small brown triangle from a birch tree. She holds it by the stem and twirls it in front of my face.

  “Got it. No thanks to you! I nearly fell.”

  “I knew you’d be OK.”

  “Did you now?” She pats the leaf against my nose once, her fingers close to my lips. I move my head back away from her.

  “It’s for you. Here, take it.”

  I say, “It’s just a leaf. There are plenty of them around.”

  “Hold your hand out. This is a special leaf. It’s one I caught, at great personal risk, just for you.”

  I hold out my hand; I want the leaf.

  She drops it into my palm.

  “You never say thank you, do you?”

  I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it.

  “And you never touch me.”

  I shrug. I can’t tell her I think about every millimeter between us. I say, “I’ll keep the leaf.” And I push off from the cliff and drop to the ground below.

  I’m at the bottom and I don’t know what to do now. I was hoping she’d jump down with me. I look up at her and say, “Can we talk about something else?”

  “If you come back up here and ask nicely.”

  I climb back up the cliff, fast as I can, showing off, but when I get near the top I stop. She’s moved to the place where I normally climb over. She’s blocking my way. There’s a different route to the left that’s harder and I go down a couple of holds and then back up and she’s shuffled along to be sitting there now.

  “Hi,” she says, leaning forward and smiling at me.

  The only way I can get up is by climbing over Annalise. “Excuse me,” I say. “Can you let me pass?”

  She shakes her head.

  “If I say please?”

  She shakes her head again and is smiling a huge smile. “For a badass Half Code, you really aren’t very badass.”

  “Please, Annalise.” My hold isn’t good: my fingers are already cramping and my toehold is slipping. I won’t be able to stay here for much longer.

  “I can’t understand how you were expelled from school. You seem such a timid boy.” She says that in a teacher-ish voice.

  “I’m not timid.”

  She leans toward me, grinning. “Prove it.”

  I have to either jump down or climb over her and I have to do one or the other pretty soon as my right leg is starting to shudder with the strain. I think I can get over her if I put my hand to the right of her leg but I’ll have to somehow pull up over her lap and—

  “I can’t wait to tell my brothers what a frightened little thing you are,” she teases. I look up at her face and, even though I know she’s joking, just the thought of her speaking to her brothers about anything makes me mad. I see her smile disappear in an instant. I let go of the rock, turn in the air, and drop to the ground. She calls out, “Nathan! I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have . . .” And she drops to the ground beside me, as graceful and light as ever. “I shouldn’t have said that. It was stupid.”

  “If they ever find out we meet. If—”

  “You know I won’t tell them anything. It was a stupid joke.”

  I realize I’m overreacting and ruining the day, so I scuff around the sand with my boots and say, “I know.” And I smile at her and want to get back to having fun. “Just don’t tell anyone I’m really a wimp, will you? And I won’t tell them what a badass you are.”

  “Me! Badass?” She’s grinning again and her feet scuff the ground too. Then she makes a long line in the sand and says, “On a scale from badass here”— she sticks her heel in one end—“to nice, polite, and timid over here”—she walks to the other end of the line, puts her heel down, and looks at me—“where am I?”

  I mutter to myself, “Annalise, Annalise, Annalise,” and I move up and down the line. About three-quarters of the way to the timid end I stop and then shuffle a little nearer to the other end and then further and then further until I’m about a tenth of the way along the line from the badass end.

  “Ha!” she says.

  “You’re far too bad for me.”

  She growls at me. “Well, most of my school friends would put me here.” And she jumps to a spot near the timid end.

  “All your school friends are fains,” I say.

  “But still capable of spotting a nice girl when they see one.”

  “And where would they put me?”

  I move out of the way as Annalise shuffles along the line almost to where I’d been standing, close to the complete- badass end.

  “And your brothers? Where would they put me?”

  She hesitates but then walks past the badass end as far as the cliff. She says, “The fain kids at school were scared of you cos you beat people up. You had a bad reputation for being wild but they saw you in class most days, sitting quietly, so they knew that if they left you alone you’d leave them alone.”

  “But your brothers couldn’t quite work that out. To leave me alone, I mean.”

  “No. But they were scared of you too.”

  “They beat me up! Left me unconscious.”

  “You beat them up first! But it’s more than that.” She hesitates and then says, “It’s who you are. Or who your father is. It all comes down to Marcus. They’re scared of him. Everyone’s scared of him.”

  She’s right, of course, but it’s not as if he’s going to appear any minute and back me up in a fight.

  Then she asks me, “Are you scared of him?”

  I’m not sure: he’s my father. He’s dangerous and murderous but he’s still my father. And I want to meet him. I wouldn’t want that if I was scared of him. I say, “I trust you more than anyone, Annalise, but if the Council ever hears me talk about him, or my feelings about him, or anything . . . I just can’t talk about him. You know that.”

  “Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “I’ll tell you who I am scared of, though: the Council. And your brothers. If . . .” But I don’t go on. We know that if they find out we’re meeting both of us are in big trouble.

  Annalise says, “I know. I have the worst, most messed-up family ever.”

  “I think mine is slightly more messed up than yours.”

  “Not by much. At least you have Arran and Deborah. You’ve got nice people. I don’t have any nice people. I mean Connor’s OK if he isn’t with Naill or—”

&nb
sp; “You’re the nice people,” I say.

  She smiles but it hits me then how sad and lonely she looks and how lucky I am to have Arran, Deborah, and Gran. And without even thinking I take her hand. I’m touching her! I’m surprised but it’s happening and I don’t want to overthink it. Our hands are similar sizes: mine’s wider; her fingers are longer and thinner. Her skin is soft and skin-colored—not dirt-colored.

  “How do you keep your hands so clean?” I turn her hand over slowly and inspect it thoroughly. “I’m all covered in red dust but you and your hands haven’t even got a speck on them.”

  “I’m a girl. We’re well known for being able to do amazing things, things that boys can only dream about.” Her voice is shaky; her hand is a little shaky too.

  I’m scared now but I’m not going to stop. I trace my finger round the outside of her hand as she holds it in the air. Over the thumb, down between the thumb and forefinger, then up the finger and down between the next finger and up and then down and then up and down and finally along her little finger and down to her wrist.

  She says, “You always surprise me with how gentle you are. You’re so far from the badass end of the line.”

  I want to say something back but can’t think of anything that sounds right.

  “You’ve gone quiet again,” she says.

  “What’s so wrong with being quiet?”

  “Nothing, I suppose. It suits you.” She moves her finger to trace round my hand like I did hers. “But sometimes it makes me wonder what you’re thinking.” She continues moving her finger round my hand. “What are you thinking?”

  I’m thinking I like her doing that. It feels nice. Is that what I should say? I don’t know. I say, “I . . . you’re . . .”

  She ducks her head down to look at me. “You’re trying to hide your face,” she complains. “Are you blushing?”