calculation.
. . . although in exceptional cases, it can emerge earlier, in the teens or sometimes even in childhood.
Exactly how exceptional, though? At this point, Lucas would have welcomed some proper data. Lists, charts and graphs, like those scattered through the research papers in his father’s study. But never mind, because
The fae nearly always runs in families.
Nearly always. Nearly, nearly, nearly.
But not one hundred per cent.
Not infallibly, continuously and for ever.
Lucas gritted his teeth and turned the page.
The emergence of the Seventh Sense affects people differently. Symptoms can include ringing in the ears, synaesthesia (sensory cross-over), night-time hallucinations and a burning or itching sensation. These discomforts are only relieved by a witch’s first act of witchwork.
‘No,’ said Lucas aloud, though his voice shook. Enough. His blood had cooled, and the echo in his head had gone, but he had not committed witchwork. For God’s sake! Philomena had simply had too much to drink and choked on her own indignation. It was a coincidence, that’s all. It had to be.
Meanwhile, his own words marched relentlessly on.
A witch uses his or her Seventh Sense by channelling mental powers (similar to telepathy, mind control, psychokinesis and precognition) through or into people, animals and objects. The practice of fae also draws on normal physical faculties, such as sight, touch and sound.
Hard as he tried to block them, the memories came thick and fast, in a kaleidoscope patterning of sight, touch, sound. The image he’d created in his head of black silence, muffled against Philomena’s mouth. The clenching of his hand around her hairgrip. Those whispered pleas for quiet. The shiver of bells.
For the first time, he remembered waking in the night, and the strange sense of exaltation he’d felt as he opened his arms to the darkness. Exaltation, and . . . power.
But there remained one final test. One last hope.
. . . The so-called ‘Devil’s Kiss’ is the physical mark of the fae, borne by all witches, that waxes and wanes according to the witchwork done . . .
Lucas carefully put the essay away ( Really excellent work! his teacher had scrawled on the covering page). Then he went down to the utility room and found the housekeeper’s sewing kit. Methodically, he searched for the longest, thickest needle he could find. Calmly, he went back upstairs and into his bathroom. Slowly, deliberately, he began to undress.
Lucas stood and regarded his naked self in the mirror. His appearance rarely troubled him but tonight it felt as if he was scrutinising his body for the first time. He started with his hands, making a precise examination of each crease and fold of flesh. He knew what he was searching for. A new and unexplained mark, bigger than a freckle or mole, but not by much. Something like a bloom or bruise under the skin.
Yet the longer he looked without finding anything, the more frightened he became. Hope was unbearable. He grew obsessive, then frantic. He began pinching and twisting lumps of flesh, raking the stretched skin with his nails.
Then –
Could it –?
There.
A small unfamiliar blot under his left shoulder blade. It was purplish-black, dark as sin. Lucas touched it and felt a soft throb bloom in his head, like an echo.
Where the Devil had kissed, people said, the body died. The mark of the fae was numb. A person could put the tip of a hot poker against it and the bearer wouldn’t flinch. The witch-prickers of the Inquisition, however, used needles.
Blindly seizing his needle, Lucas stabbed it into the blot. The metal pierced the skin and slid through to the bone of his shoulder blade. There was no blood, no twinge. No trace of hurt. Nothing. He carried on viciously thrusting with the needle: arms, neck, chest, until he was blood-speckled and whimpering. He flung the needle away.
Lucas crouched naked on the floor as the tears burned
. . . although in exceptional cases, it can emerge earlier, in the teens or sometimes even in childhood.
Exactly how exceptional, though? At this point, Lucas would have welcomed some proper data. Lists, charts and graphs, like those scattered through the research papers in his father’s study. But never mind, because
The fae nearly always runs in families.
Nearly always. Nearly, nearly, nearly.
But not one hundred per cent.
Not infallibly, continuously and for ever.
Lucas gritted his teeth and turned the page.
The emergence of the Seventh Sense affects people differently. Symptoms can include ringing in the ears, synaesthesia (sensory cross-over), night-time hallucinations and a burning or itching sensation. These discomforts are only relieved by a witch’s first act of witchwork.
‘No,’ said Lucas aloud, though his voice shook. Enough. His blood had cooled, and the echo in his head had gone, but he had not committed witchwork. For God’s sake! Philomena had simply had too much to drink and choked on her own indignation. It was a coincidence, that’s all. It had to be.
Meanwhile, his own words marched relentlessly on.
A witch uses his or her Seventh Sense by channelling mental powers (similar to telepathy, mind control, psychokinesis and precognition) through or into people, animals and objects. The practice of fae also draws on normal physical faculties, such as sight, touch and sound.
Hard as he tried to block them, the memories came thick and fast, in a kaleidoscope patterning of sight, touch, sound. The image he’d created in his head of black silence, muffled against Philomena’s mouth. The clenching of his hand around her hairgrip. Those whispered pleas for quiet. The shiver of bells.
For the first time, he remembered waking in the night, and the strange sense of exaltation he’d felt as he opened his arms to the darkness. Exaltation, and . . . power.
But there remained one final test. One last hope.
. . . The so-called ‘Devil’s Kiss’ is the physical mark of the fae, borne by all witches, that waxes and wanes according to the witchwork done . . .
Lucas carefully put the essay away ( Really excellent work! his teacher had scrawled on the covering page). Then he went down to the utility room and found the housekeeper’s sewing kit. Methodically, he searched for the longest, thickest needle he could find. Calmly, he went back upstairs and into his bathroom. Slowly, deliberately, he began to undress.
Lucas stood and regarded his naked self in the mirror. His appearance rarely troubled him but tonight it felt as if he was scrutinising his body for the first time. He started with his hands, making a precise examination of each crease and fold of flesh. He knew what he was searching for. A new and unexplained mark, bigger than a freckle or mole, but not by much. Something like a bloom or bruise under the skin.
Yet the longer he looked without finding anything, the more frightened he became. Hope was unbearable. He grew obsessive, then frantic. He began pinching and twisting lumps of flesh, raking the stretched skin with his nails.
Then –
Could it –?
There.
A small unfamiliar blot under his left shoulder blade. It was purplish-black, dark as sin. Lucas touched it and felt a soft throb bloom in his head, like an echo.
Where the Devil had kissed, people said, the body died. The mark of the fae was numb. A person could put the tip of a hot poker against it and the bearer wouldn’t flinch. The witch-prickers of the Inquisition, however, used needles.
Blindly seizing his needle, Lucas stabbed it into the blot. The metal pierced the skin and slid through to the bone of his shoulder blade. There was no blood, no twinge. No trace of hurt. Nothing. He carried on viciously thrusting with the needle: arms, neck, chest, until he was blood-speckled and whimpering. He flung the needle away.
Lucas crouched naked on the floor as the tears burned
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