The Eighth Witch Read Free Page A

across to the bed, grabbing the corner of the duvet and yanking it back. It came away with a wet, sticky, sucking sound and he stared down at Sophie’s flayed body. He jerked his head around to stare at the young woman with blond curls, the young woman who was wearing Sophie’s skin like an obscene designer cat suit.  
    Tears coursed down his cheeks. “Why?” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Why?”
    The young woman smiled. “Your house!” she said condescendingly. “She said it was your house.”
    He wanted to kill her, to smash the mocking face, to beat it to a pulp. He grabbed the stainless-steel lamp from the bedside table and hurled it across the room, but it never reached her. The cable was still plugged in and the lamp stopped in midair before it clattered to the floor, the bulb smashing with a loud pop. He retrieved it from the floor, twisting it in his hands to use it as a club, yanking at the cable, trying to pull the plug from its socket.
    “Stop!” The young woman spoke sharply.
    Mark stopped. His mouth was working but there was no sound coming from his lips. The woman held his gaze for a moment, and then she blinked. Just the once.
    Mark stared down at the lamp that was twisting again in his hands, only this time he wasn’t consciously doing it. His hands were moving of their own accord, bringing the lamp to within inches of his face, turning it around so he had a clear view of the broken bulb, ragged and sharp, lethal.  
    He concentrated fiercely, trying to regain control of his hands, but they were beyond any conscious will. When the lamp was inches away he opened his mouth. Again he had no control. His bottom jaw just dropped and kept dropping, opening his mouth wider and wider. He could feel tendons and ligaments popping in his cheek, and the pain was excruciating. His arms positioned the head of the lamp and smashed it into his mouth, the broken bulb slicing through his tongue and gums, the stainless steel crunching through his teeth.
    The young woman snapped her fingers and the switch flicked on, sending a pulse of electricity coursing through Mark Gillespie’s head. For a moment he stood, convulsing as his brain fried, and then he crumpled to his knees and pitched forwards, the lamp taking the full impact and burying itself deeper into his mouth, snapping his jaw. His eyes were open but losing focus. The last thing he saw was the cable of the table lamp curled like a thin, white snake on the floor. The plug was clear of the socket, lying on the floor, mocking him. But if it wasn’t even plugged in, he thought, how did…?  
    And then he died.  
    The young woman clicked her fingers again and Mark stopped twitching. She stared dispassionately down at Mark Gillespie’s lifeless form, poked it once with her foot, then shucked Sophie’s skin from her body, draping it over him like a blanket.  
    She padded into the en suite bathroom and showered away the blood. As she toweled herself dry she studied her reflection in the mirror. A hundred different faces stared back. A hundred different identities, a hundred different lives.  
    They were all smiling at her.  

Chapter Three
    Robert Carter peeled off the motorway and took a right, heading towards Halifax. Ravensbridge was a few miles farther on from there. It was a long time since he’d seen Annie Ryder and was looking forward to the reunion.  
    Downtime was a premium at Department 18 and after the last few cases he’d tackled for them he felt he deserved some, and he couldn’t think of a better location for a holiday. Ravensbridge settled at the start of the Pennines, and it was easy to envisage a week or more spent hiking in the hills, taking in the dramatic and beautiful scenery and then coming back to Annie’s cottage in the evenings, tired but relaxed, and ready for her delicious home cooking and some convivial conversation with her over a glass or two of Merlot. It was an image he carried with him for a few more