The Blood List Read Online Free Page B

would not have it mentioned in the
house. To Barnaby it was all simply an embarrassment: if anyone new came to the village he would be pointed out to them and the story whispered breathlessly in their ear.
    He came to the tree where they had hanged the witch and its branch creaked as he passed: it always did, even on a windless day.
    Eventually the fields were replaced by bulrushes. Mating dragonflies weaved around their drooping heads. Bees and butterflies bobbed in the wild flowers. The scent of them was heady in the warm
air, but as he picked his way to the lake edge the air cooled. The pounding in his temples diminished. Finding a firm section of bank he began undressing.
    The insects soon left the yellow petals of the kingcups to creep amongst the gold hairs of his legs. He brushed them off and walked to the edge.
    The lake was as clear as ice. Even further out, where it got much deeper, he could still make out the pale clay of the bed, flickering as brown trout or shadow-fish flashed by.
    He bent his knees and dived gracefully into the water.
    The first few seconds while his body adjusted to the sudden plummet in temperature were agony, but he forced himself to stay under until he was used to it.
    Finally he broke the surface and set off at a brisk crawl to warm up. Soon he was enjoying the feel of the water rippling along his flanks. It was deliciously refreshing, and the meaty taste of
the pie was replaced by the clean, green taste of the lake.
    As he swam the rushes and wild flowers thinned out and a moment later the Waters’ farm came into view. Farmer Waters’ fuzzy-headed daughter was sitting on the grass weaving a rush
basket while her brother played nearby.
    The little boy said something and held up a fat pink worm that writhed to escape his grip. His sister laughed then called across to him, ‘Put it down now, and cover it or the
birds’ll get it.’
    ‘Good for the birds!’ the boy called back.
    ‘But not for the potatoes, they need the soil to be worked.’
    Barnaby snorted. She had spoiled her brother’s fun for the sake of a potato. But his snort alerted her to his presence and she looked up, pushing her hair out of her eyes to see better.
Underneath that mass of dark curls she was actually quite pretty.
    When he was satisfied he had her attention Barnaby struck out to the centre of the lake, kicking hard and keeping himself high in the water to ensure she had a good view of his muscular
shoulders. He made a few circles in the centre of the lake, then rolled onto his back and let himself float. Peering out from beneath his eyelashes he saw that the boy was now standing on the
shingle beach watching him, the worm forgotten, but his sister had returned to her basketwork.
    Barnaby waited.
    She didn’t look up.
    ‘Coming in, little man?’ he called across to the boy. The boy shook his head. ‘Naomi says there’s a pike in there the size of a ram.’
    Barnaby’s bladder contracted sharply. He scanned the clear water. Nothing but shrimp and minnows.
    ‘Nonsense!’ he cried, to draw her into the debate. She murmured something to her brother then got up and went into the house.
    The boy lost interest and wandered back to the mud. The door of the cottage remained steadfastly closed and no face appeared at the window. The sun had dipped down behind the forest now and
Barnaby was starting to get cold.
    Were pike night feeders?
    He swore and began swimming back to where he had left his clothes. He was about five yards from shore when his right leg spasmed.
    He knew at once what had happened. He’d eaten that slice of pie too soon before going swimming and now he had cramp. Badly. His right thigh muscle was contracting in agonising waves and it
was all he could do to keep the other limbs working to stay on the surface.
    But they were not strong enough: the weight of the dead leg pulled him under.
    The green of the sky merged with the green water and he completely lost his bearings. He kicked