After four or five hours the van stops. From the few voices I hear it has to be a motorway service station. They fill up with petrol and then sit around eating burgers and chips and slurping drinks. The smell would be tempting, but I’m desperate for a piss and don’t want to think about food and drink.

It probably isn’t going to be worth it, but I say it anyway. “I need to pee.”

The chain whips across the top of my thighs. I have to clench my teeth and breathe through my nose.

When the pain eases I say, “I still need to pee.”

The chain hits my thighs again.

The van sets off. Clay is giving mumbled instructions to the driver but I can’t hear them.

Twenty minutes later the van stops. I’m dragged backward by the ankles and out of the back of the van, which is backed up into some bushes. There is little traffic noise. They’ve found a quiet spot.

“Any trouble. Anything. And you’re dead.” Kieran says it so close to my ear I can feel the spray of spit.

I don’t acknowledge him.

He undoes my handcuffs and frees my right hand.

I piss. A long, long wonderful piss.

I’ve hardly zipped up and I’m back in the cuffs and shoved into the van again. I’m smiling inside at the relief, and because I’m thinking of Celia. She is tougher than these idiots.

The journey just keeps joggling along. Kieran must be sleeping ’cause he’s not bothering me. The nail is still in my mouth, but there’s no chance of escape with three Hunters round me.

The rust of the van’s floor scratches across my cheek as I’m pulled out of the back end of the van once more.

“On your knees.”

I’m in the courtyard of the Council building, the place where I was taken from just before my fifteenth birthday.

I’m pushed down. “Your knees!” Kieran shouts.

Clay has gone. Tamsin and Megan are by the cab of the van. Kieran is standing to the side of me and I squint up at him. His nose is swollen and he has one black eye.

“Your healing’s a bit slow, Kieran.”

His boot flies at my face, but I roll out of its way and up to my feet.

Tamsin laughs. “He’s fast, Kieran.”

Kieran feigns disinterest and says, “He’s their problem now.”

I look around as the two guards reach me, grab my arms, and drag me off without a word.

They take me into the Council building through a wooden door, along a corridor, then right and left and past an internal courtyard, through another door to the left. Then I am in the corridor I recognize and sitting on the bench outside the room where they do the assessments.

I heal the various scrapes and bruises.

It’s almost like old times. I have to wait, of course. My hands are still cuffed behind me. I stare at my knees and at the stone floor.

A long time passes and I’m still waiting. The door at the far end of the corridor opens; there’re footsteps but I don’t look up. And then the footsteps stop and a man’s voice says, “Go back the other way.”

I look up and then I stand up.

Annalise’s voice is quiet. “Nathan?”

The man she’s with must be her father, and he’s pushing her back through the door. The door shuts and that’s it.

The guard stands in my way, blocking the view. I know he wants me to sit, and I hesitate but I do it, and the corridor is the same as it always is.

But Annalise was here. She looked different: older, paler, taller. She was wearing jeans and a light blue shirt and brown boots. And I replay it over in my head: the footsteps, “Go back the other way,” seeing her, our eyes meeting and her eyes are pleased, and she says my name softly, “Nathan?” and the way she says it she isn’t sure, like she can’t believe it, and then her father pushes her back, she resists, he pushes and blocks the way, she looks around his arm, our eyes meet again, then the door shuts. The door blocks all noise out; footsteps and voices on the other side can’t be heard.

I replay it all again, and again. I think it was real. I think it happened.

They take the handcuffs off to weigh, measure, and photograph me. It’s the same as before an assessment, but it’s not my birthday for months so I’m not sure if I’m going to be assessed or what. I ask the man in the lab coat, but the guard who stands watching it all tells me to shut up, and the man doesn’t answer me. The guard puts the cuffs back on, and I am back in the corridor, and there is more waiting.

When I’m taken in it’s Soul O’Brien sitting in the center seat this time. I’m not surprised. The woman Councilor is back on the right, and Mr. Wallend is sitting on the left. At least Clay isn’t here.

They start asking me questions like the ones in my assessment. I’m uncooperative, in a silent sort of way. Soul is his usual bored self, but I’m more convinced than ever that it’s an act. Everything about him is an act. He asks each question twice and doesn’t comment on my lack of response, but they soon give up and don’t even seem that bothered. After his last question, Soul whispers to the woman and then to Mr. Wallend.

Then he speaks to me.

“Nathan.”

Nathan! That’s a first.

“It is less than three months until your seventeenth birthday. An important day in your life.” He looks at his nails and then up at me again. “And an important day in mine. I’m hoping that I will be able to give you three gifts on that day.”

What?

“Yes, that may seem a little surprising, but it’s something I’ve been considering for many years, something I would be . . . interested in doing. However, before I can give you three gifts I must—we all must—be sure that you are truly on the side of White Witches. I have the power to choose your Designation Code, Nathan. I suggest that it is in your interest that you are designated as a White Witch.”

And I used to want that, used to think it was the solution, but now I know for sure that I don’t.

“Nathan, you are half White Witch by birth. Your mother was from a strong and honorable family of White Witches. We at the Council respect her family. Some of her ancestors were Hunters and your half-sister is now a Hunter too. You have a proud and respectable heritage on your mother’s side. And there is much of your mother in you, Nathan. Much. Your healing ability is a sign of that.”

And I’m not sure if he’s talking a load of bollocks, because I’m convinced my father is pretty good at healing too.

“Do you know the difference between Black Witches and White Witches, Nathan?”

I don’t reply. Waiting for the usual good-versus-evil argument.

“It’s an interesting question, isn’t it? Something I’ve often pondered.” Soul O’Brien looks at his nails and then at me. “White Witches use their Gifts for good. And that is how you can show us that you are White, Nathan. Use your Gift for good. Work with the Council, the Hunters, White Witches the world over. Help us and . . .” He leans back in his chair. “Life will be a lot easier for you.” His eyes seem to glow silver as he says, “And longer too.”

“I’ve been kept in a cage for nearly two years. I’ve been beaten and tortured and kept from my family, my family of White Witches. Tell me which bit of that is ‘good.’”

“We are concerned for the good of White Witches. If you are designated White—”

“Then you’ll give me a nice bed to sleep in? Oh, yes, of course, as long as I kill my father.”

“We all have to make compromises, Nathan.”

“I won’t kill my father.”

He admires his nails again and says, “Well, I’d be disappointed if you agreed readily, Nathan. I’ve watched you with interest every year since we first met, and you rarely disappoint me.”

I swear at him.

“And in a way I’m glad you haven’t done so now. However, one way or another you will do as we require. Mr. Wallend will ensure that.”