I grimace internally. If this man’s telling the truth then he’s broken rule number one of the warlock code. I mean, really, rule number one? How stupid can you be?

‘No’ I say bluntly, looking at him angrily. ‘How would that even be possible?’. I turn away and scan the crowd, now eagerly watching the magistrate on the plinth below us, decrying us as evil and children of Satan. I can feel the man next to me looking at me, and he’s irritating me.

‘No, I’ve definitely seen you here before’ he says merrily, leaning forward slightly to get a better look at my face. ‘Were you hanged two months ago in Dorchester?’.

I turn to him again, annoyed that he’s a) definitely another warlock, and b) blown my cover, which means I’ll have to move across the country again.

‘Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Shut up’ I say, clenching my fists which are tied tightly behind my back. The last thing I need is a long chat with this clown when I need to focus my energy on stopping my neck from snapping like a twig. To my annoyance, he doesn’t show any signs of shutting up, but he leans towards me.

‘What clan do you belong to? Bit unfortunate eh, both of us being caught twice!’ he says, under the impression that we’re having a polite conversation. My anger crests to boiling point and I feel my hands start to get hot. I need to keep my head here, otherwise I’ll need to fight my way through hundreds of human morons who’ll try and set me on fire or pitchfork me or god knows what else. I turn to him, fixing him with what I think is my most intimidating stare.

‘Will you shut the fuck up’ I hiss, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end as every magical synapse in my body readies itself to strike. He opens his mouth to reply, but a booming voice cuts him off:

‘YOU TWO SONS OF SATAN. WHAT ARE YOU CONVERSING ABOUT?’ the magistrate shouts theatrically, his voice carrying to all of the assembled crowd. I look to the irritating stranger, and then back to the magistrate.

‘Nothing’ says the stranger, a smile playing about his lips. ‘We’re just debating how tasty your flesh would be’. Gasps break out from the assembled crowd, and cries of ‘Kill him!’  echo out. The man next to me focuses for a second, and then in a brief flash of light sheds his ropes and bindings, including the noose around his neck. This time the crowd screams, and the screams only get louder as the man points directly at the magistrate, who’s neck breaks with a deafening crack. I focus briefly and shed my own bindings, stepping forward and looking around. My attention snaps back to the stage as I hear another loud crack, and turn to see the magistrate getting to his feet, eyes gleaming red.