Young Writers Society

James

James wanted to go back to Oxford.

He thought about that as he moved down the other end of Cutler Street, distancing himself from the fighting and yelling.

It wouldn’t be so hard to do it. Steal a couple pounds off someone. Take a carriage ride home and stay there. Avoid anything to do with the Crows or the Hunters or the Napoleonic Wars.

Mum might get upset, but that would be better than… this.

He tried for more, but his brain stopped cooperating as he approached the Hunter.

He was meant to be one of them. Stop this new uprising before it began, before they could destabilize Britain and let France win the war. When they were deciding on a name, Montgomery had decided on “Hunters” because their targets were Crows, and, well – they were hunting for them. Burn down the crow’s nest before the hatchlings can grow, Montgomery had said.

That letter was sent to his house, and James had been only too happy to go. Help Britain? Have a chance to be noticed by the government for his deeds? Make Mum proud? His bags were packed and he’d left the next day, with Mum’s blessing. He remembered Emily waving a farewell to him as he got into the carriage.

And so he swapped his home and family in Oxford for the busy roads of London.

At first it was just trying to convince the members of the then-tiny Crows organization to give up and leave. Then it was trying to cover up their existence as they evolved and grew with unbelievable speed, spreading to Hoxton, then Limehouse, then over the other side of the Thames – making bases in Lambeth, Rotherhithe, Kennington. Most of the first people sent to halt the Crows’ progress had been found out and killed. James was one of the few left.

The Hunters were a lot larger now than they were a year ago, but the Crows had outran them by a long mile. This was meant to be an easy task. The Crows were meant to be finished months before now.

Now? Now, James was about to kill one of his former allies, and it was not because he’d just decided to switch to the Crows’ side. If given the choice between burning the plans or leaving them, he would’ve burnt them. But there was Max and Richard.

Free the commoners of London from poverty and a life of starvation, or help keep Britain in the war? The answer should’ve been easy. And right now, he didn’t have any more time to think about it.

Emmanuel Browning had beaten him most of the time when the two sparred during their brief training. He was a straightforward man, often trading politeness for bluntness when he wanted to get to the point – ill-mannered to the border line of rude. But despite all of that, Browning had always been a noble person. And now he was writhing on the cobblestones as James came near. His skin was burnt off in places, raw and red. A blackened patch of skin on his cheek marked where the cooking oil had splashed onto him. His breaths came in short intakes and desperate gasps - and yet, the man was still crawling, dragging himself along the dirt and mud, crying out every time he pulled himself forward with his blood-covered fingers.

Holy God.

Browning must’ve heard him coming, because the man stopped crawling and rolled onto his back to see him. Bloodshot eyes fixed themselves on James.

“Fucking traitor.” The words spilled out over a scorched mouth, burning James unlike any fire could. James realized he was shaking slightly, mouth forming words that wouldn’t come out.

I’m sorry.

“I had to.” I had to. The words sounded fake even before they left his tongue.

Browning’s face scrunched into a furious mask before relaxing again, the effort too painful for him. When he spoke this time, his voice was quiet and calm, the voice of a man who was already dead. “Why?”

I’m sorry.

“I don’t know.”

James almost wanted Emmanuel to scream at him, to grab his shirt and spit in his face – but he didn’t. Browning only looked at him.

I’m sorry.

“Do it, then.”

James gripped his knife, everything in his body dimming down, numbing. The world was just him and the burnt man.

I’m sorry.

If there had been any other way, James would have taken it – but he couldn’t turn back time. He’d played his hand, and now it was time to finish the game. Max and Richard couldn’t die. So he’d helped them. If any Hunter survived, he’d have hell to pay – hell in the form of both the Crows and the Hunters.

So James plunged his knife into Emmanuel Browning’s skull.

I’m sorry.