“Listen, you know that before we left, just before we came here to live, I spoke with Petr. You remember that. I just wanted him to know that I was sorry and that I was thankful that he was okay.”
“Yes, so?”
“So he said something to me just before we left, something I never told you because it was strange and superstitious and…scary, really. I tried to dismiss it, but it has stayed with me all this time. And now I think that what he said is the real reason why we didn’t leave here months ago. Why I never let you reach out to the Klahrs.”
“About the…woman?”
Anika nodded slowly. “The body. They never found her body.”
“What? How…how did he know that?”
“His father was a System officer. Someone must have told him.”
“But the report…they said she was dead. Not missing.”
“I think she is dead Gretel,” Anika paused and then repeated, “but she may not be. Just, when you get back, be careful. Be more careful than you’ve ever been in your life.”
Chapter 6
The witch stood on the bank of the lake where, only months earlier, she had impaled the neck of the Orphist and ended her protracted life.
She had made it to the Morgan property in just under two days, just as she had estimated, and the moon that now shined directly above her seemed to celebrate the accomplishment by casting its beam down on her like a spotlight. The trek had been mostly easy, especially considering the woman had only been to the Morgan home once in the past, and on that occasion, she had driven in a System car along the Interways.
But she had been born into an older world during an era when people were connected to the Earth, and their senses were more calibrated to time and direction. She had known the general coordinates of the Morgan house, but as she moved closer, she recognized specific trees and smells; she could taste the water of the lake in the air and hear the plopping of frogs and fish. It was intoxicating to be so attuned to the world.
She thought again of the dead Orphist. Odalinde the Orphist. Were it not for her, the witch knew undoubtedly, the Morgan women would have been batched and blended long ago, and their liquefied parts would be energizing her body at this very moment. Things hadn’t happened that way, however. Odalinde had saved them, ultimately giving up her ancient, immortal life so that they could live. The old witch couldn’t help but respect her valiancy and sacrifice, and the remembrance of Odalinde’s death made the woman wistful. She remembered that moment on the bank of the lake and the twinge of sorrow she felt just after she tore her razor-edged nails through the front of Odalinde’s neck. But there had been no time to dwell. Gretel and Anika had launched their boat off toward the cannery, escaping with their platelets and their bile of life.
At the time, naturally, the witch’s focus turned to the mother and daughter; but now, as the old woman measured her surroundings at the water’s edge, she thought of her isolation in this world of new religions and mortal men. Other than herself, Odalinde was perhaps the last of the remaining Orphists in this new land. The old woman knew the ancients, her mother’s people, still existed in the Old World, barricaded behind secret landscapes in the forests and mountains. But in this land, the religion was almost dead. She’d never even known of Odalinde’s existence. Perhaps in a different century they’d have become allies. Lovers even.
Across the lake, the woman studied the faint outlines of the trees that formed the Klahr Orchard. It was there that the children had fled during her battle with Odalinde. The Klahrs had been their refuge that day. The owner of the orchard—a man named Georg, she would learn later—was the man who’d threatened her, aiming his shotgun and barking demands at the old woman, attempting heroism in a world of cowards and indifference. He had failed, of course, but she sensed during that brief, intense confrontation that a meanness—or even fury—existed in the man. A fury reserved only for his enemies, which she, no doubt, was one. There was no question of that. But Georg Klahr would know one day soon what it meant to be her enemy. He would know all too well.
The witch made a low, growling sound as she envisioned the horrific man and his wife sleeping in their bed. If she wished, she could easily kill them now without either of them ever knowing she was there.
But killing the Klahrs wasn’t the goal. The goal was to find Gretel. And despite all the pleasure she would get from the feel of soft flesh between her fingers and the smell of blood as it mixed with cotton linen and the wood of the floorboards, the quick death of the Klahrs wouldn’t help her.
She climbed the earthen steps that led from the lake to the Morgan house, taking long, purposeful strides. She felt young and spry now, and she suddenly couldn’t wait for the daylight to arrive. She reached the back of the house and attempted to slide open the door of the basement, eager to begin her search of the home. It was locked, immovable. The woman had no expectations that the Morgans would still be home. Given the trauma they endured, it would have been shocking to find them still living in the place where Heinrich Morgan had betrayed his wife and children before meeting his death on the property’s gravel driveway.
She’d hoped they were living across the lake with the Klahrs, but as she stood next to the stone outer wall of the home’s lower level, she sensed the family not only left the home, but also the Back Country entirely. She wasn’t quite sure where this sense arose, but that was part of her new magic.
What she hadn’t known when she set off from her cabin two days ago was whether other occupants had taken up in the Morgan home—renters or transients. It was a bit of a risk to arrive so openly on the property, even under the cape of night, but she wasn’t careless. She was prepared to act. Had there been others, she would have rid them as she would any infestation, quickly and with as little mess as possible. The consequences of any extermination would have made her plan a bit more elaborate, that was true, but elaborate plans were not impossible to carry out; they just required more attention to detail.
The home was vacant, however, so her worries had been unnecessary, but she wouldn’t allow herself to get negligent. She would stay in the home only as long as necessary, until she learned where the Morgan women had gone. Then she would follow them. Her hope was that she could achieve this knowledge without anyone discovering she was ever there, but she would keep close watch on the Klahrs, just in case. If there were no clues in the Morgan home, she was certain to find some in the minds of the elderly neighbors.
The woman walked from the rear of the house and up the hill to the front porch. She climbed to the top of the staircase, where she turned around and surveyed the front of the Morgan property. She closed her eyes and thought of the day she’d first met Gretel and her brother Hansel, as well as Odalinde and that officer’s son Petr. It was here, on this spot. She’d felt such power that day, standing high above them all like a god, controlling Heinrich like a puppet while mesmerizing each of them with her newfound youth and clarity. The moment had been fleeting, but even now, almost a year later, she basked in the ecstasy of the memory.
Gretel, however, had been brazen that day, and the depth of character and strength she emanated during their encounter had disconcerted the old woman. She wouldn’t have said she felt scared of Gretel that day, not exactly—especially considering the presence of the Orphist and the attention she was sure to garner at some point in the encounter—but the old woman knew instantly that Gretel was unique. Barely a teenager, she was sure to be a formidable foe.
The woman reached for the top of her head where Gretel had lodged the horns of the iron hammer. She swallowed intensively at the memory of the pain and suppressed the urge to gag. She grimaced, glowering into the woods beyond the yard, picturing in her mind the violence she would produce. Whatever fear she may have had for the girl during that first meeting hate and revenge now eclipsed. As did the hunger. Above all was the hunger for the girl’s body. And the life it promised.
The witch turned toward the front door and tried the knob. It too was l
ocked, but there was some give to it, some promise of letting her pass. She would work at it, and if she couldn’t get through that way, she would find a window or crawl space. She would find a way in. It was fate, and fate never failed her. For now, though, she needed to rest, to restore her thoughts and polish her plans. Gretel and Anika were out there.
Chapter 7
“Why don’t you stay, Petr? Relax a little.” Ben Richter stood tall in the back of the pickup truck with two fishing poles flanking him. “Sofia’s coming.” He paused and then said, “Well, she’ll come if she knows you’re here.”
Petr ignored his friend and continued unloading the last of the gear, consisting of a tackle box and a cooler.
“Petr!”
“What?” Petr flinched. He looked around, expecting some impending danger. “What’s wrong?”
“Did you hear me?”
“No, what happened?”
Ben rolled his eyes and shook his head slowly. “I said you should stay because Sofia is coming.”
Petr dismissed this news with a slight shrug and flitter of his head. “No.” He lightened his pitch. “I mean, I’d like to, but I can’t.”
Ben was bemused. “Why? It’s Sunday morning, you’re sixteen years old, and the sexiest girl in school wants to hang out with you by the fishing hole. Where do you have to be that is more important than that? And don’t tell me church because I know damn well that’s not the truth.”
“I just can’t; I have to go.”
“I know. You said that. I asked you why you can’t stay.”
“Look Ben, I just can’t. I just need to borrow your truck for a few hours. That was the deal. If the deal’s off, then let me know and I’ll figure something else out.” Petr stood staring at his friend, waiting for the reply.
“You’re an asshole,” Ben said casually, a look of examination on his face as if he was just, at this moment, discovering this truth.
Petr closed his eyes and sighed. “Look, Ben, I’m sorry. I just have something to do this morning, and I can’t really talk about it. That’s all. Can I borrow your truck or not?”
“No,” Ben said, and then tossed Petr the keys. “Pick us up at noon. Don’t forget. That truck is our only way home. Sofia Karlsson will be none too happy about walking eight or nine miles in a wet bathing suit. Although that might make me kind of happy.”
“I thought she wasn’t coming unless I was here?”
“Yeah, well, when you don’t show, I’ll tell her something must have come up.” Ben smiled. “It’s kind of true.”
Petr smiled back at Ben and then climbed into the driver’s seat and started the ignition. He rolled down the window and said, “Tell Sofia I said hi,” before driving off through a brume of dust.
“Yeah, sure,” Ben said to no one.
As he got about fifty yards down the unpaved road, Petr could hear the word “asshole” being yelled behind him.
The System barracks was over two hours from the lake, and Petr knew he’d never be back by noon. He had agreed to the arrangement as a condition for using Ben’s truck, but he knew it was never to be. If he reached the barracks and immediately turned the truck around and headed back to the fishing hole, he might have made the time. But those weren’t Petr’s intentions. He planned to take whatever time he needed until he found someone in the System with answers to the whereabouts of the woman who killed his father and tortured the mother of the girl he loved.
From what Petr knew about his father’s former employer—which, the more he thought about it, was surprisingly little—they didn’t tell many tales out of school, so Petr knew he had his share of work ahead. But he was determined to get some answers or get tossed out trying.
Petr thought of Ben and frowned. He had knowingly lied to his friend, but he hadn’t done so lightly. Petr knew fully the importance of a solid reputation in the Back Country, and particularly for him since he was a relative newcomer to the area. But this trip was critical and worth a couple of dings to his trustworthiness. He would make it up to his friend later.
The Klahrs owned a truck, of course, and Petr had weighed the advantages and likelihood of Mr. Klahr allowing him to use it. Ultimately, however, Petr thought better of it, knowing Georg would never have let Petr use the lone farm transport for his fruitless quest. At least not this quest. Not for him to chase down the System in some wild attempt to uncover the fantasy conspiracy of the century. Petr could have come up with a different story, of course, one about a girl or a job or something, but he hadn’t become desperate enough to lie directly to the Klahrs. Not yet. He would evade and disguise and camouflage as often as needed, but not flat out lie. He realized that he might reach that juncture at some point in the future, but Petr had managed to avoid that place for at least another day.
He drove Ben’s truck east on the Interways, away from the Back Country and toward the Urbanlands. The System barracks sat just outside the western border of the Urbanlands, only a few miles from where Petr was born and raised. It was so strange to Petr. It hadn’t been two years since the day he first visited the Back Country, but it felt as if he’d lived there his whole life. Two lives, even. The Urbanlands and his parents now seemed like characters and places he had read about in a book.
He had first come to the Back Country with his father for a meeting at the Hengst Academy—a private school to which he’d been condemned for behavioral reasons. That meeting was now a forgetful blip in Petr’s childhood memory, an experience that he was sure to look back on in years later and wonder whether it really happened.
The subsequent stop at the Morgan house, however, had altered his life forever. He would never forget that night. It was where Petr met Gretel for the first time, an encounter which ended with him watching Gretel’s initial girlish timidity turn to strength and loyalty after he accidentally insulted her. He looked back on the encounter now and realized it was during that episode that he fell in love with her.
Love at first fight.
Here, again, as with every day since she left, something in the landscape of Petr’s world reignited thoughts of Gretel. Sometimes the trigger was a concrete thing, tangible and real—the Morgan house, or perhaps her primitive canoe sitting bleakly, covered in leaves and age on the back of her property—other times it was a word or a thought that arrived violently in his mind, snapping his focus back to her, as if punishing him for straying.
She was the real reason he was on his way now to confront the System. About that he was sure. When Petr began his plan to search for the truth of the witch’s disappearing corpse, he told himself that his father was the reason—that he had a responsibility to him to ensure the woman was truly dead and that justice had been served. But that wasn’t entirely true. Maybe not even mostly. He had cared deeply for his father. Despite the aloof and demanding nature of the man, Petr had always felt love from him. But his betrayal was devastating to his legacy, and it had cushioned Petr’s feelings of mourning considerably. Or perhaps those feelings had just been transmuted from grief into something else, something more closely resembling anger.
With Gretel, his purpose was different, his pursuit more urgent. Petr loved Gretel. It was a feeling that swelled with each day that passed. If there was any chance she was still in danger, even if that chance was remote, he was going to protect her and push through any barriers to do so. She, too, deserved justice for what the witch had done to her and her mother, but with Gretel, Petr wasn’t motivated by justice. Justice didn’t inspire the same frenzy to action that preservation did.
As he approached the barracks, Petr mentally rehearsed what he was going to say once inside. He had to be confident, stand tall, and look into the eyes of everyone he spoke with and state his purpose for being there with expectance in his voice. Most of the agents and administrators in the System knew who he was, of course. The son of the officer murdered by the immortal witch of the Northlands was not going to fly under the radar in this building, but in some ways, it worked to Petr’s advantage. W
hen he told them his suspicion, that the Witch of the North was alive, they would internally dismiss it as the misguided notion of a vigilante—a grief-blinded idea from a child consumed with his father’s death.
They would think that, but they wouldn’t ignore him.
His father’s death entitled him to be heard. And even if most of them rolled their eyes at him in their hearts, they would still talk to him, if only to appear sympathetic. And when they spoke, if there was a cover-up about the details of the woman’s death, someone would let it slip, and Petr would hear it immediately. He was certainly as familiar with the official report as anyone in the System, including the officers first on the scene.
On the other hand, if the reports were accurate and the woman was dead, he’d accept it, move on, and try his best to contribute to his life at the Klahr orchard in the depths of the Back Country. He would continue to miss Gretel and ache for her return, but he would be content in the knowledge that she was no longer the subject of a hunt.
Petr knew the truth, though. The witch was alive.
The call had come three days after the night in the cannery. The voice on the other end of the line had been that of a woman, though it was not feminine either in tone or language. She spoke quickly and directly, without introduction, and said only five words before immediately hanging up. The call lasted maybe ten seconds.
Have you seen her body?
The message was cryptic and out of context, but Petr never had any doubt as to the meaning of the rhetorical question. They had never found her. The System officers on site at the cannery the following morning never discovered a body. She was alive. And Petr wasn’t the least bit surprised. He’d seen her in the flesh, terrifying and wicked, her strength beyond what any human could possess, her giant white teeth enveloping her face when she smiled. He had no doubt Gretel had injured her in the cannery, perhaps badly. But not mortally. No, she was alive, and it was now his duty to find her. To find her and kill her, forever this time.
Marlene's Revenge (Gretel #2) Page 5
