by Kevin Hearne
“All right, so what did they want? Why kill Boris?”
Malina said, “They wanted what Hitler did—or, rather, Hitler wanted what they did—Russia.”
“What? You’re suggesting he launched that entire bloody stupid offensive due to their influence?”
“That’s precisely what I’m suggesting,” Malina agreed, nodding. “They sent him succubi and they gave him the proper dreams of Lebensraum—they’d done the same thing with Chancellor Theobald von Bethmann-Hollweg in World War One. And when the eastern front was going poorly and Boris refused to send troops in 1943—thanks to our influence—the hexen killed him and everybody thought Hitler had done it.”
“It didn’t turn out the way they’d hoped, though.” Roksana smiled grimly. “They hoped the Bulgarian regents left behind would be more malleable and harder for us to control and protect, but the regents proved ridiculously stupid and weak, and instead of invading Russia, Russia invaded Bulgaria and that was that.”
“Which was fine with us, really,” Malina explained. “The Bulgarian Jews were safe and the hexen’s plots were foiled, so that was all that mattered.”
“They’ve always wanted revenge for our role in that, however,” Roksana added, “because they probably still think they could have won if Bulgaria had joined in.”
“Why did they want to invade Russia so badly?”
The coven members looked at one another’s faces to see who wished to answer. It was Kazimiera who finally spoke. “There is a group of witch hunters based there that plagues their kind especially. If they found us by accident, they would not hesitate to attack, but they actively hunt die Töchter des dritten Hauses because of their associations with demonkind. The hexen hoped the SS would take care of the witch hunters and eliminate a thorn in their side. Himmler was obsessed with the occult and would have found them for sure if he’d had a free hand in Russia.”
Rabbi Yosef Bialik’s Russian accent and shadowy organization came to mind. “I’m surprised Stalin didn’t stamp them out. Any idea what these witch hunters called themselves?”
The ladies all shook their heads slowly yet in unison. It was a creepy effect. I wondered idly if they practiced such maneuvers.
“And how do you know that the hexen were motivated by these mysterious Russians—or, rather, by their desire to kill the Russians?”
The witches swiveled their heads in synch to Malina and so did I, waiting for the answer. Her eyes fell to her lap. “We captured the one who assassinated Boris the Third and interrogated her. Thoroughly. Radomila led it,” she said, referring to their erstwhile coven leader, “but I was present. She told us much before she died. And that is another reason die Töchter des dritten Hauses hate us so much.”
“I see. Well, they appear to have had much influence on Germany’s side. They had access to the Führer himself, you say. Did they also suggest to him, via succubi or some other method, all of that master-race nonsense? Did they suggest the death camps and so on?”
“Not that we know of,” Berta said, a few crumbs of her third cookie spraying from her mouth as she talked. “They just wanted to use Germany as a club to bash Russia with. They weren’t Nazis; they were opportunists. Believe me, I would like to assign to them every evil of that war, but the most unspeakable atrocities were committed by humans without any infernal influence whatsoever.”
“She’s right,” Klaudia agreed, “the Holocaust wasn’t their idea. But they didn’t seem to disapprove either. And they joined in when it suited them.”
I frowned. “How do you mean they joined in?”
“They were specifically hunting Kabbalists for a while—”
“Kabbalists!” I exclaimed. I slapped my forehead. “So that’s why he didn’t die.”
“Who didn’t die?” the witches all said in polyphonic harmony. They were like a Greek chorus.
I sighed and collected my thoughts. “I have known since this morning that I have met these hexen before—or at least seen their work. They tried to kill me outside my home with the same necrotic curse they used on Boris the Third, but my wards deflected it.” I purposely failed to explain that my cold iron amulet deflected it. Nothing in the nonaggression treaty required me to reveal the true nature of my defenses to them. “The last time my wards reacted in such a manner was during World War Two.”
Berta stopped chewing and looked at me with widened eyes. “Really? Where were you?”
“I was in the Atlantic Pyrenees, escorting a Jewish family into Spain, where they could have taken a train all the way to Lisbon and gained passage to safety in South America.”
Berta held up her hands. “Stop right there. This sounds good,” she said, and hauled herself off the couch. “I’m going to make popcorn.” The other witches made sounds of protest, perceiving that it was rude somehow to expect me to weave a tale worthy of movie snackage, but Berta waved off their protests. “Come on, he’s a Druid; he’ll love playing the bard for a while.” More protests followed, but they were halfhearted, and eventually the witches turned to me with pleading looks to forgive them for being so ineffective.
In truth, it made me feel closer to the witches. One thing that’s never changed in two millennia is that people love to hear war stories—at least, stories in which their side wins. The gods know that there was little enough in that war to cheer about other than the eventual victory. But the coven had lived through it, I had lived through it, and we had both fought in it, albeit in an unconventional manner. It was a bond between us, and telling this story would strengthen it and provide the foundation for shared victories to come.
Seeing that I would be required to speak at length, I mentally reorganized my tale. The real reason I didn’t take a more active role in the war was that the Morrigan had forbidden it. During that period, our relationship had been a bit uncertain.
“Do you know how many battles there are for me to watch over throughout the world right now?” she’d asked me when I’d tried to enlist with the British. “I cannot be worrying about you every bloody moment and making sure you don’t step on a mine or get bombed by the Luftwaffe. Stay out of the war, Siodhachan, and don’t do anything to draw attention to yourself—specifically, attention from the Fae.”
I didn’t want to imply that I had any sort of relationship with the Morrigan now, though, so I told the witches a half-truth once Berta returned to the couch with bowls of popcorn and indicated that I could proceed. The witches all leaned forward in their seats, and so did Hal. He’d never heard what I’d done during the war either.
“As you know, I was hiding from Aenghus Óg at the time, as I had been for most of the common era, and I could do nothing overtly magical that would draw his attention. But neither could I simply hide in the Amazon and wait for it all to be over: My conscience would not allow it. So I became a maquisard, joining the French Resistance in the southwest, where I shepherded Jewish families through the wilderness to escape the Nazis.
“The people in my network knew me as the Green Man. If someone insisted on a Christian name, I called myself Claude and left it at that. The families under my care arrived in Spain faster and healthier and more reliably than those of any other smuggler. All told, I saved sixty-seven families, taking them in large groups at times. That’s not on the scale of your fifty thousand saved in Bulgaria”—an accomplishment I privately doubted they could reasonably take credit for—“but it was my small contribution to peace. And you must keep in mind I was in the Gascony region, which was fairly overrun with Nazis, away from the bulk of the maquisards. Getting them safely out of the cities was often more trouble than taking them across the mountains.
“Only one family in my care failed to make it out of France. I picked them up outside Pau, and we were to take the Somport Pass over the Pyrenees. The father was a kind man who doted on his children, a scientist of some kind, but I couldn’t tell you their names even if I wished. So much of the work was an anonymous business, for everyone’s safety.” I paused to take a sip of
my hot chocolate, which had cooled somewhat, and Berta watched me impatiently.
“They were a fairly young couple with three children: a boy of ten, a girl of eight, and another boy of five. The boys had little suits on—their best—and the girl had a gray wool coat buttoned over a red dress. The mother was dressed in similar fashion, with a heavy coat worn over a dress. The father carried a briefcase of papers and photos, and the family had nothing more than the clothes on their backs. The father—well, there were traces of magic in his aura that I didn’t take the trouble to examine, but now I see that he was a Kabbalist, and his wards were sufficient, as were mine, to deflect this necrotic spell of the hexen—Gewebetod, ja?”
“Ja,” Malina nodded. “That is the word they use.”
“Six witches ambushed us in the night before we were even halfway to the Somport Pass—one witch for each member of our party, which led me to believe we’d been betrayed somehow. The mother and three children fell immediately, clutching their chests as they landed in the leaves of autumn. I fell down too, because I had felt the strike upon my wards, and I expected a grenade or a spray of machine gun fire next. I cast camouflage on myself once I hit the ground, then crawled as quietly as I could away from where I had fallen.
“Whatever noise I made was masked well. The father was the only one left standing, but he was screaming the names of his wife and children, then crouching over them and trying to revive them as I headed for cover.”
“His Kabbalistic wards shielded him.” Berta narrowed her eyes and nodded knowingly.
“Correct. But I did not know this at the time. I never heard him utter a spell, I’d never bothered to check his aura closely, and so while I suspected he must be special somehow—why else would we be singled out for such attention?—he could have just as easily been politically important, rather than magically. In any event, he was too carried away with his grief to respond to the attack. I do not know why his family had no protection—perhaps his abilities were a secret even from them; perhaps they would not have approved. I simply do not know.
“The question of his power, however, was quickly rendered moot. Six figures leached out of the surrounding forest, darker shapes hovering in the darkness, and they poured bullets into him out of handguns fitted with silencers. He fell dead on top of his wife, and when the figures ran out of bullets, they reloaded and shot his still corpse again and again, many times in the head and in the chest, so that the body was so unsuitable, he could not possibly recover by any kind of sorcery.
“They even stood and watched the corpse for a while, to make sure no healing began, and all that time I remained silent and unmoving, perhaps nine or ten meters away, next to a tree. There was nothing I could do for any of the family at that point. I had no defense against bullets besides the ability to heal, and these figures had already demonstrated what they would do if they suspected I could; and, beyond that, I was armed with nothing but my sword. I also had no idea who or what the assassins were, besides witches of some kind. Given the setting, I assumed they were some secret squad of Himmler’s who’d been sent after this particular man.
“Eventually one of them noticed I wasn’t there. ‘Gab es nicht sechs von ihnen? Ich zähle nur fünf Körper,’ she said.”
“Scheisse!” Berta cursed in German. “What did they do then?”
“Wait a moment, Atticus,” Hal interjected. “I don’t speak German. What was that you just said?”
“Weren’t there six of them? I count only five bodies.”
“Oh, shit,” Hal said, and grabbed a bowl of popcorn out of Bogumila’s lap. Her visible eye widened comically, but otherwise she made no protest. “What happened next?” he asked, throwing a handful in his mouth.
“They chose one of the witches to stay behind and watch the dead Kabbalist for miraculous healing, while the other five spread out looking for me. They couldn’t see through my camouflage, though, and they quickly passed my position and melted into the woods.”
“They had no infrared abilities or a half-decent sense of smell?” Hal asked.
Klaudia shook her head and answered him. “As Berta said earlier, they are practically useless in the field without a demon riding along. Had there been one with them, they would have spotted him easily. They probably had some sort of aid for night vision but nothing to penetrate the kind of cloak he had on.”
Camouflage isn’t a cloaking spell—it’s camouflage—but I didn’t bother to correct her as I continued. “That left me alone with a single witch and an opportunity to take a little vengeance for the family before I made my escape. The man’s suit jacket was made of natural fibers, so I formed a bond between his left sleeve and his side, which caused his arm to move abruptly down. As you may imagine, this movement of a supposedly über-dead corpse startled the witch excessively, and she shrieked and began emptying yet another clip into the poor man. Using her noise as cover, I drew my sword, dashed forward ten meters, and struck off her head.”
This elicited a round of cheers from the Polish witches, and there was a general toast and more schnapps poured before I could continue.
“She fell next to the family, and I pelted down the mountain toward Pau as the other witches returned to investigate the shrieking. I was far ahead of them by the time they discovered the body and figured out what must have happened. They gave some pursuit, but they never came close. I stopped using the Somport Pass for the duration of the war, and I never saw them again or figured out why they attacked us, until just now when you gave me the information I lacked.”
“So what happened when they attacked you today?” Kazimiera asked. “Did you kill another one?” Her tone was hopeful.
“No, the setting where we met was not appropriate,” I replied, disappointing the entire coven. “But I did acquire a little something,” I added, as I reached into my pocket and withdrew the blond witch’s lock of hair, “that should enable us to find them a bit more easily.”
“That’s theirs?” Malina asked incredulously, eyes riveted on the hair held between my thumb and forefinger.
“It’s from only one of them, but, yes,” I said. “Can you figure out where they’ve been staying with this?”
The witches all nodded together and said, “Definitely.”
Chapter 22
“Have you changed your mind about Thor?” Leif asked.
“Yes, yes, yes!” I said as fast as I could, but he hung up on me anyway.
That turned out to be a mistake, though: He’d been halfway to flipping his phone closed on what he assumed would be my negative answer, when he heard my thin, tinny affirmative as it snapped shut. He called me back immediately.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, “but did you say that you have changed your mind?”
“Yes, I did say that,” I confirmed, “but only if you’re super-duper sweet to me.”
“What must I do in return for your aid?” he asked warily.
“Help me kill some witches in Gilbert.”
“That is all?”
“Well, there’s only two of us and about twenty of them.”
“That is all?”
“They’re pretty mean and they might be dressed like the Go-Go’s. I’m talking Aqua Net and those shirts that hang off one shoulder and everything.”
“It sounds atrocious, Atticus, simply heinous to the nth degree, but I have no idea to what you are alluding.”
“Then how about this? We might literally catch some hell, because they’re baking demon babies in their wombs. Maybe some other surprises, who knows.”
“Fine, fine. When do we do this?”
“Tonight. Right now. Call up your ghoul friends; there will be plenty to eat when we’re finished.”
“And when do we kill Thor?”
“I’m going on a scouting mission to Asgard before the New Year,” I said, leaving out the part where I’d be stealing one of Idunn’s golden apples for Laksha. “After I return—and that should be before the New Year as well—we plan our raid and pu
t our affairs in order. You get your A-team together, whatever badasses you have in your network, and I will get the lot of you into Asgard.”
“Will you give me your oath on this?” Leif asked.
“Dude, I’ll even pinky-swear.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’ll give you my oath. Just come pick me up in your batmobile.”
Leif hissed his displeasure into the phone. “I have never turned into a bat, no vampire ever has, and that particular myth of Mr. Stoker’s is growing tiresome.”
“If we live through this, Leif, I swear I’m going to make you read some damn comic books.”
Chapter 23
Leif showed up at my house wearing a steel breastplate and a broad grin. “I have not lived this long to let a few witches stake me tonight,” he said, leaning casually against his Jaguar. He was wearing one of those old-fashioned white linen shirts with enormous poufy sleeves underneath his breastplate. He didn’t go full Renaissance, however, and complement this with breeches and a codpiece. Instead, he wore a black pair of Levis and some Doc Martens with a surplus of buckles.
“You have one other vulnerability, I think,” I said. “And we need to address it.”
His grin disappeared. “They have sunlight in a bottle or something?”
“No, but they will probably have some hellfire available. Eight of them are carrying demon spawn. You’re rather flammable, am I right?”
“Well, yes, now that you mention it.”
“I have a fix for that, strictly a loan item for tonight only.”
“All right.” I gave him Oberon’s talisman and activated it to protect him. He regarded me doubtfully and flicked the amulet hanging from his neck. “This hunk of metal will keep me from turning into ashes?”
“You’ll feel the heat, but it shouldn’t burn you.”
He raised his brows and rolled his eyes briefly by way of a facial shrug and said, “Fine. Are we ready to go?”
“Couple more things we have to do first,” I said, and wagged my head significantly at the house across the street. “You remember my inquisitive neighbor?”
