Page 43 of A Resistance of Witches

Rebecca blinked. The room was dark and windowless, with waterstains running down the walls, and a single bulb hanging overhead. She smelled bleach, the stink of it searing her nostrils. The man from the café sat before her, smoking a cigarette. She strained at her ropes, finding to her relief that her body was hers to control once again.

“To his credit, he held out two, almost three hours before he started talking.” The man exhaled a plume of smoke into her face.

André, you weak, stupid putz. She’d known André was a liability from the start. He was careless and arrogant, flouting the rules at every turn. He’d never been truly committed to the Resistance. Just a boy, running from the city to avoid compulsory service in some German work camp. And now he’d broken the most important rule of all—that on the day the bastards finally catch you, you keep your mouth shut. You keep your mouth shut for one full day, long enough for your friends to realize you’ve gone missing, and scatter. Only then do you give them what they want. Only then do you break.

The Gestapo flicked ash from his cigarette onto the cement floor. “He didn’t know much. Just a small fish. But he assured us that you would be far more knowledgeable. Lucky for you, we are prepared to make you the same offer we made your friend. Give us the names and locations of all of your coconspirators, and you will be allowed to live.”

“Please, monsieur, I don’t know what you’re talking about!” The fear in her voice was real. Letting it out was almost a relief—she imagined the terrified girl she’d always kept buried deep inside her, breathing free air, just this once. “Please, you have the wrong person.”

He smiled. “No. I don’t.”

She strained at her bonds. “I’m not with the Resistance. I’m nothing. I’m just a woman. Please.”

“You Frenchwomen. You are beautiful. But you lie like you breathe.”

He reached out and grabbed her roughly by the jaw, turning her head to the side. He placed his lit cigarette close to the flesh of her throat. “You will not be so beautiful when you leave here.”

Fear snatched the breath from her lungs. “Please—”

He ground the cigarette into her neck, and she screamed as the pain coursed through her like fire.

“Names.” The man lit another cigarette.

“I don’t know what you—”

He punched her, hard. She tasted blood.

“Names.”

“Please—”

“Names.” He raised his fist.

“Okay, okay.” She took a breath. “Claudette Colbert. Buster Keaton. Bette Davis, Humphrey Bogart, Claude Raines…”

“Bitch.” He punched her again. Her vision slipped inside her skull.

“Shirley Temple, Jimmy Stewart—”

“Enough.”

“You said you wanted names.” Rebecca stared at him through her blurring vision.

The man let out a barking laugh and examined his knuckles. “You will get worse than a beating if you don’t talk, you know.” He raised his eyebrows, waiting for a reaction. “Not from me, of course. I am a gentleman. Some of the others here…” He shrugged. “Not so much.” He leaned down so they were face to face. “I don’t think you want to die.” He reached out and stroked her cheek, and Rebecca felt all the fear inside of her congealing into a thick, black spite.

She spat, blood and spit swirling together on the man’s face. He reared back in disgust. She laughed, then took a deep breath, and sang as loudly as she could:

“Allons enfants de la Patrie, le jour de gloire est arrivé! Contre nous de la tyrannie, l’étendard sanglant est levé! L’étendard sanglant est levé!”

“Have it your way.” He opened the heavy metal door and left, wiping the blood and spit from his face.

She carried on singing until she was hoarse, and her vision stoppedswimming.Let the bastards hear me, she thought.If I die it will be with “La Marseillaise” on my tongue.When her voice failed her, she found other ways to keep her mind occupied. She strained at her bonds until her wrists were raw. She took an inventory of the room. There was a telephone on a table in the corner—she imagined she could put the cord to good use should the opportunity arise. On the floor next to the wall sat a brick, the type one might have used to prop a door open—small enough to wield one-handed, but large enough to use as a bludgeon. She understood that she would probably die here—she could feel the truth of it deep in her guts, like a tumor. Still, it brought her comfort to pretend she might live.

In the murky far corner of the room, something caught her eye—movement, like something glimpsed under water. Was there someone else in here? No, she was certain she was alone. She closed her eyes. She counted to ten.

When she opened her eyes, the Englishwoman was there in the room with her.

“Rebecca? Great Mother, what’s happened?”

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