Page 53 of A Resistance of Witches

Henry took a piece of paper from his pocket. “He said I was right about the book. That it was talking to him. Telling him to…do things.To himself. And other people.” He rubbed his thumb along the yellowed scrap of paper in a movement that seemed to be unconscious.

The book had spoken to René?Lydia’s mind reeled with possibilities. Maybe there had been some witch blood in his family, buried so deep even René himself didn’t know. It would explain why he hadn’t felt the book’s influence until he’d had it for some time, while Henry had felt it right away.

Or perhaps…

Or perhaps the book’s influence was so strong that given enoughtime it could be felt by anyone, witch or no. Lydia looked down at the thing in her hands and shuddered.

“He rolled the truck into a ravine behind the barn.” Henry glanced over his shoulder. “I think he was trying to make sure he couldn’t leave. He wanted it to stop, so he…” His voice failed him as he gestured toward the place where René had spent his final moments. Lydia saw what looked like an amber pill bottle lying in the grass.

“His family?” Rebecca asked. Lydia hadn’t heard her approach.

Henry looked at the piece of paper in his hand. “They were taken to Drancy before he arrived.”

Rebecca lowered her head.

“What’s in Drancy?” Lydia asked.

“A transit camp.” Rebecca said the words without looking up. “Last stop before deportation.”

Deportation.Lydia thought again of René’s nephew, Jean-Luc. About the cat he’d drawn, his name printed so proudly below it.

The swell of despair she felt was too heavy to hold—she had to let go or drown. She glanced back toward the road, snaking like a river through the fog.

“Henry? We can’t stay here. We have to go.”

“I can’t leave him.” Henry went back to his work.

Lydia could have screamed, but she steadied herself and tried again. “The Germans are coming. It’s a miracle they’re not here already.”

“I have to take care of him.” He said it simply, no anger, just a fact. A task that must be done.

“Henry—”

“I’ll help,” Rebecca said. She strode toward the barn and returned a moment later with a shovel in her hand. Lydia stood back for a moment, the need to flee making her frantic. She watched as they dug side by side, and realized that neither would be moved. Not until the job was done.

She made her way to the barn, holding theGrimorium Bellumagainst her like an infant. It was dark inside, barely lit by the soft gray light pouring in from the open door. She smelled hay, and dirt, and animals, now long gone. It was very still inside, and quiet, as if the fog had built an impenetrable wall between herself and the rest of the world. Like she had disappeared.

There was a spade by the door. She returned to the tree and reluctantly set theGrimorium Bellumin the grass. Henry looked up briefly from his work and nodded. Lydia started digging.

•••

It was growing darkby the time they finished the grave and maneuvered René’s body into its final resting place. Henry had placed René onto a canvas tarp before covering him, which made things easier. Lydia never saw his face.

They stood by the grave in silence. Lydia looked at Henry.

“I feel like I’m supposed to say something, but I don’t—” He made a low, strangled sound.

“It’s all right,” she said. “He knows.”

The fog seemed to thicken, enveloping them. The silence deepened, draping itself over them like heavy blankets soaked with seawater. And there, rumbling low and sinister in the air around them, theGrimorium Bellumwhispered in a thousand voices, like swarms of insects only Lydia could hear.

Just when Lydia thought she could no longer bear it—the silence, the sadness, the incessant, relentless chatter of the book—Rebecca took an audible breath. She looked like perhaps she wasn’t sure what she’d wanted to say. Then she began to speak. The words were rhythmic like a poem, but Lydia couldn’t understand their meaning. Rebecca closed her eyes and called out the words into the fog:

Yitgadal v’yitkadash sh’mei raba

b’alma di-v’ra chirutei, v’yamlich malchutei

b’chayeichon uvyomeichon uvchayei d’chol beit yisrael,

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