Page 61 of A Resistance of Witches

But Rebecca understood.

She nearly stopped her. She nearly said,Don’t. Please. It’s not worth it.Leave me. Run.But then the will to survive rose up so strong in her, so stubborn and selfish—it refused to be denied. Even after everything she’d been through, everything she’d seen, she didn’t want to die. Not like this. Not yet.

“Leave her,” she said. She crouched beside Lydia, aimed her rifle at the door, and waited.

Lydia’s eyes wandered in their sockets as her fingers traveled over the pages. Rebecca thought she felt an electric charge in the air, but told herself it was only fear that made the hairs on her arms stand on end. The knocking came again, harder now, a final warning.

Then Lydia spoke.

The voice that came from her throat did not sound like her own. She chanted in a tongue Rebecca had never heard before and hoped never to hear again. Sometimes the voice sounded like water in a hot pan, hissing and spitting, other times hard and cold, like striking flint. Sometimes it sounded like a guttural sob; sometimes the consonants seemed to run on forever, creating cascading rivers of plosives and clicks. Each syllable made Rebecca want to cover her ears, but she straightened her spine and kept her rifle trained on the door.

From the other side of the door, there came a low moan. It sounded inhuman, like the lowing of a cow. The moaning rose in pitch and volume, turning to wails of agony and then shrieks, but Lydia carried on as if she did not hear. Something about her voice made Rebecca feel ill. She smelled something horrible—a sticky, deathbed stink that clung to the inside of her nostrils. The screams crescendoed, reaching a fever pitch, until very suddenly, they stopped. Rebecca’s hands shook as she held the rifle. She heard labored breathing on the other side of the door, and then a rattle, and then nothing. The final word escaped Lydia’s mouth with a withering hiss, and then there was silence.

Rebecca forced herself to stand, gun still raised. She stepped quietly to the door and placed one hand on the knob.

“Rebecca, don’t,” Henry said. Rebecca ignored him and opened the door.

She smelled them before she saw them. A thick, evil smell, like an infected wound. Three dead bodies lay in a twisted heap in the doorway. Two were curled so their faces were hidden, but the third lay sprawled on his back, head tilted toward the door, mouth open. His face was a mass of boils, black and yellow and red, all oozing pus. Foam poured from his gaping mouth, his bloodshot eyes staring blindly at Rebecca, and for one horrible second, she thought she would be sick.

“Jesus,” Henry murmured. Rebecca took a step back, covering her nose and mouth with her sleeve. In the distance, she could see more men running toward them, shouting to one another in frantic German. She raised the rifle.

“Close the door,” Henry said.

She stared down her prey as their shouts became more urgent.

“Rebecca.”

She pulled the trigger, and the shouts were replaced by a sudden scream as one of the men fell, clutching at his heart with his hand. The others opened fire. Rebecca tucked herself against the wall but left the door open. She steeled her nerves, then stepped into the doorway and fired twice more, missing both times.

“Merde.”

“The door!” Henry shouted.

Rebecca closed the door and bolted it. “There are five left. All on this side. They’ve left the back unguarded. You should go.”

Henry shook his head. “We’re not leaving you.”

“It’s okay,” she said, and in that moment, somehow, it really was. She felt that stubborn shred of survival instinct let out one last, heaving sigh, and then go quiet as something else took its place. A cold, hard resignation.

Henry’s mouth fell open as he searched for the words that wouldchange her mind. He turned to Lydia for help, and then his face changed.

“Lydia?”

The color had left Lydia’s face, and beads of sweat stood out on her forehead. Her lips were dry and cracked. She opened her mouth to speak, but only a hoarse croak came out.

“What’s wrong with her?” Henry placed a hand to Lydia’s cheek, and she moaned softly. Outside, the shouting grew louder. Rebecca watched in growing alarm as Lydia’s eyes rolled back and she began to convulse. The veins in her throat bulged, and foam gathered at the corners of her lips.

Henry placed his hand under Lydia’s head just before it hit the floor, cradling her as she shook. “Oh, God. No, please, no.”

She’s dying, Rebecca realized, watching helplessly as Henry held her, and Lydia’s fingers curled into fists. What was it Lydia had said, as they drove to Château de Laurier?

Magic that powerful would burn through a lone witch like kindling.

And now, here they were, watching Lydia be consumed from the inside out.

Rebecca forced herself to keep the rifle trained on the door, blocking out the sound of Lydia’s muffled gags and Henry’s desperate prayers for help. She heard Lydia go silent. She heard Henry’s pleas grow more frantic.

In the air all around them, something shifted, almost imperceptibly. She smelled ozone, and felt the air seem to condense, like the moment just before a storm.

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