Page 67 of A Resistance of Witches

Henry turned away from the desk, then staggered as a wave of dizziness caught him by surprise. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He tried to get his bearings, unsure what had brought on the sudden disorientation.

It was a smell, he realized. Not the bitter, burning smell he had noticed earlier, but something spicy and familiar. Cologne.

René’s cologne.

He looked up.

There, framed in the open doorway, was the shape of a man.

Eighteen

“Run, or I’ll shoot you.” Rebecca aimed the rifle at Henry’s heart.

“You won’t,” Henry said. The door cracked again. Rebecca fired, plaster exploding around them.

“You don’t know me very well.”

She hated herself. She wondered if he hated her too. She hoped that years from now, he would understand.

“Pick it up.”

He did.

“Now run.”

She held the gun on him until he was out of sight, then turned her attention to the door. She held the rifle steady, watching as the wood split before her eyes, daylight streaming between the cracks.

Wait, she told herself.

The doorframe broke apart with a final snap, and the first Gestapo stepped through. Rebecca took a breath, held it, and pulled the trigger. Noise filled the room, and the man’s face disappeared in a spray of red.His body sank to the ground and landed in a heap. Blood pooled around what remained of his head and spread across the kitchen floor.

Four left.

There was a brief and frantic retreat. Angry shouts filled the air. Another face appeared in the doorway but pulled back before Rebecca could fire. She stood her ground, waiting for them to make another appearance. She caught movement out of the corner of her eye and turned her head, just in time to see one of the Gestapo standing at the window, gun drawn. Both fired, the deafening cracks following each other in rapid succession, and Rebecca fell back as a searing pain tore through her left shoulder. As she stumbled into the shelter of the stairwell, she saw the side of the man’s neck, torn open and hemorrhaging, and he fell out of sight.

Three.

She looked down. Blood bubbled forth from the hole in her shoulder. She knew that whatever happened next, she needed to keep the remaining Gestapo occupied long enough for Henry to escape. She pressed one hand to the wound and felt a lightning bolt of pain explode through her body. She let out a low whimper but did not scream.

Her ears pricked to the unexpected sound of silence. The Gestapo were regrouping. Straining at the stillness, she heard an almost imperceptible click followed by a soft padding of feet. One of them had circled around and come in through a back door. They were trying to get behind her.

She climbed the stairs backward, keeping the rifle pointed toward the bottom step. Blood fell in fat droplets at her feet and left crimson streaks along the wall where she leaned for support. As she reached the landing, she glimpsed an approaching shadow as it crept across the floor.

She ran.

Doors lined the long corridor. She was running blind, her feetcarrying her as fast as they could away from the approaching footsteps. She opened a door and saw that it was a bedroom, musty and unused. Thinking fast, she smeared her bloody hand across the doorknob and on the frame, leaving the door ajar. She heard voices behind her and kept running, coming to a stop in front of an open door at the far end of the corridor. It was a sunny room lined with books. A library. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her.

Angry shouts filled the air as the Gestapo searched the bedroom at the other end of the hall. She had perhaps a minute before they realized their mistake and came looking for her. There was another door at the far end of the library, and she ran to it, biting back the urge to cry out in pain as she pressed against it with all of her weight, but it was no use. It was locked.

“No, no, no, no. Merde!”

The voices in the corridor grew louder.

“She’s not in here,” one of them said in German.

“Do you see the book anywhere?”

“No, it’s not here.”

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