Page 79 of A Resistance of Witches

“Is the book safe?”

Henry nodded, and his hand went to the pack on his shoulder.

Rebecca felt a mixture of relief and revulsion forming a knot in her stomach as she instinctively recoiled from the thing, cradled like an infant inside the pack. She was sure she saw a shadowy figure out of the corner of her eye, writhing and pulsing like a mass of larvae, but a moment later it was gone.

Rebecca placed her lips next to Henry’s ear.“We can’t stay here.”

“I know,” he murmured back.

Claire appeared next to them a second later. She looked Henry up and down. “What’s your name?”

Henry’s hand tightened on the pack. “Henry Boudreaux.”

Rebecca saw Claire’s eyes flick to the bag, then back to Henry’s face. “Nice to meet you, Henry Boudreaux. This is Roger. He’ll find you someplace to sleep tonight.”

Roger hovered just behind Claire’s right shoulder, wearing a smirk that curdled Rebecca’s stomach. She watched, helplessly, as Henry was led away. She did her best to appear calm as he turned and looked at her one last time and then disappeared from view.

“I think it’s time we had that talk,” Claire said softly. She walked away without waiting for a reply.

Rebecca followed her into the empty kitchen, past the long table to the pantry, where Claire stood waiting. A few cloudy jars of vegetables and sacks of turnips and potatoes were shoved to one side of the room. The other side was lined with tools, ammunition, spools of wire and cables in every size, and cans of petrol. A single naked bulb hung overhead.

“How did he find us?” Claire asked as the door swung closed behind them.

“I don’t know.”

“You didn’t tell him to meet you here?”

“No.”

Claire’s face was an impenetrable barrier, all hints of their former closeness now evaporated.

“Should we be expecting any more of your friends?”

“No.” Rebecca held Claire’s gaze and waited, knowing what would come next. Her time was up.

“How did you really escape the Gestapo?” Claire asked quietly.

“I already told you.”

“Rebecca.”Claire paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was almost tender. “You know what they’ll do to you. WhatI’llhave to do. Please. Tell me something. Anything.”

Rebecca looked into Claire’s eyes and felt a tidal wave of sadness. She wanted to trust her, more than anything.

“You won’t believe me.”

“If you tell me the truth,” Claire said, “I’ll believe you.”

Rebecca was silent for a long time.

And then, she told her everything: About David Harlowe and the SOE. About the Englishwoman who could disappear, change her face, paralyze you with a word. She told her about the beautiful, sadisticwoman with the voice that could strip you of your free will, how she’d made Rebecca carve into her own flesh, until Lydia had intervened. She showed Claire the symbol she had carved into herself, now nothing more than a raised, pink scar, told her how Lydia had healed her wounds, leaving only this. And she told her about theGrimorium Bellum—what it could do, what it had done to her when she’d tried to destroy it, and what would happen if it fell into the wrong hands. She almost told Claire that Henry had the book with him now, but didn’t, and she hated herself for that. Something about the omission felt like a confirmation—that Claire was right not to trust her. When she finished, she watched Claire’s face, waiting.

“Claire. Please say something.”

Claire looked up, her expression unreadable. “What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to say you believe me.”

Claire looked away. “I really missed you, you know. When you left. I really thought you would come back. And then you didn’t—”

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