Page 22 of Night of the Witch
Another thunders his fist on the side of the wagon. “Quiet in there!” The kapitän.
“I didn’t actually make any noise,” I cut back. If I wasn’t so exhausted, so hungry, so downright strained with grief, I’d be able to think more rationally. But right now, the only thing keeping me at all level is the sound of disgusted irritation the kapitän emits.
“I will stay on guard,” he says to his men. “The rest of you, go.”
There’s a resounding chorus of “Ja, Kapitän!” before feet trudge off, stomping from the road into the tangled undergrowth.
The moment I know we’re alone, I leap up and kick the door. “Are you going to let me out?”
No response.
I wrap my fingers around the bars—I can’t stand up straight in this wagon, so to look out the window, I have to crouch a bit—and see the kapitän with his back to me.
His arms are folded, his spine rod-straight, a spotlessly clean black cloak slung over his broad shoulders. That cloak, his dark hair, his eyes—he is all shadow, save for the pale wash of his skin, and the presence he gives off is one of utter control. He looks like he was formed from a cast iron mold of what the perfect hexenjäger should be.
Fury roils in my gut. “Hey, I’m talking to you!”
Nothing.
I yank on the bars. “You can’t keep me in here all night, jäger. Where am I supposed to piss?”
That makes him flinch.
“Oh, did I upset your delicate expectations for how a woman should talk?”
His head shifts toward me, showing him in profile, his mouth in a snarl.
“You aren’t a woman,” he says. “You’re a witch.”
“I’m aperson.” He won’t meet my eyes, but I glare at the side of his face. “My name is Friederike—”
He cuts up a hand. “Your name isn’t necessary to our—”
“And my friends, my cousins, the people I love, they call me Fritzi, you absolute arschloch.”
His jaw bulges. I can see my name in his mind. Humanizing me.
Was he part of the brigade that attacked my coven? It was chaos: fighting and frantic spells, and then the cellar, the burning, the smoke—
“Does knowing the names of the people you murder make it harder to condemn them? Good. Should I list the names of the witches you burned nearby? I’ll start with those most recent, in Birresborn,” I say, probing.
He glances at me, away. “I have been traveling. That patrol was Kommandant Kirch. And simplenameswould not affect any good jäger in their duty.”
Kirchrings through me, a struck bell, a dozen emotions keening high and loud.
“Ah, yes, Kirch, your almighty.”
“He is not the Almighty.”
“No? Oh, that’s right, he reports to the archbishop. Your kommandant, the ever-eager right hand of that walking plague you dare call a holy man. Tell me truly, is it the archbishop’s face you jägers see when you close your eyes in prayer? Or merely when you close your eyes forother pursuits?”
His face turns purple. “Weigh your words carefully, hexe. I will not stand for blasphemy.”
“Speaking of—how is the kommandant? Back in Trier?” I’m toeing a dangerous line, but I have to know. Did he get Liesel back to Trier? Or is she still rolling through the countryside, like I am? Is she close by, even—maybe this caravan is due to reunite with Kommandant Kirch’s?
The kapitän doesn’t respond. The muscles in his face bunch tight, the tendons in his neck flare, and he works his lips in a scowl that doesn’t feel like the typical hexenjäger hatred for my kind—it runs deeper. It feels almost personal.
“Are youmadat me?” I guess. “Grumpy that I’m getting under your skin, or that I didn’t let you arrest your own sister? Having yourself a good pout, are you?”
