Page 23 of Night of the Witch
The kapitän whips around to face me and takes a single step closer to the wagon. I don’t miss the way he glances at the woods, checking that we’re still alone.
“You have no idea what you’ve stepped into,” he spits at me. “Years of planning, and—”
“You have no idea what an absolute disease you are,” I throw back. “The world would be better without your presence. Think about that, jäger—if you died, no one would mourn you, and the land would rejoice.”
“And who would mourn you?”
My lips part, but the answer is raw and recent:no one.
He can see he’s hit something. He doesn’t smile, though; no reveling in his verbal victory.
He studies me. Narrow, cold brown eyes. Eyes that have watched a hundred people burn. Eyes that saw his sister fight.
There is nothing in him, a blankness that sends a shudder down my body.
Hatred, I can handle. Power-hungry dominance, I expect.
But this indifference? He looks like he could stab me in the heart and leave me for dead on the road without a second thought.
Which begs the question—
“Why didn’t you kill me?” I ask, staying back from the window, in the shadows of the wagon.
He may not have been at Birresborn, but he’s no better than the men who were.
Some of the tension in his brow smooths out. “Why did you use magic in a room filled with hexenjägers?”
“Do you ever answer a question straight?”
“You are not worthy of answers, hexe.”
“Fritzi.Maid, Mother—” I drop my chin to my chest. “Talking to you is like speaking to a wall.”
I think we’re done, so I turn to sit again.
But the kapitän makes a gruff hum in his throat. “What spell did you use on my sister?”
I go rigid. My lip curls, and I press back against the window, letting him see my anger, my determination. “Protection. Enough to let her get away.”
“That’s the thing I can’t place,” he says, lips tight. “My sister would not have fled.”
“From her crazed brother trying to arrest her? You’re right, she should have embraced you with open arms.”
The kapitän’s eyes narrow. He shakes his head like I’m simple, likeI’mthe one refusing to give him straight answers.
Footsteps draw closer; the other hexenjägers back from scouting.
“Why do you care if your sister got away?” I spit at him. He doesn’t look at me now, waiting at attention for his men to rejoin him on the road. “You still got a witch to bring back to Trier.”
Something about his posture changes. I can’t tell what it is; is he standing straighter? Is his anger returning?
Whatever it is, it makes me flinch again when he throws me one last glare.
There’s calculation in his cold eyes now. A thought playing out that I can only guess at.
I hear his words come back:You’re not going to burn, hexe. But you’ll wish you had by the time I’m done with you.
I feel suddenly like I should beg for my life. Like he has a pistol aimed at me, and I have only seconds to live.
