Page 36 of Night of the Witch
Bertram stands there in his sodden boots, eyes straining. There’s some light from ventilation shafts here, and his gaze roves over us, hopeful and then crestfallen.
“So, Johann couldn’t catch the witch,” Bertram growls.
What an arschloch. I don’t bother hiding my contempt. “Johann wasn’t holding the witch’s chain,” I snarl. “She made the torch go out, but you were the fool who let her go.”
“She had demons’ help!” Bertram protests, eyes going wide. “Something slammed into her with the force of ten men, ripping her from my grasp!”
Johann squeaks in terror, but I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smirking. A demon with the strength of ten men? My shove against Fritzi had not been gentle, but Bertram is letting his fear overtake his senses.
Good. That will work in my favor.
“Come on,” I growl to the two others as I lead them out of the tunnels and toward the long iron spiral staircase that goes from the aqueduct all the way into the Porta Nigra. Our steps echo in the stone chamber as we ascend.
By the time we reach the top of the Porta Nigra, I know the silence has done more work than anything I could have said. That’s one of the few valuable lessons I’ve learned from being a hexenjäger—even an innocent will confess to a crime if left with nothing but guilt and silence. Johann’s eyes are as wide as a saucer. Bertram’s face is downcast as he mutters a prayer—one that will not be answered.
Because, much to all of our terror, Kommandant Dieter Kirch has returned to Trier.
Even before we reach his office, I can tell that he’s back. A cold fear crackles among the hexenjägers on duty here. Everyone is on high alert;the salutes that follow me as I lead Bertram and Johann down the corridor snap like whips.
I knock on Kommandant Kirch’s door.
“Enter,” his voice calls, deep and resonant.
I push it open.
Kommandant Dieter Kirch is a tall man with broad, rectangular shoulders. His blond hair curls at the end and brushes his starched shirt collar. Everything about the man screams strength and power, from the muscles straining against his clothes to the hard edge of his jawline as he inspects us. But the thing about the kommandant that gives him more power and respect than other men is his eyes.
There’s something…eerie about his eyes. They are a simple blue, a common enough color, nothing remarkable, but…it’s as if shadows move behind his irises, the colors seeming to swirl if you look at them too long. It is impossible not to feel uneasy under his unflinching gaze.
Kommandant Kirch takes a moment to drink in our appearance. Wet boots, stained breeches, waterlogged cloaks.
“Where is the witch?” he demands.
I have worked with Dieter Kirch for years; he knows what I mean when I sweep my hand toward Bertram.
The kommandant glares. Bertram actually takes a step back, bumping into Johann.
“From what the other men in your patrol said, this witch was…powerful,” the kommandant says.
I nod once, sharply.
Dieter turns to me. “You went to fetch your own sister to be burned?”
I nod again, slower this time.
Dieter strides forward. “It takes a…strong man to turn in his family.”
“She was not family,” I lie. “She was a bastard child; my father whelpedher with a witch.Notmy birth mother,” I add, reminding everyone in the room that unholy blood does not run in my veins.
Dieter nods slowly. “Still,” he says, and there’s a tone in his voice I almost don’t recognize. Pride? “And then a powerful witch took her.” His voice is grave. “That witch ensorcelled your sister and sent her…”
“Elsewhere,” I finish. “Perhaps to hell, where her kind revel.”
“Perhaps.” He smiles impishly. “My, what fun my men have been having. The troops I took with me burned a coven that fought back withmagic, and now this little witch is spiriting other witches away!” He giggled, the sound pitched high, but then his shoulders slumped. “I suspected some of the men were feeling a bit…disheartened. Unaware of the depths of their mission. Now they see what we are up against, though, now their passions are stoked.”
Dieter walks slowly past me, toward Bertram. “You,” he says.
Bertram looks as if he’s about to piss himself, but he squares his shoulders. “Yes. Sir.”
