Page 43 of Night of the Witch
I spend most nights here.
It feels safer, somehow, knowing that the only way inside this building is through a second-story door or by the cramped, unlit aqueduct that opens in the basement.
My apartment is for Kapitän Otto Ernst, second-in-command of the hexenjäger units of Trier.
But this building is for me.
Knowing that only little Mia and her brother can see me on this shadowed, abandoned street, I hop atop the first crate, scrambling for a foothold, scaling part of the wall. A bit of plaster breaks off, skittering down. The sound is lost in the overpowering noise from the nearby market, but I cannot help but wonder if the witch inside has heard me approaching.
I left her in the cellar—there’s a chance she’s still down there. Ihadto rush, and she was safe there, at least. But somehow, I think she’s found a way through the house. I glance up—my padlock is still in place.
She’s got to be mad, though. Furious. I left her cold, alone, scared, and—schiesse. I didn’t have time to take off her manacles. Those heavy iron bands on her wrist must be chafing and hurting her.
For a moment, I imagine Fritzi, eyes on fire, with a skillet raised to brain me the moment I step through the door.
I freeze, one hand on the ledge of the door, one wiping over my traitorous mouth.
What in the hell am I thinking, smiling at the thought of that uncouth witch plotting my murder? But her rage is so… It’s like a storm at night, full of lightning, beautiful in its fury.
No.No. Where didthatthought come from?
I shake my head and heave my body up to the door, fitting the key in the lock, listening for the witch and whatever trap she surely has laid for me.
13
FRITZI
At first, my exhausted, fear-strained mind attributes the creaks outside to the noises of this old building. It’s shifting in the wind, groaning with age—
But the creaks turn to thuds. The unmistakable noises of a body climbing closer.
Then the rattling of the iron lock being lifted, a key fitted, twisted.
Alertness jolts through me, a flame flashing in the dark, and I launch to my feet, my four satchels gripped in both hands.
I cross the room to stand next to the door, my body flush against the wall.
The moment he opens that door, he’ll get a face full of protection spells, which should stun him enough that I can shove him aside, leap out, and run like hell.
My heart slows as the lock clicks.
I sip in a breath, muscles coiled, pulse thudding in my clenched jaw. The manacles clink against themselves as I readjust my grip on the bundles, and I go rigid, willing them to silence. The air around me smells ofearthy bay leaves and rich cloves, such familiar scents that every blink tells me I’ll wake up in my own bed, in my own cottage, and all of this will have been a horrific dream.
The door opens.
I watch his arm push it inward, but he pauses. Letting his eyes adjust to the darkness; outside, it’s afternoon, but in here, there are no other light sources, nothing to break the shadows.
Which works in my favor.
I flatten my body to the wall by the door, satchels held to my chest.
The kapitän eases forward. He hooks one leg inside, then the other, and the moment he’s standing fully next to me, all of time seems to stop.
His gaze is on the bulk of the room. Searching for me. His face turns, turns, in another breath, he’ll see me—
I move.
One protection satchel flies, striking him directly in the chest, and the air explodes with a powder of wood and herbs and magic.
