Page 8 of Night of the Witch
I grab the torch from him. “See those?” I point to the barrels stored on raised planks under the brick pillars to protect them from the water. Johann nods, eyes wide. “They’re full of gunpowder, you unverschämt. Be careful with your torch.”
“Why would they store that here?” Johann grumbles, but at my withering look, he says no more.
After letting the door at the top of the stairs swing open, I shove Johann through and then stash the quenched torch on a hook. We climb the steps, leaving wet boot prints on the stone. Once inside the main basilica, the guards on duty nod to us in greeting as we stride into the hall.
I stare about the prison in horror, although my face shows no emotion. Some of these witches have been behind bars for a month already. The hay at their feet is scant, stained brown, molding and musty where it’s not putrid and wet.
I harden my heart to pity. In order to contain the evil, this holy building was selected as the most secure and blessed. Where a congregation would typically gather, there are now iron bars extending from the cut stone floor, trapping the hexen. There is only one door facing the altar, with heavy chains and three locks keeping it secure.
“You can see, sir,” Johann says in his too-high voice, “there’s hardly any room left. If Kommandant Kirch comes back with more people from his raid of the coven in the north…”
“Kommandant Kirch can deal with it,” I say.
“Should we relocate some? There are cells in the Porta Nigra…”
“Monk’s cells, not prisoner cells,” I snap. Prior to the formation of the hexenjäger units, the upper part of the old building was a monastery. “Would you put a witch beside the bones of Saint Simeon?”
Johann blanches. “It’s just…it seems…” Johann’s voice fades to a whisper, but I still catch his words. “It doesn’t seem right, does it? It’s inhumane.”
He should be afraid to speak so foolishly. If Kommandant Kirch heard such presumptuous remarks from a recruit, the lad would be lashed at the very least.
I slam my fist against the boy’s jaw, the blow coming hard and fast and without warning. He spins in a circle before crashing down to the stone floor with a tooth-clacking snap of his head. Blood spurts from his lip as he looks up at me with wide, fearful eyes.
I crouch down in front of him before he has a chance to right himself.
“Are you suggesting, recruit, that these hexen be given better quarters?” I speak loudly, my voice carrying. Every single person in the vast room—witch or soldier—hears me. “A witch sells their soul to the devil,” I boom. “Each and every one of them will stay here. Behind this cage. Until they burn. Theircomfortis of little concern to any true hexenjäger.” I stand, towering over the recruit, peering down my nose at the boy. “Am I understood?”
“Yes!” he squeaks. “Sir!”
I tilt my chin up and peer around the room. Roughly a hundred witches, crammed into a cage meant to hold only two dozen at most. Fewer guards than usual—most are with Kommandant Kirch, in his raid to the north. But enough.
My words settle over the basilica. The hexenjägers standing guard at the doors or patrolling the cage walk with proud steps, their spines straighter, their jaws more determined.
The witches—the ones still sensible to their plight—weep softly.
My words have ripped the last shred of their hope away.
I feel them watching me as I stride past the cage toward the main doors of the basilica. Dim light filters through the windows cut high above in the stone.
“Like his father.”
I hear the whisper behind me, but I don’t pause to see which fellow hexenjäger spoke. Everyone sees my father in me. A zealot, full of passion, a warrior of the faith. His death was ignoble, but his reputation outlastedhim. He is the reason I was able to advance so quickly in the ranks of the hexenjägers, despite never having held a torch to a pyre. I may be second-in-command, and everyone else has forgotten the truth of it, but I have not: I am untested.
I have organized patrols, I have worked as a guard, but I have not yet lit a single fire.
I wonder: what would my father think ofthat?
I bite back the smile threatening to twist my lips, knowing exactly what he would think of the solstice and what I shall do on that day.
The young recruit skulks behind me. Already, a bruise blossoms across his jawline.
“You are right, Johann,” I announce without turning to face the boy. “The prison is crowded. But not so crowded that it cannot handle one more witch.”
“Sir?” he asks.
I reach the front of the prison. Wilhelm is the highest ranking hexenjäger on duty. He snaps to attention when I stop in front of him.
“How many units remain in the city?” I ask. While I know many men went with Kommandant Kirch, I am unsure of the exact number.
