The morning comes too soon, but I have been awake for hours.
We were born to kill each other.
And yet she tucks her body close to mine.
I can feel her heart beating. Her soft breaths coming in little huffs. Her delicate eyelids closed in slumber, the long line of her bare white neck centimeters from my lips.
Heat flushes my body at the thought of how close we are.
How close we were. She pulled back last night, but a part of me—most of me—longs for her to look up at me now, to tip her lips to mine, to cross that bridge we did not cross in the dark.
I never wanted to wear the black cloak of the hexenjägers. I am no hunter. But dear God in Heaven, I think I shall be seeking the quiet peace I feel when she lies in my arms for the rest of my life.
She stirs, murmuring in that liminal space between sleep and awake, and I close my eyes, wishing for the sun to eat itself in fiery death and cast us in perpetual darkness rather than rise.
“Otto?” she asks softly. It’s a tentative whisper, an uncertain question, an olive branch.
“It’s not morning yet,” I insist.
She lifts her hand, a stray sunbeam cutting across her wrist.
“It is,” she says. And then she slips from the bed, leaving nothing but cold empty space behind her.
I sit up and stretch, hiding the smirk that wants to erupt from my lips when I see her eyes dart down to the place where the hem of my tunic lifts as I raise my arms over my head. It’s nice to know she looks at me the same way I look at her. I catch her eyes, and furious crimson stains her cheeks. I can tell the exact moment she remembers last night, how close we were. I feel an echoing flush; how does it feel so awkward? We didn’t do anything.
But we wanted…
But then she says, “I suppose today’s as good as any to be arrested and thrown in prison, no?”
No. The word boils like acid inside me, but I swallow it down.
Automatically, she starts rattling off the paths she’s memorized, the ones she’ll be informing the prisoners of. “From the hypocaust, there are two directions. Half go left, half go right. The left split up at the second fork—one group left again, the other takes the middle path…” She continues on, rehashing the routes perfectly as she pulls out a heel of bread and a jar of preserves from the cabinet, dividing the food for the two of us to break fast together.
I chew as slowly as possible, but soon enough, it’s time. I stand and drape the black cloak over my shoulders. The enameled badge glints in the early morning light as I open the shutters. I hear her stand up, adjust her clothing, gather her clinking glass vials.
When I turn around, we are no longer Fritzi and Otto.
We are witch and hunter.
And it is time.
“I’ll go first,” I tell her, one foot already past the frame, touching the crate that works as a ladder to the second floor. “Make sure no one can see you.” She nods. We cannot give away the ruse so soon. It would be simpler, of course, to use the aqueducts. But I also don’t want to draw too much attention to them, not now, not when we’re so close to needing them.
It’s early yet, and the streets are empty. Fritzi descends the crates with ease, hopping down lightly beside me.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to her as I pull the iron manacles out. Her skin isn’t yet fully healed from the first time I shackled her, pink and raw from where the bandages I’d made had protected the new skin. She must have taken them off before descending. Silently, she holds her hands out to me, and I clamp the iron over her slender wrists.
The house fort is about half a kilometer to the basilica where the prisoners are held. I don’t have to cut through the Hauptmarkt, but I do. I twitch my black hood over my face and walk a pace ahead of Fritzi, careful not to tug too hard against the chains holding her. Iron clinks behind me, drowning out her soft footsteps.
The market in the morning is far less cheerful. The Christkindlmarkt stalls are shuttered; the morning is for necessities. Cloth merchants dominate the area closest to me, the sellers using measuring sticks to cut out equal portions of wool. On the other side, the area where farmers sell produce after harvest, there are meager offerings—bundles of wood for home hearths; a few late vegetables like onions, cabbages, and parsnips; and a salt merchant hawking his wares. There are no cheerful songs, bright beers, merry dancing. Not in the morning. The morning is for work, even during advent.
Even for a hexenjäger.
Everyone who sees us averts their eyes, crossing themselves as we march resolutely past the ancient Roman cross in the center of the market square, then veer to the basilica-turned-prison. My black cloak makes me a shadow of death that all who see try to avoid.
Rebel, I think to myself. See me, and rebel. See her, see what I’m doing, and for God’s sake, rebel.
No one does.
Not yet.
I walk quicker, careful to make sure Fritzi can match my pace as we make our way down the street. The buildings here are richer, with none but servants to witness us. As we approach the basilica, the street opens up to a courtyard paved with stones, filled with the sounds of the heavy boots of hexenjägers reporting for duty.
I take a deep breath. “Make way!” I bellow.
Black cloaks part before me. The hexenjägers peer curiously, snapping to attention when they see my resolute face.
I march up to the door near the curving asp of the basilica. A hexenjäger guard on duty salutes me, then moves to take Fritzi’s manacles from me.
“I have the prisoner,” I say, unwilling to relinquish her just yet. Then I cut the guard a second glance. “Bertram?”
It’s not been long since I last saw Bertram, trapped in the tiny cell in Kommandant Kirch’s office, but already the man has a haggard look about his face. He nods at me. “The kommandant shortened my punishment,” he says. “Thank God. All are needed to help with the solstice burning.”
“You had a spot of good luck, then,” I say, but from the haunted look in Bertram’s eyes, I’m not so sure of that.
“Unlike this witch, caught the day before the fires are to be lit.” Bertram tries to peer past Fritzi’s hood. His eyes widen. “It’s the witch!”
“They’re all witches, Bertram,” I say. I don’t want much attention. Especially as Kommandant Kirch took such an interest in Fritzi.
“But this is the one that got me punished,” he snarls, his hand raised as if to strike her.
I move like lightning, shoving him back so he staggers against the brick wall. “You got yourself punished for being a fool,” I growl. “What was it you claimed? A dozen demons on her side? And yet look.” I sweep my arm toward her. “Just a woman.”
So much more than just anything.
Fritzi smiles sweetly at Bertram, fluttering her eyelashes. I shoulder past him, dragging Fritzi closer to me. I hide the flinch on my face when I hear her stumble on the steps, her toe catching on a raised stone. I cannot help her. I cannot express any sympathy at all.
My hands curl into fists. My jaw clenches.
I have been suppressing my true thoughts for years now; why am I suddenly blinded by the need to protect this woman? I prepared for this—I cannot ruin it now, not when we are so close to such a major coup against the tyranny of the archbishop.
“You!” I snap my fingers at a different guard. “Let’s get this witch in the prison. She can burn with the rest tomorrow.”
He nods at me, moving over to the heavy padlock on the cage door. Meanwhile, I hold Fritzi to the side. Her eyes dart past the bars, looking for her younger cousin, the girl she was so certain had been taken by Kommandant Kirch personally.
“She’s not here,” Fritzi whispers so that none but I can hear. My heart sinks. If the little girl isn’t here, where could she be?
“I’ll find her,” I swear, my voice low. But I have no idea how I’ll do that.
“Bring the witch through!” a hexenjäger calls to me, motioning. Near the door, three people—a woman and two children—crouch in moldy hay. Hexenjägers point swords to push back the woman and the two little ones huddled to her side as if they were dire threats.
“On your knees, witch,” I snarl, yanking Fritzi forward and kicking her down. She skids across the stone floor, tossing her hood back to glare at me. “Get in.” I shove her shoulders, pushing her toward the door. It is a mockery, a final form of shame to make the accused crawl into the cage. Her skirts smear across a damp bundle of hay sticky with brownish-green refuse. Seconds after her ankles clear the door, the hexenjägers let it slam shut, trapping her inside.
She stands and rushes to the bars, gripping them, the metal clacking around the manacles on her wrist. “At least take these verdammt irons off,” she demands.
I pull the key from my pocket and step forward.
“Careful, Kapitän,” one of the hexenjägers warns me. I pause long enough to shoot him a withering glare. He bows his head respectfully, remembering my rank.
Fritzi holds her shackled hands to me, palms up. I fit the iron key into the lock. My fingers brush a newly opened, raw blister made by the rusty metal, and she winces, the barest hint of pain flashing across her face, and it’s enough to make me want to rip this prison down brick by brick.
The iron manacles clatter to the ground. Fritzi steps back immediately, rubbing her wrists.
I bend down to pick them up and pull them through the bars toward me.
A shiny black boot stops beside my knee.
I feel the cold aura of fear settling across the basilica—not just from the prisoners, but from the guards as well. Fritzi turns her back, pulling her cloak up over her face, but I catch the sheer terror flashing in her eyes as she moves.
I stand slowly.
And meet the icy gaze of Kommandant Dieter Kirch.
“Good work, Kapitän Ernst,” he tells me, but already his eyes are roving past my shoulder, through the bars, right to Fritzi.
She’s trapped behind iron in the heart of the hexenjägers’ prison. There is nowhere for her to run, no way for her to hide. I watch as her shoulders square, the realization of how trapped she is settling upon her. But no—this is something more. More than the natural fear of imprisonment. This is not a primal terror, but something deeper, something born of knowledge, of dark memories, of realized terror.
She’s hiding from the man standing beside me. Only there’s nowhere for her to hide.
She turns, lowering her hood, meeting Kommandant Kirch’s eyes, her jaw tight.
When she speaks, her voice is quiet, but everyone can hear her words slice through the air toward him. “Hello, brother.”