Dieter Kirch, kommandant of Trier’s hexenjägers, responsible for prolonging the massacre of innocents under the guise of witch burnings, bends at the waist and picks up the bottle of potion that I brewed with my sister’s help in a little cottage in the middle of the Black Forest. Beer and nightshade.
He peels back the wax stopper.
My body aches, my throat coarse from smoke, as I struggle to stand. Fritzi is still chained to the stake, kindling burning hotter as the flames catch and grow. Her body sags against the restraints, defeat and despair exhausting her.
Dieter plucks the cork from the bottle and tosses it on the flames. I look wildly around, begging someone to see, to help. There’s a perimeter around the fire, an invisible wall. I happen to be inside it, with Dieter. But all around the edge, the forest folk fight hexenjägers with eyes still enchanted blue. Some townsfolk, relieved of their bewitchment, flee or cry or huddle against walls, disbelieving the battle unspooling in their center square. Fritzi hadn’t been able to free all of them, though, only the ones that swarmed around me. The rest continue fighting. But no one comes close to the fire. No one even looks at it. At us.
Dieter has narrowed his magical focus to this point, to Fritzi’s death, and he has somehow ensured no one can get through, erecting this enchanted barrier only because I got so close and she got so powerful. He wanted to showcase his cruelty even among an audience of puppets and enemies; the fact that he’s hidden Fritzi’s pyre indicates that he’s unnerved.
My gaze flicks back to him. He sniffs the bottle, nostrils flaring. “I know this potion,” he says, his voice low, warm. “Oh, sister!” He strides forward, utterly ignoring me. Dieter rushes right up the edge of the fire, so hot that he must feel the flames, but he ignores it, holding the bottle up toward Fritzi even as she starts to kick out, her skirts igniting. “Sister!” he shouts again, “My darling Fritzichen! Did you think—did you really think you would bond with anyone but me?”
It sickens me, his giddy, mocking delight. I know so little about magic and potions, but I know this is among the most sacred, most powerful. And he wants to use it to drain his sister of her magic. Her life.
Dieter whirls around to me and barks in laughter, the sound disbelieving. “Did you think you could fight me with a sip of this?”
“We can defeat you together,” I snarl.
His eyes widen in fake surprise. “Oh, you actually believe that. Otto, friend. If you bonded with Fritzi, you wouldn’t make her stronger. Your blood is so weak. You are a detriment to someone like her. You would do nothing but drag her down to your lowly level.”
I flinch as if he struck me, the words the worst blow he’s ever dealt me. Deep in my heart, I know he’s right. Fritzi’s power—the goodness of her—it’s far above anything I can even hope to touch. She is the sun, and I am not even a moon worthy enough to reflect her light.
Dieter raises the potion to his lips, but doesn’t drink yet. “The irony of this. I could not force her to drink the potion I made. But you just give me the potion she made.” He chuckles. “She’s mine all because you wanted her to be yours.”
“You can’t steal her magic,” I growl.
“Quiet down, dog,” Dieter says casually. He flicks his hand, and I feel my joints hardening, my muscles tightening. I strain against his pressure, but I can barely move.
He tips the bottle up to Fritzi’s writhing body in a cruel salute. “Prost,” he says. The flames around her freeze—he will delay her murder long enough to attempt to steal her power. The fire doesn’t disappear, the heat still radiating from static sparks, but it no longer roars and spreads.
Dieter brings the potion to his lips. “Your magic will be mine, Fritzichen. You can break with the Well, but you’ll never break this bond with me.”
Dieter downs the potion, his throat bobbing as he gulps the liquid.
I strain my body, still struggling against the magic paralysis Dieter placed on me.
And then, with a stomach-churning lurch, I break free. I stagger up.
Dieter whirls around, the bottle still in his hand. “I said, ‘Down, dog,” he growls, a cough choking his words. He swipes his hand at me—
Nothing happens.
Dieter’s eyes widen. A rush of noise swooshes over us, and people spill across the invisible barrier that had kept them out. At the same time, the flames around the pyre swoop up, stronger than ever.
“Save Fritzi!” I hear Cornelia call. More forest folk run forward. Dieter curses, twisting his arm, his fingers bent grotesquely—
Nothing happens.
“What did you do?” Dieter screams at the fire, even as Fritzi throws her head back, trying and failing to escape the flames.
“What did I do, you mean,” I growl.
His head whips around to me. His eyes are wild, his skin sallow. The bottle drops from his fingers, this time smashing on the cobblestones, the remains of the liquid spilling out. He buckles over in pain.
“Fritzi didn’t make the potion,” I say. “I did.” And without Fritzi’s spelling the liquid as it brewed, it was poison. It won’t kill him—but it will kill his magic.
Which was, of course, my plan all along.