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Fourteen

Rebecca’s contact was late.

She had chosen her seat at this café for its view of the clock tower in the town square, which now indicated that it was ten past two.

She should have left five minutes ago. It was one of her rules not to hang around if a contact was late, one of the many ways she’d stayed alive as long as she had.

But André was notorious for never being where he was supposed to be when he was supposed to be there—and he was carrying an envelope full of intelligence for the SOE, which Rebecca was meant to hand off to David Harlowe at their next rendezvous.

Five more minutes , she told herself.

She sipped her wine. At another table, two men were discussing the excitement from the night before in hushed tones.

“Did you see the smoke?”

“Couldn’t miss it. My nephew walked by there this morning on his way to work. Said there was a train on the tracks, got blown straight to hell. Looted, too, from the looks of it.”

“What was it carrying?”

“Guns.”

The other man whistled low. Rebecca raised her book to cover her smile.

The waitress approached Rebecca’s table. She was a sweet-faced girl, strawberry blond and covered in freckles.

“Can I get you anything else, mademoiselle?”

Rebecca set down her book. “Another glass of the cabernet for me, and one for my tardy friend as well.”

The waitress cleared her throat, then held Rebecca’s gaze. “I’m afraid we are all out of the cabernet.” Her eyes flicked toward the door. “Will there be anything else?” The girl’s irises seemed to pulse.

Rebecca felt a stab of dread. She smiled. “Non. Merci beaucoup . ” She pulled a ration ticket from her purse to pay for her wine, then quietly removed an envelope full of banknotes and placed it on her seat for the waitress.

Waiters see everything , her friend Colette once told her. Barmen too. Keep a few in your pocket, and you can learn all sorts of interesting things.

She surveyed the room. Two men were seated by the window, clearly locals. One elderly woman, drunk and alone. Two young women with babes in arms. And the man at the table by the door, reading the newspaper without moving his eyes.

She placed her book inside her bag and walked calmly toward the door. She did not look back when she reached the street, but knew he was behind her just the same. She reached inside her bag and wrapped her hand around her pistol.

She didn’t notice the young woman with the chestnut curls, walking toward her as if she were on her way into the café. They were just about to pass each other when the woman changed course, stepping swiftly into Rebecca’s path and taking her by the lapel.

“Behave.” Her voice seemed to slip inside Rebecca’s skull like a snake. It wrapped itself around her mind, until Rebecca found she could not speak a word or take another step unless the woman told her to.

“Ether won’t be necessary,” the woman said. Rebecca turned to see the man from the café, with a rag in his hand. He looked disappointed. “You’re going to come with us , aren’t you?” The words seemed to penetrate deep into her brain, sharp and violating.

To her horror, Rebecca found herself walking placidly alongside the woman, as if they were old friends. Inside she screamed and fought, yet somehow, she could not bring her feet to disobey.

They came to a black car. “Get in.”

Rebecca did as she was told, climbing into the back seat even as panic swelled up inside her. She willed herself to run, but it was no use. She was no longer in control of her own body.

“We’re just going to leave her sitting in the back seat like that?” said the man.

“Why not? She’s not going anywhere.”

“It’s creepy,” he grumbled.

“Well, if it makes you more comfortable…” The woman leaned down and placed her face close to Rebecca’s. “Sleep.”

Rebecca felt a terror like electricity flow through her.

She fought to stay awake, trying to focus her attention on anything she could—green flecks in the irises of the chestnut-haired woman, cracks in the stones outside the café, ivy creeping up the base of the clock tower, and—just before she closed her eyes—a bone-handled dagger, sheathed on the woman’s hip, with a rune carved into the hilt.

···

She woke in a cold, gray room, wrists bound to her chair, with a blinding light in her face.

“Your friend betrayed you.”

Rebecca blinked. The room was dark and windowless, with water stains running down the walls, and a single bulb hanging overhead.

She smelled bleach, the stink of it searing her nostrils.

The man from the café sat before her, smoking a cigarette.

She strained at her ropes, finding to her relief that her body was hers to control once again.

“To his credit, he held out two, almost three hours before he started talking.” The man exhaled a plume of smoke into her face.

André, you weak, stupid putz . She’d known André was a liability from the start.

He was careless and arrogant, flouting the rules at every turn.

He’d never been truly committed to the Resistance.

Just a boy, running from the city to avoid compulsory service in some German work camp.

And now he’d broken the most important rule of all—that on the day the bastards finally catch you, you keep your mouth shut.

You keep your mouth shut for one full day, long enough for your friends to realize you’ve gone missing, and scatter.

Only then do you give them what they want. Only then do you break.

The Gestapo flicked ash from his cigarette onto the cement floor.

“He didn’t know much. Just a small fish.

But he assured us that you would be far more knowledgeable.

Lucky for you, we are prepared to make you the same offer we made your friend.

Give us the names and locations of all of your coconspirators, and you will be allowed to live. ”

“Please, monsieur, I don’t know what you’re talking about!” The fear in her voice was real. Letting it out was almost a relief—she imagined the terrified girl she’d always kept buried deep inside her, breathing free air, just this once. “Please, you have the wrong person.”

He smiled. “No. I don’t.”

She strained at her bonds. “I’m not with the Resistance. I’m nothing. I’m just a woman. Please.”

“You Frenchwomen. You are beautiful. But you lie like you breathe.”

He reached out and grabbed her roughly by the jaw, turning her head to the side. He placed his lit cigarette close to the flesh of her throat. “You will not be so beautiful when you leave here.”

Fear snatched the breath from her lungs. “Please—”

He ground the cigarette into her neck, and she screamed as the pain coursed through her like fire.

“Names.” The man lit another cigarette.

“I don’t know what you—”

He punched her, hard. She tasted blood.

“Names.”

“Please—”

“ Names. ” He raised his fist.

“Okay, okay.” She took a breath. “Claudette Colbert. Buster Keaton. Bette Davis, Humphrey Bogart, Claude Raines…”

“Bitch.” He punched her again. Her vision slipped inside her skull.

“Shirley Temple, Jimmy Stewart—”

“Enough.”

“You said you wanted names.” Rebecca stared at him through her blurring vision.

The man let out a barking laugh and examined his knuckles.

“You will get worse than a beating if you don’t talk, you know.

” He raised his eyebrows, waiting for a reaction.

“Not from me, of course. I am a gentleman. Some of the others here…” He shrugged.

“Not so much.” He leaned down so they were face to face.

“I don’t think you want to die.” He reached out and stroked her cheek, and Rebecca felt all the fear inside of her congealing into a thick, black spite.

She spat, blood and spit swirling together on the man’s face. He reared back in disgust. She laughed, then took a deep breath, and sang as loudly as she could:

“Allons enfants de la Patrie, le jour de gloire est arrivé! Contre nous de la tyrannie, l’étendard sanglant est levé! L’étendard sanglant est levé!”

“Have it your way.” He opened the heavy metal door and left, wiping the blood and spit from his face.

She carried on singing until she was hoarse, and her vision stopped swimming.

Let the bastards hear me , she thought. If I die it will be with “La Marseillaise” on my tongue.

When her voice failed her, she found other ways to keep her mind occupied.

She strained at her bonds until her wrists were raw.

She took an inventory of the room. There was a telephone on a table in the corner—she imagined she could put the cord to good use should the opportunity arise.

On the floor next to the wall sat a brick, the type one might have used to prop a door open—small enough to wield one-handed, but large enough to use as a bludgeon.

She understood that she would probably die here—she could feel the truth of it deep in her guts, like a tumor.

Still, it brought her comfort to pretend she might live.

In the murky far corner of the room, something caught her eye—movement, like something glimpsed under water. Was there someone else in here? No, she was certain she was alone. She closed her eyes. She counted to ten.

When she opened her eyes, the Englishwoman was there in the room with her.

“Rebecca? Great Mother, what’s happened?”

She blinked at Lydia’s trembling image. “ You. ”

Lydia cocked her head to one side. “Yes, me. What on earth—”

“Putain de sorcière démoniaque! C’est toi qui a fait ca n’est ce pas? J’aurais d? te tuer lorsque j’en avais l’opportunité—”

Lydia blanched. “Rebecca, what are you—”

“Do you think I’m stupid? Twenty-two years I’ve never met a witch. This week I’ve met two . Am I supposed to think that’s a coincidence?”

“Another witch? Rebecca—”