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She stared down her prey as their shouts became more urgent.

“Rebecca.”

She pulled the trigger, and the shouts were replaced by a sudden scream as one of the men fell, clutching at his heart with his hand.

The others opened fire. Rebecca tucked herself against the wall but left the door open.

She steeled her nerves, then stepped into the doorway and fired twice more, missing both times.

“Merde.”

“The door!” Henry shouted.

Rebecca closed the door and bolted it. “There are five left. All on this side. They’ve left the back unguarded. You should go.”

Henry shook his head. “We’re not leaving you.”

“It’s okay,” she said, and in that moment, somehow, it really was. She felt that stubborn shred of survival instinct let out one last, heaving sigh, and then go quiet as something else took its place. A cold, hard resignation.

Henry’s mouth fell open as he searched for the words that would change her mind. He turned to Lydia for help, and then his face changed.

“Lydia?”

The color had left Lydia’s face, and beads of sweat stood out on her forehead. Her lips were dry and cracked. She opened her mouth to speak, but only a hoarse croak came out.

“What’s wrong with her?” Henry placed a hand to Lydia’s cheek, and she moaned softly. Outside, the shouting grew louder. Rebecca watched in growing alarm as Lydia’s eyes rolled back and she began to convulse. The veins in her throat bulged, and foam gathered at the corners of her lips.

Henry placed his hand under Lydia’s head just before it hit the floor, cradling her as she shook. “Oh, God. No, please, no.”

She’s dying , Rebecca realized, watching helplessly as Henry held her, and Lydia’s fingers curled into fists. What was it Lydia had said, as they drove to Chateau de Laurier?

Magic that powerful would burn through a lone witch like kindling.

And now, here they were, watching Lydia be consumed from the inside out.

Rebecca forced herself to keep the rifle trained on the door, blocking out the sound of Lydia’s muffled gags and Henry’s desperate prayers for help. She heard Lydia go silent. She heard Henry’s pleas grow more frantic.

In the air all around them, something shifted, almost imperceptibly. She smelled ozone, and felt the air seem to condense, like the moment just before a storm.

She heard Henry gasp, and turned.

A smartly dressed woman stood over Henry and Lydia, an irritated look on her porcelain face.

She was around Lydia’s age, beautiful in a way that was almost unreal, with red lips and hair the color of dark honey.

Her shoes and dress were both a rich shade of pink that enhanced the sapphire blue of her eyes.

On her lapel she wore a silver rose, encircled with thorns.

The woman looked down at Lydia and pursed her lips.

“Bloody hell, girl. What have you got yourself into?” She looked up at Rebecca expectantly. Then she narrowed her eyes at the gun and opened her mouth to speak.

“Wait! You’re the Traveler, yes?” Rebecca stammered. “We’re friends. Please help her. Please .” She held her breath and hoped her words would be enough to keep the woman from casting whatever spell was waiting on her pretty lips.

A loud crack filled the room, turning her blood to ice. Rebecca spun and trained the rifle on the door. “They’re breaking it down!”

She stole a glance over her shoulder. Lydia lay deathly still on the stone floor, her lips gone blue. Henry knelt on one side of her, his face ashen; the golden-haired woman knelt on the other. The woman squeezed Lydia’s limp fingers in her hand.

“Come on, girl,” she said. “Let’s go home.”

The Grimorium Bellum , tossed aside in the commotion, lay open on the floor, forgotten.

“ Wait ,” Rebecca cried, but the ozone smell had returned, and before the word had finished forming, Lydia and the woman were gone, leaving the book behind. Henry looked at her as the terrible realization settled on them both.

The door cracked again, and then again. Rebecca could see the splinters forming in the wood. In a moment, the Gestapo would be inside.

She looked at Henry. “Was she breathing?”

“I don’t know.” He stared down at the place where Lydia had been just a moment ago. “I don’t think so.”

The pounding continued. Rebecca could see light through the cracks in the door. She saw the men on the other side. She felt her spine go hard as grim reality finally set in.

“We can’t let them have the book,” she said. “Take it. Run.”

Henry looked up. “I’m not leaving you to die.”

He was being stupid, and he knew it. Letting his gallantry get in the way of the only thing that mattered.

“Please,” she said.

Henry shook his head. “No.”

She knew what had to be done. She hoped that maybe someday he would forgive her.

Rebecca aimed the rifle at his heart. “Run, or I’ll shoot you.”

He cocked his head, confused. “You won’t.” The door cracked again.

She fired once, and Henry staggered back, covering his head as plaster exploded from the wall just to the left of him. Shock and hurt flashed across his face.

“You don’t know me very well.”

I’m sorry , she thought. Forgive me.

He opened his mouth to speak, but something in her eyes seemed to change his mind.

“Pick it up,” she said.

He did.

“Now run.”

He looked at her for a moment, pleading silently for her to reconsider. She stared back, gun steady.

Henry turned and ran.

She kept the gun on him until he was out of sight, then returned her attention to the door. The voices grew louder, and the wood began to give way.

She raised the rifle and waited.