The Shadow War

by Lindsay Smith

  Screams rang through the corridors of what was left of Wewelsburg Castle.

  Liam saw them popping behind his eyes like mortar shells bursting: the monsters, his monsters, feeding. The Nazis’ agony and pain sustained them. The fierce, relentless gnash of teeth and claws and a hunger that had no bottom, just like his power, his boundless power.

  Someone wheezed with laughter behind him. Frowning, Liam turned, letting his focus slide away from his monsters and their glorious feast. Kreutzer was dislodging himself from beneath the rubble. Bright red blood glistened over the fine coating of stone that powdered his face and hair; it smeared across his chin the color of a ripe pomegranate. He swayed as he pulled himself up to one foot, then the other, and dusted his hands across his knees.

  “You have some skill, Mr. Doyle, I will grant you that.” He cracked his neck from side to side; his tongue darted out to flick against the blood beneath his lip. He stooped down and grabbed the battered Porta ad Tenebras manuscript. “But you lack that crucial ingredient that will see our Aryan warriors to glory. You lack conviction.”

  Liam took a step back as the doctor moved toward him. With a roll of his hand, he wrapped a strand of shadow energy around his wrist. It shivered in his touch, desperate to be used. Desperate to use Liam. “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “You think I underestimate you, little runt? No.” Darkness slithered across Kreutzer’s eyes, purple and silver galaxies spinning in its wake. “I’ve seen it. I’ve seen through you. Through all of this . . .”

  Kreutzer took a deep gulp of the fetid air around him. The castle smelled like the shadow world now, that spoiled-meat stink full of rot and dampness. Liam had always fought against its influence; for all he felt it corrupting him, he hadn’t realized, before, quite how much he’d managed to stave off. It had eaten Pitr from the inside out. Latched on to that cruelness in him and let it metastasize. Pitr had already been a creature of the shadow world, its ruthless laws and rabid pursuit of selfishness and cruelty; he just hadn’t yet found his home. And now that he had, it was no wonder the world had bent toward him far more confidently than it had ever yielded to Liam.

  But the darkness was pulsing through him, and he couldn’t keep control of it forever.

  Pitr and Kreutzer struck as one.

  It was a wave of force, black and sparking with electricity. Slamming Liam to the ground. Crackling across his skin. He only panicked for a moment, but it was enough to loosen his grip. One by one, the leashes of the monsters he was controlling slipped free.

  Shit.

  Above him, Daniel dangled, blood dripping down his forearms. He stared at Liam with an unfocused gaze. Too unfocused—he was losing too much blood.

  The monsters’ howls were at the chamber doors now.

  “Enough, Dr. Kreutzer,” a woman’s voice said.

  Liam blinked from his position on the floor, his vision still rattled, just in time to catch sight of the pretty blond secretary steadying herself on her heels. She’d produced a snub-nosed pistol and pointed it now, shakily, at Kreutzer and Pitr, back and forth.

  “You’ve done enough. To Germany, to her people, to all of us. I can’t stand for it. I won’t stand for it any longer.”

  Kreutzer struggled to keep himself from breaking into a laugh.

  “I—I will be strong against the tide of hate,” she stammered. “We must—resist—”

  The chamber door shattered in an explosion of wood splinters. The beasts were here.

  They poured forth like a poisonous gas, filling the chamber. Joints creaking back the wrong way, skinless muscles bunching, wounds seeping and oozing. The pack leader crouched and sprang—and before she could summon a scream, they descended on her.

  In seconds, she was nothing but shreds of flesh.

  “Sweet, stupid Ilse.” Kreutzer clucked his tongue. “Far too little, my dear. You’re far too late.”

  The beasts circled Kreutzer, teeth snapping, but Pitr held them back with an upturned hand. An eyeless rust-colored snout snuffled at Liam’s torso, his neck and throat.

  Liam slowed his breathing and savored his own fear. He welcomed it. It would fuel him. Biting down on his tongue to add to his pain, he reached out to unleash the rest of his stored energy—

  But there was nothing left.

  “I told you you didn’t want it enough,” Pitr said. “You strive and strive. But you’ll never be willing to do what it takes to seize true control.”

  A thousand eyeless faces pressed in, their razor teeth dripping with fresh blood.

  Liam flinched as their hot, decaying breaths raked across his skin. Maybe Pitr was right. Maybe he couldn’t seize complete control over the entire shadow realm.

  But maybe he could do whatever it took to close the rift for good.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  SIMONE

  Wewelsburg Castle was a crypt, and it was quickly suffocating them.

  “This way,” Phillip called. The electric lights dotting the corridor flickered once to reveal a partially collapsed doorway, then fell dark again. “The antennae were up here.”

  “The electricity’s barely working. How will we power a signal?” Simone’s heart was beating furiously, a trapped bird trying to take flight. Evangeline was waiting, just out of reach, past the shadow-touched soldiers and monsters and whispers. Evangeline had promised to find them a way out—she could summon the full force of her Resistance network—if they could just hold out—

  Another flicker of electricity, enough to remind Simone of the concrete walls squeezing in around them. Her breath hitched as she reached out to steady herself. She imagined a wall of bones, crowned with countless eyeless skulls staring down at her, laughing, soaking up all her secrets to throw back in her face.

  Simone forced herself off the wall and caught Phillip by the collar. In the distance: another wheezing rasp, like a thousand wordless voices. The claws scraped slow, then retreated.

  Simone exhaled. “All right. Keep going.”

  Rebeka was lagging behind. Simone whirled on her heel, searching the dark hallway. Breathing. There was breathing—

  Another flicker exposed the entrance to a stairwell. This should be the radio tower, according to Phillip. But there was no telling if they’d have enough power, or if they could even figure out the Germans’ equipment. She needed something faster than Morse code if they were going to get aid from the Resistance. Evangeline or not, there might not be enough aid left to spare.

  They climbed the stone stairs, crooked now from the explosion. Ears strained for any more signs of the shadow beasts. The lights flickered on and off, and each time, Simone swung back to check behind them. The rifle in her grip was the only thing grounding her. Well—that and the tangled nest of memories and questions in her head.

  Had Evangeline been aiding them from the start? If so, why would she lie, pretend she didn’t care? Why would she let Simone scold her so, and ultimately walk away? But then there was the possibility she’d only been spurred to action after Simone left. That was no healthy exchange, either. Either way, it left Simone chilled, unsure what to trust.

  Simone winced. As if she were blameless. They were both flawed, both flailing desperately to cling to a life they couldn’t control. If Evangeline had decided to help, well, perhaps Simone, too, could be willing to change. Maybe even forgive.

  She looked at Phillip and Rebeka. They could have easily left her to die. True, they’d needed her to some extent, but there was more to it than that. They trusted her, and in turn, she’d shown them nothing but suspicion, annoyance, aggravation. She’d been all too ready to leave them behind, despite whatever help they could offer her. How could she fault Evangeline for doing the same?

  Isn’t it better than being afraid alone? A shiver ran down her back. Yes, she’d tried so hard to do this alone. But she didn’t have to.

  “Look. It must have
its own generator,” Phillip said.

  Sure enough, at the top of the staircase, a ribbon of light streamed out from underneath a heavy oak door. Rebeka leaned against it, but the door didn’t budge. Shoved a little harder. Phillip tried to help her, until finally Simone pushed them both out of the way and slammed her shoulder into it.

  “You could have been quieter,” Phillip said. “If there’s more of those things—”

  “Then I’d rather draw them out now,” Simone retorted. “Better that than stumble across one lurking behind a piece of equipment.”

  “That isn’t exactly comforting,” Phillip said.

  Rebeka shook her head at both of them and stormed into the radio room.

  The glorious, massive radio room, full of transponders, recorders, high-powered broadcasting equipment . . .

  And two SS radio operators, sidearms leveled right at them.

  “Drop your weapons,” Simone barked in German. “I guarantee I’m a better shot than either of you.”

  One, a plump man with Himmler-style round glasses, started to falter, but the other brought his one hand up to steady his gun arm as he tried to aim—

  Simone’s shot tore straight through one hand and into his lungs, flipping him backward in his chair. The man in the glasses gasped, dropped his sidearm, and raised both hands. “I surrender!”

  “I didn’t ask you to.” Simone fired square at his chest. She turned back toward Phillip and Rebeka, ready to have to defend her choice, but neither of them were about to shed any tears over dead Nazis. She swept the rest of the room and, finding no one else, gave the all-clear.

  Phillip whistled low as he approached the operator’s desk. “This is gonna do nicely.” He flipped a row of switches, and the equipment hummed, ascending, at a steady pitch.

  Rebeka and Simone joined him. “What do we need to do?” Simone asked.

  Phillip brushed his fingertips over the equipment. “First, we’ll link up these transponders. This frequency folder is gonna need some legs.”

  As Simone reached for the first set of cables, though, the earth rumbled beneath them again. Rebeka stumbled backward with a yelp, then fell eerily silent, her eyes going to that far-off place.

  “What?” Simone whispered. “What is it?”

  Rebeka’s lips moved for a moment before she returned to herself. “Daniel,” she said. “He’s—he’s alive. But the shadow realm—it’s eating into our own, and the angry ones, Pitr’s controlling them . . . I need to help him.” Her voice was grim. “He can’t do it alone.”

  Simone’s throat tightened. With sudden, cold clarity, she realized she was afraid for this girl. She hadn’t felt fear like this for someone else since . . . She couldn’t even recall. But above all, she’d learned Rebeka was brave, and stronger than Simone could have ever imagined. It made Simone want to be strong for more than just herself, too.

  “Please,” Simone whispered. “Be careful.”

  Phillip hesitated, fist closing and unfurling. “Rebeka . . .”

  Rebeka rushed toward him then, gripped his chin, and tugged him into a desperate kiss. Simone’s stomach flipped before she made herself look away. They deserved each other—the mad, desperate American boy and the ferocious shadow girl. Simone wished she could be deserving, too.

  No. That was a lie. She could be. Maybe she already was.

  When she looked back, Rebeka nodded to her once, curt, and then melted into the shadow realm.

  “Um. Okay.” Phillip’s hands shook as he fiddled with the control panels once more.

  Simone rested a hand on his wrist. “Deep breaths, lover boy.”

  Phillip’s face turned a dark plum, and Simone couldn’t help it—she smirked. He drew a ragged breath, then returned to the console. “Let me work on the frequency. You see if you can hail your contact.”

  Simone worried at her lower lip with her teeth as she dialed into the shortwave frequency. “Carpenter hailing Magpie. Magpie, come in. Over.”

  She imagined her voice bouncing across Europe, against the earth covered with German forces and the sky hedged in with clouds. Imagined it worming its way through the walls of Château à Pont Allemagne. Into the narrow cubby she’d built into Evangeline’s bedroom, where they used to cram inside together and tangle into a single soul. Did Evangeline keep her radio there? Was she sitting, even now, on that soft and devouring bed where Simone had left her heart?

  But there was only a heavy silence, disrupted with static hiccups as two worlds crashed together.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  EVANGELINE

  Though she was entering in handcuffs this time, there was something oddly comforting about 84 avenue Foch. She’d been here before. She’d walked out of it, once. But as calm as she felt as she was dragged past the secretary pool and the radio room toward the interrogation wing on the top floor, she very much doubted she’d be leaving again.

  The guard shoved her into a chair in the small and grimy cell. It looked even smaller from this side of the metal grate. Hastily constructed within what must have been a lavish Beaux Arts penthouse to rival the Gaturins’ château, the cell was only dull plaster walls, already badly stained and battered from the treatment its temporary residents had endured. As the guard slipped her hands around the bars of the chair to secure her further, Evangeline found herself smiling.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked with a scowl.

  “Everything.”

  He blinked, unsettled, and backed hurriedly out of the cell.

  At least an hour must have passed since she’d last spoken to Simone. Wewelsburg would be expecting intruders if the sorry state Georges-Yves had been in the night before was anything to go by. Simone had seemed awfully confident about their chances of making it inside the castle, but Evangeline couldn’t share her optimism. Not that she was one to talk, with this mad scheme.

  Just one more hour until Simone would be waiting for her to work the kind of magic that only a Gaturin could work. She had no idea how little that name would save Evangeline. The only thing she had to guide her now was the bald-faced, aggressive certainty that she’d learned from Simone.

  Three minutes passed. Eight. How long were they going to make her sweat? Hours? Surely even Stefan didn’t have the patience for that. No, surely he’d be coming any minute to gloat and berate and torment, and God only knew what other tortures he had in store—

  The cell door swung open, and he entered. Alone.

  Evangeline’s wrists tensed within their shackles.

  “Hello, Magpie.” He cricked his neck from side to side, took his time tugging on those leather gloves she hated so. They squeaked across his skin, too oiled, too broken in. “It is Magpie, yes? All these silly code names you cowards make up, to play at waging war.”

  “Yes, we’re not nearly sophisticated enough for terms like Einsatzgruppen and the Torturer of Troyes.”

  All the kid leather in the world couldn’t soften the crack of his knuckles against her jaw. Her head spun from the force of the blow, neck radiating with stabbing pain. Slowly, she twisted back to face him head-on and raised her chin, despite the blood she felt welling on her lower lip.

  “Such a mouth on you,” he said. “I almost forget how delicate you are. With little bird’s bones.”

  She tucked one thumb into her palm. He was right about that.

  “Ordinarily I’d let you stew in your own failure for a few days. Let you soil yourself, get hungry and thirsty and delirious. Desperate. I do so wish I could hear what kind of bargaining and pleading and begging you’d do in such a state.” One finger ran down the side of her face, and she felt acid in her throat. “But I’m afraid you have us at a disadvantage, Magpie. Wewelsburg Castle is under assault, and you, it seems, were in touch with its attackers. They aren’t responding to our radio calls. So I fear we must rush this.”

  Evangeline did her best
not to sigh with relief. Probably half an hour until she was supposed to check in with Simone. Simone, who might at this very minute be waiting desperately for her to answer, to fend off countless guards—

  “Understand, though, that urgency cuts both ways, little girl. If you don’t give us what we need, in the time we need it, then—” His eyes slitted. “You’ll be the one who’s out of time.”

  “Tempting,” Evangeline said. “But . . . I think I like my way better.”

  Another crack, this time on the other side of her jaw. It was so loud, so sharp, that it disguised the softer pop of cartilage elsewhere; it certainly lent authenticity to the agonized expression on her face.

  “And what,” Stefan said, “is your way?”

  “I thought it was past time you took me dancing,” Evangeline said.

  He cocked his head, his confusion suddenly quaint, harmless somehow, like a pigeon strutting around the Tuileries. That moment of confusion was all she needed as she slipped one hand, dislocated thumb and all, free of its cuff. Then she was flying forward, good hand grasping for his waistband. Her fingers reached for the handle of his gun—

  He knocked her away effortlessly, smashing her into the plaster wall. The wall rattled as she struck it—just as she’d hoped. So flimsy. They’d built their jail in a hurry, rushing about for efficiency’s sake. Simone would be appalled.

  Stefan pulled his sidearm free and leveled it right at her. Cocked the firing mechanism. “I’ll give you one last chance to reconsider.”

  A trickle of sweat ran down Evangeline’s back as she stared into that cavernous barrel, looming so large in her view. “My mind’s already made up.”

  “A pity,” Stefan said, and pulled the trigger.

  The makeshift cell echoed with a dull click.

  Stefan reared back, shocked. Evangeline’s breath rushed out of her. It had been quite the risky bet that he wouldn’t think to check his gun’s ammunition between their car ride to the château, when she’d swiped the magazine, and now. But that wasn’t all the Magpie had taken. Now she withdrew the letter opener from its hiding place beneath the underwire of her bra and threw herself on Stefan. The closest she’d ever been to him. Certainly the only time she’d wanted to be.