by David Mack
Cold morning air prickled Stefan’s body with gooseflesh as he shed his clothes and handed them over to the Nazis. He kept looking for an opportunity to escape, to use his remaining reserve of yoked magick to flee this death march, but there were no breaks in the gauntlet of SS-Sonderkommandos, Einsatzgruppen, Waffen-SS, and Ukrainian collaborators.
Turns and twists in the trail made it hard to see far ahead, and the loss of his glasses made it that much more difficult for Stefan. But before he saw the fate that awaited him, he heard it, in spite of the forest’s knack for smothering sound—
Short controlled bursts: the staccato rip of submachine guns.
Each step brought him that much closer to the source of the shots, and carried him that much farther from his desperate need to deny what was happening.
All around him, naked Jews—old and young, men and women, teens—whimpered and wept as they were corralled toward what they now all knew to be their impending doom. From ahead came sounds to turn Stefan’s stomach. Howls of suffering, the shrieks of frightened children, pitiful keenings—all cut short by the chattering of guns, only to be supplanted by different voices crying out the same song of terror.
Then he saw it, yawning ahead of them, through the trees:
Babi Yar ravine—a wooded gully thirty meters across and fifteen meters deep whose edges dropped off in steep slopes. Curtains of gunsmoke lingered in the morning air and sharpened the wind with a sulfuric tang.
The Nazis lined up their Jewish prisoners ten across at the ravine’s edge. Last into the line was a young mother clutching a nursing infant to her breast. She screamed as an SS officer tore the infant from her grasp and flung it like so much garbage into the ravine. She screamed and leaped from the edge in pursuit of her son. Gunshots tore into her back and shrouded her in scarlet mist as she dropped, lifeless, into this scar on the earth.
Terror left Stefan speechless as tears streamed down his face.
My God.
He was still in shock as the Germans prodded him to the ravine’s edge. Behind him he heard the clack and clatter of weapons being reloaded and primed to fire.
None of his yoked magick would make him impervious to bullets. If he hoped to survive, he needed to pull off the most complex magick he had ever attempted—and he had only seconds in which to do so. Remember the training, he admonished himself. Clear your mind.
It was an illusion in four parts, all happening at once, in the span of two seconds.
Through ANARAZEL, he created an illusion of himself, around himself.
With the gift of FORAS, he turned himself invisible.
By the power of ANDROMALIUS, he wrapped himself in silence.
And as he leaped into the ravine and felt gravity take hold of him, he cast a glamour of ASOCLAS on the illusion of himself that still stood with the prisoners on the edge.
A barrage of gunfire ripped into the trembling victims. Stefan made his illusion erupt in bloody wounds and pitch into the ravine, his anguished howl provided by the glamour.
He landed hard, his long fall cushioned by the multiple layers of bodies that already filled the bottom of the ravine. The prisoners’ bullet-riddled corpses slammed down around him, twisted into deformed poses, most with their eyes still open but no longer seeing.
Already the dead here were too numerous for Stefan to count. There were hundreds, maybe thousands. Men, women, children, all ravaged and broken, painted in blood and dirt. A charnel reek assaulted Stefan’s nose, a stench of dead flesh and evacuated bowels and bladders. It was a worse stink than any he had ever known; not even the vapors of Hell compared.
Above him, the mass executions continued, a slaughter unabated. When one group of gunmen ran out of ammunition, a fresh squad relieved them, and the murders resumed. Once or twice each hour, Nazi gunmen descended into the pit and prowled among the carnage, looking for survivors. Those they found, they finished off with point-blank shots to the back of the neck.
There was nowhere Stefan could hide from the rain of the dead. An old woman’s corpse landed on top of him, her impact mitigated only by the fact that she had been starving for so long that she had withered to a sack of bones. Her blood ran over his face, and he felt the contents of her bowels spill over his legs. He wanted to push her aside and free himself, but he didn’t dare, for fear of drawing the attention of the gunmen who kept their sadistic vigil for survivors.
More bodies landed on top of Stefan. Their weight pressed down, suffocating him even as they shielded him. Trapped under mounting layers of the dead, Stefan lost sight of the sky.
The chattering of the Nazis’ guns was endless. It was a factory for genocide, murder in an industrial fashion, with all the efficiency for which the Nazis were now infamous.
Unable to move or breathe, Stefan felt consciousness slip away. Surrendering himself to the darkness, all he could do was hope this was yet another of his countless demonic nightmares.
* * *
A tease of fresh air woke Stefan. Hearing no sound from above, he risked shifting the old woman’s body to see if there was any room for him to climb. The weight of the dead was oppressive, but fleeting tastes of air energized him.
It was slow work to excavate himself without upsetting the delicate balance of cadavers stacked on top of him. He snaked around one cold, naked body after another, following his nose, clinging to hope, and ignoring the odor of rotting flesh and human waste.
Loose dirt spilled into his face as he slithered around another corpse. Pushing upward, he found himself clawing a hole in a layer of loosely packed earth. His hand broke free of the grave. He cleared enough of a hole to raise his head and survey his surroundings.
High above, on the ridge from which he’d jumped, there were unsteady flames from campfires. Muted voices with German-sounding accents drifted down. Even at night, the Nazis were keeping watch over their killing field. Stefan had to be cautious.
Several dozen meters away, Stefan saw a teenaged boy and a young girl, both naked and filthy, helping each other climb the ravine’s steep slope, on the side opposite the Germans’ camp. They tried so hard to be stealthy, but as soon as they were out of the ravine they were spotted. One of the Nazis shouted a warning, and shots rang out as the young couple fled into the trees. After that, Stefan lost sight of them.
Weak and cold, he shaped his thoughts into a command.
GAIDAROS. Give me a set of clothes, my work shoes, and my spare glasses.
The requested items appeared in his hands. He dressed quickly but in small motions, taking care not to draw the Germans’ fire.
In less than a minute he was clothed and on the move, skulking and sometimes crawling down the ravine, away from the soldiers. Babi Yar was about 150 meters long. He soon reached its northern end, where it gave way to level ground and a long expanse of forest. There was no sign of anyone pursuing him. All the same, he shrouded himself in silence so that he could run without giving himself away.
At first he sprinted, but his strength soon flagged. He slowed for only as long as he needed to revive his stamina, and then he ran again. All he wanted was to put as much distance as possible between himself and Babi Yar.
After what had felt like hours, he slumped against a tree to gasp for air. Out of habit he reached for the pocket where he kept his watch, only to remember the Nazis now had it.
At least I am still alive.
He looked up, hoping to gauge the hour by the stars, only to be thwarted by an overcast sky. The dawn could be hours away, or only minutes.
A ball of fire lit up the night.
Stefan’s mental reflexes raised a shield and scattered the flames, which stank of demonic origin. He ducked for cover behind a wide tree while searching for the fireball’s source.
From the darkness, an unfamiliar male voice taunted him in halting German.
“You’re quick, Miracle Man. I’ll give you that.”
It was hard for Stefan to see in the dark so soon after the fiery detonation. He blinked, hoping
to dispel some of the spots clouding his vision. He readied the dagger of ORIAS—the only combat-oriented talent he had yoked at that moment—and considered making a run for it. He replied just to buy time. “You must be Kein’s puppet Siegmar, yes?”
“I prefer to think of myself as a peer.”
A spectral sword stabbed through the tree’s trunk and grazed Stefan’s chin. Once he saw the rippled edge of the blade, he recognized it as the flamberge of QLIPHOR. Then it pulled back and vanished, no doubt a prelude to its next strike.
Stefan fought to control his fear, but he needed more time. He called out to Siegmar, “The Kiev massacre! That was you?”
“I didn’t plan it, but I knew it was coming. Just as I knew you were coming.”
Siegmar’s declaration sent a shiver through Stefan. How did he know I—? Then the answer came to him. “The transfer orders I found. Forgeries?”
“As I said, Miracle Man! You’re quick!” A cruel chortle. “You didn’t think your precious Kabbalists were still alive, did you?”
Vowing to avenge the victims of Kiev, Stefan marshaled the last of his strength and put his yoked demons to work. It was time to give Siegmar something to shoot at.
* * *
Flushing out the renegade karcist hadn’t been difficult, but it had required more patience than Siegmar preferred to expend. Now that he had the man cornered, he meant to finish him off—if only the cowardly Jew would show himself.
Another gust from AFAEL’s furnace was taking shape in Siegmar’s hand when he got his wish. The downtrodden enemy magician charged right at him, a ball of electricity in one hand and a revolver in the other. Lightning leaped from the young mage’s palm.
Siegmar attuned his shield to absorb their power so he could hurl it back at his foe and sear the flesh from his bones. The blinding forks of energy passed through his shield and through him—as did a salvo of all six shots from the man’s revolver.
Illusions, he realized. As the phantasms collided with his shield, Siegmar used it to scatter them into vapors. Then he searched for his foe’s real attack, which could come from any direction—but when he looked up, he saw too late that he had misread his enemy’s intentions. The diversion hadn’t covered an assault, but an escape.
Almost as quickly as Siegmar spotted the blur of motion in the gray predawn sky, it was gone. Without a yoked spirit capable of flight, he had no means of pursuit.
We’ll meet again, Miracle Man. And when we do … I will see you dead.
16
OCTOBER
The need for privacy had made it necessary for Niko to move his investigation materials into the basement of a derelict building behind the one where his sister and her husband lived, but he was starting to regret the change of venue. He found it hard to concentrate on timelines and reports of enemy activity when his nose was under constant assault by the stench of ruptured sewer lines, the fumes of motor oil and diesel fuel, and the odor of mildew.
His collection of notes and photos had grown, though now it was better curated. It wrapped around one corner onto an adjacent wall. He was closing in on the Thule spy and tightening his figurative snare around Briet.
In his pocket, the enchanted mirror vibrated, alerting him that someone was trying to reach him. Happy for an excuse to tear his attention from the wall, he pulled out the mirror. His elation subsided when he saw Adair in its frame.
“How goes the hunt, lad?”
“I might ask the same of you.”
“We’ve broken the Thule covens in the occupied territories north of Paris. Now we’re heading into Germany. But stop changing the subject. Have you found the spy?”
“Not as such. But I have given it a great deal of thought.”
Adair struggled with his temper. “And how do you plan to turn thought into deeds?”
Niko aimed his mirror at his wall of words and pictures. “I have narrowed my suspects to three: Antoine Le Blanc; Michel Deniaud; and Françoise Perrault. All had access to the messages between multiple cells of the Resistance and the Maquis. Each also has ties to the Vichy government, and all have repeatedly evaded capture by the Nazis.”
“So how do you mean to flush out the spy?”
He turned the mirror so that it faced him. “By remembering which lies I choose to tell.”
Adair appeared intrigued. “Explain.”
“Three shipments, coming to Paris from different sources. Each with a unique time, place, and means of delivery. Each set in motion by a different party, none of whom knows of the others, and none of whom are known to my suspects.” Niko pointed at the yarn-linked data on his walls. “I’ve told each target I’ve arranged a shipment of supplies from the British. Antoine thinks it’s coming tomorrow by truck from Le Havre. I told Françoise it’s coming Thursday, by an airdrop north of the city, in the hills west of Clermont. And I told Michel the shipment comes on the Saturday train from Geneva.”
“Then you watch the shipments, and see which one gets seized by the Nazis.”
“Exactly.”
“Not a perfect plan, though, is it? What if the Nazis learn of your shipments by other means? What if they all get seized?”
“To be safe? I find them all guilty, and I kill all three.”
The master nodded. “Aye. That’s the safest way. Of course, you could do that now.”
“I would rather kill just the one who deserves it.”
“As you like. But tell me this: How do you mean to find the Paris coven?”
A bone-weary sigh. “I don’t know. Every time I think I am close, I find another dead end. Now I think I might follow the spy, to see if he leads me to Briet.”
“Worth a try. But if you find her, mind your step. She’s more dangerous than you know.”
Niko grinned. “Tu plaisantes? You want me to devise another ruse? You know this is not my—how you say?—strong suit.”
“I’m just saying, know what you’re doing before you do it.”
He had to chuckle at the advice. “Master, you know me. I am not like Stefan. I don’t like plans. I prefer to just … do things.”
The master was in no mood for levity. “Well, whatever you do, be quick about it. This spy helped the Nazis send half a dozen cells to the Drancy camp last month alone. He’s costing the Resistance men, money, and time—and the longer it goes on, the more it hurts recruitment. Mark my words: If you don’t plug this leak soon, the Resistance is as good as dead.”
* * *
Wind shrieked over the rooftops of Paris. Crouched in ankle-deep snow on the roof of the Gare de Lyon, Niko noted the approach of the train from Geneva. He pulled his hands from his coat pockets to check his watch. Its face was fogged, but he still could see its hands: 2:17 A.M.
My plan is either about to prove its genius or go down in flames.
Porters and cargo handlers ventured onto the platform, moving into position ahead of the train’s arrival. As it rolled in, its brakes engaged with a screech.
Niko tucked away his watch, then cupped his hands and huffed warmth on them. The first two lures he had dangled for the spy had gone unbitten. Neither the truck delivery nor the airdrop had been intercepted or, to all appearances, even noticed by the Germans. The weapons, ammunition, and medicine had been welcome surprises for the Resistance.
All that remained to be seen now was what happened to the crates on the train.
The locomotive’s brakes went quiet as it shuddered to a halt. Doors opened on several of the passenger cars. A few people disembarked. They all hunched their shoulders against the cold and moved with the haste of people seeking warmth on a night when gusts off the Seine were like knives that pierced even the thickest coats.
At the rear of the train, a shadowy quartet scampered across the tracks, on their way to the cargo railcar. Whoever the Resistance had hired for this job, they were professionals. It took them less than a minute to break into the train car, and thirty seconds later they were on their way out. Working in pairs, they carted two wooden crate
s onto the tracks.
Searchlights snapped on and froze them in a white glare.
A swarm of Vichy police, a handful of Waffen-SS officers, and a platoon of Nazi soldiers converged on the thieves, barking orders in French and German. The thieves again proved their professionalism by setting down the crates, dropping to their knees, and placing their hands on top of their heads. None of them were stupid enough to try to run.
There was no longer any doubt that Michel was the spy Niko had been hunting. He regretted the sacrifice of the men on the tracks, but such was the price of victory. C’est la guerre.
He was about to slip away when copper tresses caught his eye: Briet marched toward the arrested men—and Michel scurried along beside her.
Niko had planned to follow Michel and let the traitor lead him to her. Instead, she had come to him. He resumed his place at the roof’s edge and watched to see what happened next.
The Nazis opened the stolen crates to inspect their contents. Niko could almost hear their curses as they dug through layers of straw to find nothing but scrap wood. He had been prepared to lose a real shipment at one of the first two deliveries; it would have been the cost of business. But after those had passed unmolested, leaving only the third shipment’s fate in doubt, he had made a last-second change. Why lose valuable supplies for no reason?
The redhead confronted Michel and berated him while poking his chest with one finger. Niko tried to eavesdrop on them with the clairaudience of ALAKATH, but he heard only muffled gibberish. Within seconds, he recognized it as magickal obfuscation.
She must be using a privacy charm.
He dug in his coat’s pockets for his binoculars so that he might try to read their lips. No sooner had he focused it than Briet struck, searchlights gleaming off the blade of her black-handled knife as she slashed Michel’s throat. The spy pitched face-first to the gravel between the tracks and painted them with his blood. She wiped her athamé clean on his back, then sheathed it under her trench coat. When she stood, she snapped orders at the Nazis, who fell over one another in their haste to comply. Then she turned away from the man she’d just killed and walked toward the train station.