“What did I tell you then?”
“You told me that you all met somehow in Poland during the Blitzkrieg,” I replied, “and an indeterminate time after that, you wound up in America.”
“That was all? Okay, we found each other in Warsaw,” Malina said. “Or, rather, Radomila found us and brought us together. And once we’d formed a coven, there was much discussion of what to do. We were divining almost constantly, trying to see what would happen, what we could do, where we could go. We saw the horror that was coming and knew there was nothing we could do about it in Poland—things had progressed so far, so quickly, that our protections would be useless, and the people we needed to reach in Germany were unreachable. We may have been powerful as witches go, but even we could not turn back the Panzer divisions or stop the SS from doing whatever they pleased. We did see where we could do some good, though, so we left Warsaw a week before it fell and made our way into Bulgaria.”
“Bulgaria?” I frowned. “But that was an Axis power as well.”
“Yes, but on what terms? Czar Boris the Third joined the Axis to prevent German invasion of his country, but he committed no Bulgarian troops to the fighting. Hitler wanted him to invade Russia and ease some of the pressure on his eastern front, but Boris refused. He also flatly refused to send fifty thousand Bulgarian Jews to the death camps in Poland. I think we did well there for a while.”
My jaw dropped as the import of her words hit home. “You’re seriously taking credit for that?”
“We settled in Sofia and stayed until the assassination. We saved many lives.”
I ignored her self-congratulation and asked, “Whose assassination?”
“We’re still talking about Boris the Third.”
“Ah, yes. Who do you think killed him? There wasn’t a grassy knoll in the palace of Sofia.”
“Die Töchter des dritten Hauses.”
I shook my head. “No, I’m sorry, I do know a little bit about his death. They exhumed the body and performed an autopsy and confirmed he died of heart failure, nothing more.”
“Precisely,” Roksana said in her clipped English, and glanced at Malina by way of apology for jumping in. “It wasn’t a poisoning by the Germans, which is one of the conspiracy theories running around, nor was it a scheme of the Russians. It was the German hexen who got past our wards and killed him with a curse.”
“They have a curse that causes heart failure?”
The Polish witches all nodded in synch, and the visible half of Bogumila’s mouth said, “It is a spell of necrosis that they aim at the heart. It merely causes a small area of tissue to die, but if that tissue is heart tissue, the result is a fatal coronary.”
“It’s their favorite tool in combat,” Klaudia volunteered. So that was what they’d tried to kill me with and why the amulet punched me in the chest each time. And that was how they’d killed Perry. I’d known the curse they were throwing around was deadly, obviously, but I didn’t know precisely what it did to people. The medical examiners would pronounce Perry dead of an inexplicable heart attack, nothing more.
“It’s practically their only tool,” Berta snorted around a mouthful of cookie. “They can hardly do a damn thing otherwise without a demon to help them.”
“Yes, but unfortunately there are far too many demons willing to help,” Roksana said. “Though they always demand their price.”
“Wait.” I held up my hands. “Back to Boris. Why in nine hells would the hexen want to kill him?”
“Just like Hitler, they wanted him to invade Russia,” Roksana replied.
“So are we talking about the proverbial Nazi witches from hell?”
“No, no, no.” Malina shook her head. “They were around long before the Nazis, and they certainly have survived where the Nazis did not. They merely took advantage of the Nazis to get what they wanted.”
“So calling themselves the Daughters of the Third House has nothing to do with the Third Reich?”
“Not that I know of,” Malina said uncertainly, and Roksana confirmed her supposition.
“They were called that before the Nazis even existed,” she said. “But we have no idea what it means. They’ve never sat down to chat with us about their origins.”
“All right, so what did they want? Why kill Boris?”
Malina said, “They wanted what Hitler did—or, rather, Hitler wanted what they did—Russia.”
“What? You’re suggesting he launched that entire bloody stupid offensive due to their influence?”
“That’s precisely what I’m suggesting,” Malina agreed, nodding. “They sent him succubi and they gave him the proper dreams of Lebensraum—they’d done the same thing with Chancellor Theobald von Bethmann-Hollweg in World War One. And when the eastern front was going poorly and Boris refused to send troops in 1943—thanks to our influence—the hexen killed him and everybody thought Hitler had done it.”
“It didn’t turn out the way they’d hoped, though.” Roksana smiled grimly. “They hoped the Bulgarian regents left behind would be more malleable and harder for us to control and protect, but the regents proved ridiculously stupid and weak, and instead of invading Russia, Russia invaded Bulgaria and that was that.”
“Which was fine with us, really,” Malina explained. “The Bulgarian Jews were safe and the hexen’s plots were foiled, so that was all that mattered.”
“They’ve always wanted revenge for our role in that, however,” Roksana added, “because they probably still think they could have won if Bulgaria had joined in.”
“Why did they want to invade Russia so badly?”
The coven members looked at one another’s faces to see who wished to answer. It was Kazimiera who finally spoke. “There is a group of witch hunters based there that plagues their kind especially. If they found us by accident, they would not hesitate to attack, but they actively hunt die Töchter des dritten Hauses because of their associations with demonkind. The hexen hoped the SS would take care of the witch hunters and eliminate a thorn in their side. Himmler was obsessed with the occult and would have found them for sure if he’d had a free hand in Russia.”
Rabbi Yosef Bialik’s Russian accent and shadowy organization came to mind. “I’m surprised Stalin didn’t stamp them out. Any idea what these witch hunters called themselves?”
The ladies all shook their heads slowly yet in unison. It was a creepy effect. I wondered idly if they practiced such maneuvers.
“And how do you know that the hexen were motivated by these mysterious Russians—or, rather, by their desire to kill the Russians?”
The witches swiveled their heads in synch to Malina and so did I, waiting for the answer. Her eyes fell to her lap. “We captured the one who assassinated Boris the Third and interrogated her. Thoroughly. Radomila led it,” she said, referring to their erstwhile coven leader, “but I was present. She told us much before she died. And that is another reason die Töchter des dritten Hauses hate us so much.”
“I see. Well, they appear to have had much influence on Germany’s side. They had access to the Führer himself, you say. Did they also suggest to him, via succubi or some other method, all of that master-race nonsense? Did they suggest the death camps and so on?”
“Not that we know of,” Berta said, a few crumbs of her third cookie spraying from her mouth as she talked. “They just wanted to use Germany as a club to bash Russia with. They weren’t Nazis; they were opportunists. Believe me, I would like to assign to them every evil of that war, but the most unspeakable atrocities were committed by humans without any infernal influence whatsoever.”
“She’s right,” Klaudia agreed, “the Holocaust wasn’t their idea. But they didn’t seem to disapprove either. And they joined in when it suited them.”
I frowned. “How do you mean they joined in?”
“They were specifically hunting Kabbalists for a while—”
“Kabbalists!” I exclaimed. I slapped my forehead. “So that’s why he didn’t die.”
“Who didn’t die?” the witches all said in polyphonic harmony. They were like a Greek chorus.
I sighed and collected my thoughts. “I have known since this morning that I have met these hexen before—or at least seen their work. They tried to kill me outside my home with the same necrotic curse they used on Boris the Third, but my wards deflected it.” I purposely failed to explain that my cold iron amulet deflected it. Nothing in the nonaggression treaty required me to reveal the true nature of my defenses to them. “The last time my wards reacted in such a manner was during World War Two.”
Berta stopped chewing and looked at me with widened eyes. “Really? Where were you?”
“I was in the Atlantic Pyrenees, escorting a Jewish family into Spain, where they could have taken a train all the way to Lisbon and gained passage to safety in South America.”
Berta held up her hands. “Stop right there. This sounds good,” she said, and hauled herself off the couch. “I’m going to make popcorn.” The other witches made sounds of protest, perceiving that it was rude somehow to expect me to weave a tale worthy of movie snackage, but Berta waved off their protests. “Come on, he’s a Druid; he’ll love playing the bard for a while.” More protests followed, but they were halfhearted, and eventually the witches turned to me with pleading looks to forgive them for being so ineffective.
In truth, it made me feel closer to the witches. One thing that’s never changed in two millennia is that people love to hear war stories—at least, stories in which their side wins. The gods know that there was little enough in that war to cheer about other than the eventual victory. But the coven had lived through it, I had lived through it, and we had both fought in it, albeit in an unconventional manner. It was a bond between us, and telling this story would strengthen it and provide the foundation for shared victories to come.
Seeing that I would be required to speak at length, I mentally reorganized my tale. The real reason I didn’t take a more active role in the war was that the Morrigan had forbidden it. During that period, our relationship had been a bit uncertain.
“Do you know how many battles there are for me to watch over throughout the world right now?” she’d asked me when I’d tried to enlist with the British. “I cannot be worrying about you every bloody moment and making sure you don’t step on a mine or get bombed by the Luftwaffe. Stay out of the war, Siodhachan, and don’t do anything to draw attention to yourself—specifically, attention from the Fae.”
I didn’t want to imply that I had any sort of relationship with the Morrigan now, though, so I told the witches a half-truth once Berta returned to the couch with bowls of popcorn and indicated that I could proceed. The witches all leaned forward in their seats, and so did Hal. He’d never heard what I’d done during the war either.
“As you know, I was hiding from Aenghus Óg at the time, as I had been for most of the common era, and I could do nothing overtly magical that would draw his attention. But neither could I simply hide in the Amazon and wait for it all to be over: My conscience would not allow it. So I became a maquisard, joining the French Resistance in the southwest, where I shepherded Jewish families through the wilderness to escape the Nazis.
“The people in my network knew me as the Green Man. If someone insisted on a Christian name, I called myself Claude and left it at that. The families under my care arrived in Spain faster and healthier and more reliably than those of any other smuggler. All told, I saved sixty-seven families, taking them in large groups at times. That’s not on the scale of your fifty thousand saved in Bulgaria”—an accomplishment I privately doubted they could reasonably take credit for—“but it was my small contribution to peace. And you must keep in mind I was in the Gascony region, which was fairly overrun with Nazis, away from the bulk of the maquisards. Getting them safely out of the cities was often more trouble than taking them across the mountains.
“Only one family in my care failed to make it out of France. I picked them up outside Pau, and we were to take the Somport Pass over the Pyrenees. The father was a kind man who doted on his children, a scientist of some kind, but I couldn’t tell you their names even if I wished. So much of the work was an anonymous business, for everyone’s safety.” I paused to take a sip of my hot chocolate, which had cooled somewhat, and Berta watched me impatiently.
“They were a fairly young couple with three children: a boy of ten, a girl of eight, and another boy of five. The boys had little suits on—their best—and the girl had a gray wool coat buttoned over a red dress. The mother was dressed in similar fashion, with a heavy coat worn over a dress. The father carried a briefcase of papers and photos, and the family had nothing more than the clothes on their backs. The father—well, there were traces of magic in his aura that I didn’t take the trouble to examine, but now I see that he was a Kabbalist, and his wards were sufficient, as were mine, to deflect this necrotic spell of the hexen—Gewebetod, ja?”
“Ja,” Malina nodded. “That is the word they use.”
“Six witches ambushed us in the night before we were even halfway to the Somport Pass—one witch for each member of our party, which led me to believe we’d been betrayed somehow. The mother and three children fell immediately, clutching their chests as they landed in the leaves of autumn. I fell down too, because I had felt the strike upon my wards, and I expected a grenade or a spray of machine gun fire next. I cast camouflage on myself once I hit the ground, then crawled as quietly as I could away from where I had fallen.