Page 20 of A Resistance of Witches
Lydia stood beforethe shining black doors of the ceremonial chamber, her heart thrumming like an engine. Carved roses in every stage of bloom erupted through the wood, surrounded on all sides by razor-sharp thorns, gleaming like the talons of some terrifying creature. She heard muffled voices and smelled burning incense.
It was nearly midnight.
“Merry Samhain, Miss Polk.” Lydia turned. Vivian was standing beside her.
Sybil had cautioned her about this moment.Don’t antagonize. Don’t rise to her bait.Still, now that they were face-to-face, Lydia felt a surge of fury rise up in her.
“I should congratulate you,” Vivian said. “My sources tell me that before the night is out, you will be our new grand mistress.”
Vivian’s condescension was too much for Lydia to stomach. “Not that it will make any difference at all. You saw to that.”
Vivian cocked her head, a faint smile on her lips. “No lone witch should wield so much power. I’m simply ushering in a new age of democracy on the high council. I thought you would approve.”
Lydia felt her anger rising like a fever. She focused all her senses on that black door and kept her gaze straight ahead, counting roses and thorns, but it wouldn’t do.
“I know what you did,” she whispered.
“Oh?” Vivian chuckled. “And what is that?”
Lydia looked at her. “The door in the warding. I saw it. I know it was you.”
Vivian frowned. “Treason against one’s own coven is a crime of the highest order, Miss Polk. Accusations like yours have ugly consequences. I would advise you to choose your next words very carefully.”
The corridor seemed to yawn like a cavernous mouth around her. Lydia felt as if she were perched on a high, narrow ledge, and that at any moment she would lose her balance and go toppling into the ether.
“When I am grand mistress,” Lydia rasped, “I will dedicate every resource at my disposal to finding out who was behind the plot to murder Isadora. And if I find that you are responsible, please believe there will be nowhere on this earth you will be able to hide from me.”
Vivian looked into Lydia’s eyes. Her face softened. “When you are selected as grand mistress, you will be nothing more than a figurehead, with no more power than you have in this very moment.”
Then Vivian stepped forward and entered the ceremonial chamber.
Lydia stood alone before those shining black doors, heart reeling, listening to Sybil’s sensible words inside her head. Willing herself to put aside her stubbornness just this once and do the reasonable thing.
But somewhere, out there in the darkness, theGrimorium Bellumwaited like a sleeping monster. She closed her eyes and thought she could almost hear its wet, rasping breath. It was beckoning to her. Waiting for her across the channel.
The moon would be full again in two weeks. There was still time.
She turned and ran.
Nine
France, November 1943
Rebecca watched the beach from her hiding place, crouched between the trees overlooking the shore. Sunrise was still hours away, but silvery-gray light had begun to seep into the black, announcing that morning was coming. Overhead, birds began to wake, calling softly to each other.
When Rebecca was a girl, her mother used to tell her that birds sang to each other in the morning as a way of making sure everyone had made it safely through the night. Ma petite colombe, her mother would call her—“my little dove.” As a child, Rebecca would lie awake in the early morning hours, listening to the birds calling to one another, and would feel a sense of hope and wonder cracking open like an egg inside her chest. Now, as she sat in the half dark with the soft murmur of birdsong all around her, she felt a familiar pain—grief and guilt sliding under her breastbone like a knife.
Somewhere off in the trees, a birdcall, different from the others. Rebecca scanned the surf. It was difficult to see in the dark, but yes, there,just offshore, a small fishing boat. Rebecca emerged from her place in the trees. Four men materialized on the beach from the mist, dragging two small skiffs between them, and began to row out to meet the boat. Rebecca kept watch as the skiffs were loaded up and returned bearing several wooden crates, along with two extra people—a man and a woman.
The man, Rebecca knew. He called himself David Harlowe, although she was never sure whether that was his real name. He was an Englishman, though he spoke perfect, unaccented French. He’d been introduced to Rebecca as a member of the Special Operations Executive—English spies charged with giving aid to the Resistance, providing training and supplies. Rebecca had heard David refer to the SOE as “the Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare,” and he’d laughed when he said it, as if he’d made a very clever joke.
The woman was new. Rebecca took her in as the boats approached the shore. She was dressed in the French fashion in a full skirt and burgundy coat, but mist clung to her hair and clothes, making her look sick and bedraggled. Dark circles stood out under her eyes, and her lips were pale. Rebecca suspected that her time at sea had not agreed with her.
“Welcome back, David.” Rebecca admired David’s skill with French but always took advantage of any opportunity to practice English with a native speaker.
“Good to be back.” David stepped from the boat. “I see the Huns haven’t managed to capture you yet.”
Rebecca peered out across the water at the rickety fishing boat. “I thought you boys normally like to jump out of airplanes when you come to France.”
