I do not have to ask where Dieter leads me; we’re heading straight to the Porta Nigra. He walks without speaking, but it’s as if he’s having a conversation silently with himself. He smiles, tilting his face up, a chuckle in his throat before he pauses, counting the fingers of his right hand against his left palm. His head cocks, and he nods as if agreeing with something, then strides forward, setting such a quick pace that I must jog to keep up, my black cloak flapping behind me.
It would be odd if I had not seen him act this way many times before. Dieter Kirch is often focused in such a single-minded way that it is as if the entirety of the world around him evaporates. It’s easy, I suppose, to walk through the city as if only your own thoughts matter when everyone else makes way, the crowds parting before him like the Red Sea.
He pauses at the steps leading up to the Porta Nigra, his pale blue eyes finally focusing on me. “You’ve earned it,” he says, nodding again, clearly agreeing with himself. A decision has been made, and I have been found worthy.
“Thank you, kommandant.” I don’t ask what, exactly, it is I’ve earned—any questioning of Dieter could rescind whatever my prize may be.
The prize for capturing his sister, I think, bile rising in my throat as I ascend the steps a pace behind the kommandant. Everything I’ve learned in the short time I’ve known Fritzi has taught me her strength, her resilience, hergoodness. How could Dieter Kirch have come from the same blood, the same home as Fritzi? I push the thoughts down. My father would ask the same of me—how could I be his when I believe and act the opposite of him?
The answer is simple.
We are not born into our nature; we choose it. And although the people and places around us may influence our lives, our decisions seal our fate.
Dieter holds the door for me as I step inside the Porta Nigra, at the ground floor church. The bells start tolling for Terce. A fair number of people stand inside as the priest prepares the liturgy, everyone pausing in their morning work for the psalms and prayers. Dieter and I move along the back of the church, skirting the narthex. No one glances up at us; it’s common enough for hexenjägers to enter the church and make their way up the stairs to the offices above. But more than that, the people are focused on repentant prayer. Christ’s mass at the end of the year may be about the celebration of his birth, but Advent is a time of contemplation, a remembrance of the end—not just of the end of the year, but the end of life, the end of all ages.
Advent is the dark before the light. And while Christmas is coming, Advent lasts four weeks. A month of solemnity before we can have a day of joy.
“Nunc, Sancte, nobis, Spiritus,” the priest’s voice intones as Dieter and I mount the steps in the south transept. I pause at the top as the hymn ends. Dieter strides ahead of me down the hall, but despite my years of practice, I need to work to school my features. My hands are shaking; myheart is racing. I can’t give myself away, not to the kommandant, but…I don’t know how long I can wear this mask. Not with her behind iron bars.
Not when all I want to do is murder Dieter for all the suffering he has caused the world in general and her specifically.
I bite my tongue until I taste blood, focusing on the pain. Downstairs, the priest switches from Latin to German.
“This is a time for peace,” he says, a law we all know. By the decree of the Pope, no violence is allowed during this time of year. “And we must thank the archbishop for bringing us peace now, through the deaths of the evil witches plaguing our city.”
There is a murmuring of thanks and agreement throughout the people in the nave. From my position at the top of the steps, looking down at the congregation, I stare hard at the faithful.
An old woman near the back, glaring defiantly at the priest, her lips pressed firmly shut. A young couple, turning away together. A man covered in grime and soot—he must have come into the church between jobs—his head down, his jaw set.
There is still hope for true peace. That gives me the strength to go on.
I let the door slam shut behind me as I step onto the second floor of the Porta Nigra, the private headquarters of the hexenjägers.
“Come,” Kommandant Kirch orders me, annoyed at my lingering pause. Dieter leads me into his office, and I eye the little closet that Bertram had been locked up in. Bertram had said he was given a reprieve from his punishment, but I suspect it is less about Dieter forgiving him and more about the kommandant finding another prisoner to enclose in the tiny torture chamber. I wonder which jäger had the misfortune to find himself in such a fate.
Dieter sits easily at his desk, his long arms draped over the sides of the chair. “There is an irony, don’t you think, in how you went to fetch your sister but brought me mine instead?”
I nod silently.
“I think you see that my sister is the more valuable witch to burn, though, no?” Dieter asks casually. His voice is conversational, as if we were discussing our evening meal options.
I am unsure of what to say. We had already acknowledged that Fritzi was a true witch, but that was before I knew she was Dieter’s sister. Now if I lay such a claim upon her, it may seem as if I’m indicating there is something wrong in Dieter’s family blood.
Her mother—hismother—was also a witch, I think.Itisin the blood. But not in him…?
Is that why he hates witches so much, because the power should be his birthright, and he has no magic of his own? Such rage as his must be fueled by something, and envy is as much a reason as any.
“The men often compare you to your father,” Dieter continues. He waves his hand, indicating that I should sit. “But I have noticed that you never do. You rarely mention him.”
I perch on the edge of the seat, my nerves alert. “No,” I concede.
“I don’t remember my father. I barely recall Fritzi’s. My mother raised us alone.” Dieter picks up a knife and starts scraping the tip along the inside of his nails, cleaning them. His blue eyes flick up at me. “I killed her. My mother. I watched her burn. I did not step away even after the flames turned her skin black and her head bald. I watched every second of it.”
My blood is ice water, but I do not move. Dieter’s voice is so calm, so casual.
“The stench was—” He shudders, as if that was the worst of it, the smell. “But you know, it was fascinating too. You’d be amazed at how resilient the human body is. How long it can last.”
“God made us in his image,” I say hollowly.
