Hecamouflaged himself behind a tree on a small rise some hundred yardsaway and watched for the next hour until she opened the front door. Hehad good vision, a wolf’s vision, and even from the hilltop he couldsee his target. Standing on the threshold of her doorway, she wrapped awoven shawl more tightly over her shoulders and looked out. Notsearching for anything in particular, not bent toward any chore. Justlooking.
Whenher gaze crossed the hill, her eyes seemed to meet his, and he started.
Smilingbefore she ducked her face, she went back inside and closedthe door. She had seen him—or she had not. If she had, perhaps shebelieved he wasn’t a danger. Some hunter lost in the woods. A boy fromthe village.
Ifshe did not believe he was a danger, he could simply knock and shoother when she opened the door. In loyal service to the Fatherland.Keeping low, moving quickly, he made his way toward the cottage.
Hecould not explain the feeling of dread that overcame him as he left theshelter of the trees and approached the clearing where the garden plotand semi-tamed brambles spread out. The setting still appeared idyllic.A curl of smoke rose from the leaning stone chimney, indicatingwarmth and comfort inside. These were like the cottages at home. Thisshould be easy. But he took a step, and he could not raise his footagain. As if the ground had frozen, and his boots had stuck to the ice.As if his bones had turned to iron, too heavy to shift. The cottagebefore him suddenly seemed miles away. The sky grew overcast, shroudedwith clouds, and a wind began to murmur through the trees.
Hiswolf scented magic and told him to run.
Thememory of Colonel Skorzeny and his silver bayonet urged him on, andFritz forced another step. Forward, not away. Only a few steps, a knockon the door, and he could finish this. The gun was already in his hand.
Nextcame the voices, a scratch-throated chattering descending over him likea fog and rattling his ribs. He put his hands over his ears to cut outthe noise, and looked up to see ravens. Glinteyed, black, wingsoutstretched and blurred as they flapped over him, and their nearlyhuman croaking seemed to call, away, away, away.They banked and swooped and tittered, brushing his hair with wingtipsbefore dodging. He snapped at them, teeth clicking together, andswatted with fingers curled like claws. Wolf would make short work ofthem. But he had vowed to stay human. The gun sat coldly in his hand.
Heignored the ravens, which settled in surrounding trees and cawed theircommentary at him. They smelled like dust and spiders.
Heshifted a leg to take another impossible step, but again he could notmove. Vines had come, thorny brambles reaching from the solid hedge totake hold of him, to dig into the fabric of his trousers, and underthat his skin. The pain pricks of a thousand little needles. A growlcaught in the back of his throat. A threat, a show of anger. Wolf,wanting to rise up. Wolf could escape this, if the human was too stupidto.
Teethbared, Fritz jerked his leg forward, then the next. His trousersripped, as did his skin. Blood trickled down his legs. Still thebrambles climbed, reaching for his middle, grasping for his arms,pulling him away from the cottage. He twisted, lunging one way andanother, hoping to break away, and it worked. Vines ripped, heprogressed another foot or two, and his momentum carried him fullaround—and when he faced away from the cottage, the brambles vanished.
Fora long time he stood and looked across the clearing to the straightpines of the forest, all quiet, all peaceful. He could move freely—aslong as he moved away from the cottage. It was all illusion. His breathcaught.
Hereally had no choice about what path to choose. He could not fail inhis mission. He could not take the coward’s route. But when he turnedback to the cottage, the brambles returned, the battle resumed. Hiswolf’s strength let him fight on when a normal person would have beenoverwhelmed, succumbing to the blood and pain of the thorny wall. Hewrenched, pushed, twisted, and growled, until the last strand of vinebroke away, and he was through, close enough to the cottage to touch.
Hiswolf’s agility meant he sensed the ground give way a moment before itdid. A hole opened—no, a trench, or a moat even. A cleft in the earth,circling the cottage, splitting open and falling to darkness. Fritzsprang back, balanced as if on a wolf’s sure paws, to keep from fallingbackward into the vines, or forward into the pit. His toes pushed astone and few bits of brown earth forward, and the pieces rattled downthe sides to some unseen bottom.
ColonelSkorzeny had not told him that Maria Lang was a witch. The cleftwidened, the edge nearest him crumbling further, forcing him to inchaway until the brambles with their reaching thorns threatened to clawinto his back. This was impossible. This also made him furious. Hewasn’t a boy, a feckless common soldier, he was a wolf. Hitler’swerewolves, the colonel called them, and they saluted withtheir heils and expected victory.
Fritzdug his booted toes into the earth, called on wolf’s strength, imaginedthe light of the coming full moon filling him further, giving himpower. He took a single running step and jumped. Crashed to the groundon the other side of the pit, rolled once, hit the cottage’s frontdoor, and slumped to a rest. His ears were ringing, his muscles ached.He’d only traveled a few feet but felt as if he’d run for miles. For amoment, he couldn’t remember why he’d come here at all.
Thedoor opened, and the woman stood on the threshold, looking down on him.His information said she was in her thirties, but he couldn’t decide
