“Boy,would you like some tea?” she said. Her voice was clear, amiable.Something like an aunt, not so much like a grandmother, and nothinglike a witch.
“ButI am a werewolf,” he blurted, perhaps the first time he had ever statedthis aloud.
“Yes,I know,” she answered.
Helooked over his shoulder at the way he’d come. The clearing, thegarden, the forest and hill beyond—all were normal, utterly ordinary,the way they had been when he arrived. He looked at the gun in hishand, and the woman who didn’t seem at all afraid. Sighing, he climbedup off the ground and followed her inside.
Sheshowed him to a straight-backed, rough-hewn chair, and obediently hesat. She had an old-fashioned open hearth with a fire burning, andalready had a kettle set to boiling water. He watched as sheused a dish cloth to move the kettle from the fire, pour water into ateapot, and scoop in herbs from an earthenware jar.
Helooked around. The place was filled with herbs, jars of them lined upon a shelf, bundles of them hanging from roof beams, mortars andpestles sitting on a work table in the center of the room, all dustedwith herbs. The pungent smell, strong as a Christmas dinner, made himsneeze. Stairs led up, probably to an attic bedroom. The wholecottage was as cozy as one could wish for, insulated and warm, filledwith signs of home. Fritz was surprised that his wolf wasn’tcomplaining about the closed space and the shut door. His wolf did notfeel trapped, but instead had settled, like a puppy curled by a fire.
Heblinked up at the woman, confused. “They told me you were a nurse.”
“Healer,not a nurse. They couldn’t tell the difference, I’m sure.”
“You’reawitch.”
Shesmirked at him. “You are very young. Here, have some tea.”
Andjust like that she presented him with a teacup and set it in his handsas she slipped the gun away from him. He didn’t even notice until he’dtaken a long sip. The tea warmed him, and the warmth settled over him.Citrus and cinnamon, and hope.
Thenhe stared at his hands, his eyes widening. She set the gun on theworktable out of his reach and left it there as she poured herself acup of tea.
“Whathave you done to me?” he cried.
“Ihaven’t done anything.” Her smile should have been beautiful, full lipson a porcelain face, but the expression held wickedness.Mischievousness. Tricks. “I have nine layers of protection around myhome,knowing people like you would come to kill me. You should have droppeddead—even you, with your half-wolf soul—should have dropped dead beforeyou reached my door. Do you know what that means?
“Younever truly meant to kill me. You thought you did, perhaps. You mighthave held the gun in your hands and pressed the barrel tomy chest, but you could not have killed me. Everyone would call you amonster if they knew what you were. But you have a good heart, don’tyou? What of that, boy?”
Hedidn’t know. He took another sip of tea and kept his gaze on the ambersurface of the liquid. She wasn’t even wolf, and he was showing hersigns of submission. He was useless.
“Thenwhat am I to do?” he said. He knew what happened to those the SS nolonger had use for. Skorzeny knew how to kill werewolves.
“It’sthe night of the full moon,” she said.
Awindow in the front of the cottage still showed daylight. The ghosts ofhis wolf’s ears pricked forward. No, it wasn’t quite time, not yet.
Shesaid, “They wanted you to come tonight, on the full moon, because theythought your wolf would make you a killer. Make murdering easier.”
“Itried to explain to them, it doesn’t work like that—”
“Especiallywhenthey have made us a world where men are the monsters,and the wolves are just themselves. Would you like one?” She offeredhim a plate piled with sugar cookies, wonderful, buttery diskssparkling with sugar, and where had she found butter and sugar in themiddle of the war? He recalled the story of the witch who fattenedchildren up to eat them.
“No,thank you,” he said. Smiling, she set the plate aside.
“Doyou know what tonight is, boy? Besides a full moon night?”
Hethoughtfor a moment and said, blankly, “Tuesday?”
“All-HallowsEve. The night when doors between worlds open. And a full moon onAll-Hallows Eve? The doors will open very wide indeed. Where would youlike to go? This is a night when you might be able to get there.”
Iwant to go home. That was a child’s wish, and he wasashamed for thinking it.
Shemight have read his mind.
“Thehome you knew, you will never see it again. Even if I could transportyou there this moment, home will never mean what it did. Germanywill never be the same. We might as well all have landed on anotherplanet, these last years.” She went to the table, wiped her hands onher apron, and began to work, chopping up a sprig of somesweet-smelling plant, scooping pieces into a mortar, grinding away,adding another herb, then oil to make a paste. The movements seemedoffhand, unconscious. She’d probably done them a thousand times before.She spoke through it all. “They, your masters, are intent on harnessingthe powers of darkness, but they do not remember the old stories, dothey? The price to be paid. They have forgotten the lessons. They putwerewolves in cages and think because they have a bit of silver, theyare safe.”
Heleaned back in the chair, sipping his tea as worry fell away from him.He was a child again, listening to the stories of his grandmother,the old ones, about dark woods and evil times, bramble forests andwicked tyrants. He was sure he didn’t close his eyes—he remembered thefire in the hearth dancing, he watched her hands move as she chopped,mixed, ground, and sealed her potions up in jars. He saw his gunsitting at the corner of the table and remembered he had come for areason. But he no longer cared, because for the first time in ages, thewolf inside him was still.
“Someof us still have power, and some of us can fight them,” she said.
