Hexed_ The Iron Druid Chronicles - Kevin Hearne [98]
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