Eira’s eyes grew heavy as she stared at the soft glow of the lantern. The flame within it flickered lazily, giving off a warm orange hue that painted the inside of her vision each time she blinked. She lay curled on her side, tail tucked over her for comfort. She had been given only a few hours to rest and recover before the next push. She tried to embrace them, but sleep had proved difficult.
Her thoughts circled relentlessly back to the events of the day. To smoke and shattered brick. To gunfire echoing inside cramped rooms. And to Ulric.
And to the fact that she had killed him.
She told herself what she already knew. He would have died regardless. There would have been no saving him. No miracle waiting just out of reach. His eyes had been closed. He had not seen his end.
That should have been a mercy.
Yet the thought refused to settle. It lingered, needling at the edges of her mind. A quiet question she could not silence no matter how many times she answered it.
Could she have saved him?
Her eyelids sagged as she blinked slowly. Watching the lantern blur, then sharpen, then soften again. The flame swayed, hypnotic in its tiny glass prison. Her breath began to grow long and slow. Then the world gently tipped away, like a boat slipping from its dock and darkness pulled her under.
When her eyes opened again, she stood in the middle of a village.
The air was cold. Not the living cold of winter, but something hollow and abandoned. Sound carried strangely here. Every faint movement she made seemed to echo off the walls in long, stretching whispers.
She turned her head slowly. The place was familiar, but she could not recall in that moment. Houses lined the narrow street. Their windows were dark and empty, like empty eyes staring through her. There was no smoke rising from chimneys. No voices. No footprints in the slush. Only stillness.
Eira took a step. The sound of her footfall rang far too loud, bouncing endlessly as if she were not in a street, but deep inside a cave.
She looked up to see the sun suspended high overhead. Frozen in the center of a pale sky. Yet it offered no warmth. Its presence only deepened the stillness, as if time itself had died here.
A doorway yawned open to her right. Beyond the threshold was nothing. No floorboards. No furnishings. No walls. Just an endless blackness that resisted her gaze.
Still, she approached it, head cocked in curiosity rather than fear. She placed her hands on her hips and addressed the void as though she were speaking to a person.
“Excuse me. I am lost and I want to know where I am.”
Her voice drifted into the darkness and returned to her in soft, hollow echoes. No answer came.
She huffed in annoyance and turned on her heel. “I will find someone else,” she muttered.
She resumed walking, moving further down the seemingly endless rows of homes.
She blinked and the main street constricted into a long alley between two buildings. The change made no sense, but in the logic of dreams she accepted it without question. The alley stretched forward toward a small village square and at its center she saw a stone well.
It was perhaps twenty yards away. Close enough that she should have reached it in moments. Yet each step felt strangely futile. She walked but the well never grew closer. The alleys walls seemed to bend inward. The floor felt subtly wrong beneath her feet, almost rubbery, almost tilting.
She stopped and frowned down at the path. Was it uphill? Was that why she could not reach the square?
No. The path lay perfectly flat.
She lifted her head again. To her right she saw a wooden door that had not been there a moment before. It stood open, revealing a warmly lit room where a fire crackled in a hearth. The glow spilled out into the alley warm and inviting.
Only then did she feel the oppressive weight of the alley. The walls loomed, closing in while faint snow had begun to fall, the flakes swirling through the narrow gap above her like drifting ash.
She shivered turning her gaze back to the open door. The fire looked impossibly comfortable and safe. With a nod she slipped inside. As she crossed the threshold she looked back once more to the alley. The far end now sloped sharply uphill, as if the whole village had been folded and tilted by unseen hands.
She smiled at the absurdity of it, then closed the door behind her. The latch clicking shut with an audible snap.
Inside, the room was warm and quiet. A plush armchair sat near the fireplace, facing the glow. Flames snapped and hissed as if welcoming her. A soft rug lay beneath her feet. She felt the warmth sink into her tired bones, and for a fleeting moment she thought she could stay here forever.
But another part of her whispered that she had someplace to be. Something to do. She could not name it. She could not even fully sense it. But it tugged at her like a faint thread in the back of her mind.
Later, she told herself. For now, a moment of peace.
She lowered herself into the chair, sinking into the fabric. She crossed her left leg over her right knee, tail draping lazily over the side, and let out a long, weary sigh. The fire soothed her, easing the tension in her body.
Then she heard footsteps.
Slow. Deliberate. Echoing across the floorboards behind her.
Eira lifted her head slightly, ears angling toward the sound. Someone was approaching. She did not turn. She felt no fear at all. Only the strange calm that dreams allowed.
“Tea, Eira?” The voice asked gently.
Eira turned to see Dr. Vollmer standing a short distance away, holding two steaming porcelain cups. The rims glinted gold in the firelight. His smile was the familiar one she remembered from childhood, warm and a little weary. But he looked older than she remembered. His hair thinner, his posture more stooped.
She nodded eagerly and reached for the offered cup. “Thank you. That would be lovely.”
Her voice sounded young, almost innocent again, as if her throat had slipped back into the tone of her early days in the facility. Vollmer sat down in a chair beside hers. The chair had not existed moments ago, yet somehow it always had. He eased into it with the tired grunt of an old man and stared into the crackling flames and took a sip from his cup.
“It’s strange,” he said after a moment. “Where life takes you.”
Eira sipped the tea. It was warm, faintly sweet. Comforting. She said nothing as she looked at the man past the rim of her cup.
“I never expected to be a father,” he continued, still watching the fire. “I told myself that my work required sacrifices. No wife. No family.” A faint smile touched his mouth. “I believed that.”
He turned his head slightly, just enough to glance at her.
“And yet,” he said, “here you are.”
The fire crackled softly.
“I suppose it was foolish to say I never had children,” he went on, waving a hand. “I have many. You. All of you.” His breath left him slowly. “That brings me joy. More than I ever thought possible.”
Eira lowered the cup. Her ears tilted toward him.
“And fear,” he added quietly.
She studied his face. “Fear?”
He nodded once. Small. Heavy setting his teacup aside.
“Yes,” he said. “Because I brought you into this world, and I cannot protect you from it.” His gaze dropped to his hands, folded neatly in his lap. “I wanted better for you. A life beyond uniforms and orders.”
He looked back at her, offering a smile that tried and failed to hide its sadness.
“I wish that were still within my control.”
Something tightened in her chest. Her tail curled closer to her side.
“You don’t need to understand this yet,” Vollmer said gently. “You were never meant to carry such things so early.” He lifted his teacup, hesitated, then took a careful sip. “But one day, you will understand.”
The fire popped, sending a brief spray of sparks upward.
“When that time comes,” he said, lowering the cup, “you must be strong enough to choose. Even when every choice seems difficult.” His voice softened further. “Especially then.”
He finally met her eyes fully. There was no authority there. No scientist. Only a tired father.
“I love each of you, you know that Eira?” he said suddenly, eyes softening.
She smiled warmly and nodded again. “Of course. I love you as well, Papi.”
The word came without thought. Without hesitation. She had not said it in years, but here it felt natural, as if she had never stopped saying it.
Vollmer’s smile deepened for a moment, soft and paternal. He lifted his tea to his lips and took a small sip. As he lowered the cup, the warmth in his eyes seemed to thin, replaced by something more distant. More resigned.
She parted her lips to ask what troubled him, but before she could speak he rose quietly to his feet. The teacup was gone from his hand. In its place he now carried a large worn suitcase, heavy enough that he practically needed both hands to steady it.
“I must be off sadly,” he murmured. His tone was mournful. Heavy. “Time is no longer patient with me.”
Eira stood as well, confusion welling in her chest. “Where are you going?”
He did not answer. Instead, he reached out and took her hand. His palm was warm, the grip gentle. He searched her eyes with a soft melancholy that tightened her throat.
“I believe you must be going as well,” he said quietly. “Come. I will show you the way.”
The teacup she had held moments ago was nowhere to be found. She wondered vaguely if she had finished it, or if it had simply slipped away. Vollmer led her toward the front door of the cottage. Snow drifting gently past the window lazily.
He set the suitcase down beside the door and patted her hand. “It is right through here, dear Eira. Be safe, ja?”
“I will be, Papi,” she said. Her voice had returned to its usual tone. The shift felt both strange and natural, as if time itself moved fluidly around her.
Vollmer opened the door.
Beyond it stood the village square. The sky above had shifted from stone grey to a bright clear sky though snow still fell. At the center of the square the stone well stood tall and proud. Its stones were clean, free of weathering, as if it had been freshly built moments ago.
“You found it,” she breathed. Relief washed through her. She turned to thank him, but something in her chest clenched when she met his gaze.
He had taken off his glasses, wiping them with a handkerchief. His eyes were moist, a fragile shine gathering at the corners. She felt a sudden, powerful urge to hold him. Without hesitation she stepped forward, bending down and gathering him in her arms. She pressed his thin frame to her chest, feeling his warmth against her uniform.
He hugged her back, trembling ever so slightly.
“I am proud of you,” he whispered against her shoulder. “I will always be proud of you.”
Emotion surged up her throat, sharp and overwhelming. Her eyes stung. She closed them tightly and held him just a moment longer.
But the dream did not allow her to keep him.
The sensation of him in her arms faded, slipping away like smoke through her fingers. Her arms closed around nothing. She opened her eyes.
Vollmer was no longer beside her.
He was now walking across the square, carrying the heavy suitcase toward a waiting car. A black expensive looking sedan sat with its door open. A stern looking man stood beside it. Average in height. Black uniform immaculate. A small mustache perched beneath his nose. Round wire rimmed glasses glinted faintly in the dull light. His expression was inscrutable, polite yet cold.
He placed a hand on Vollmer’s shoulder and guided him gently into the car. Before following, he paused and looked back at Eira.
His eyes, softened by the reflection on the lenses, studied her for a long moment. Not cruel. Not kind. Simply calculating. Observing. Measuring.
Then he stepped inside the car after Vollmer.
The driver, a silent officer with rigid posture, closed the door behind him, circled the vehicle, and climbed into the driver’s seat. The engine rumbled to life. Snow swept across the square as the car eased forward.
Eira stood, tail lowering, ears slowly dipping back as she watched the car drift away. It turned down the narrow street and vanished behind the empty houses.
She felt impossibly small at that moment. Her ears pressed flat to her skull, her throat tightening until a soft, choked sound escaped her. She turned slowly in place, staring at the buildings that bordered the square. Their windows were dead hollows. Their doors were shut like clenched teeth. Nothing stirred. Nothing breathed.
She was alone.
Her gaze drifted back to the well. It stood in the center of the square like an altar. She felt herself moving toward it before she realized she had made the decision. Each step felt heavier than the last. Her tail lowered, brushing the cold stones beneath her boots.
A strange dread pulsed up her spine as she neared it. She could not recall why she had wanted to reach this place, only that she had. The importance pressed against her mind like a half-remembered promise. She stopped at the rim, staring down.
Darkness.
Not shadows, not the simple absence of light, but a thick, inky void that swallowed everything. It felt alive. Watching. Listening.
She swallowed the rising panic and began to circle the well. Her boots rasped softly against the stone. Each time she glanced at the dark mouth, her fur bristled, as if an unseen breath rolled up the well shaft and brushed against her.
She completed the full circle and saw nothing. No clue. No memory waiting to be unearthed. No purpose revealed.
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Her frustration rose. She crossed her arms and glared at the well, keeping a wide berth from the darkness. Some primal instinct deep in her bones warned her. Do not go near the edge. Do not lean in. Do not look too long.
Something waited down there.
She turned away, ready to abandon the square entirely. But the moment she shifted her gaze from the well, her breath caught in her throat.
Every path had vanished.
Every alley. Every road. Every break between the buildings.
Gone.
The structures had pressed inward, sealing her inside the square like stone jaws closing around prey.
Her heart thudded once. Hard. She swallowed, licking her lips. The air feeling as thick as cold syrup. Panic began to rise as she fought to control her breathing.
She turned back to the well.
A little girl now sat beside it.
Small. Blonde braids draped over each shoulder. A rough doll perched in her lap. She ran her fingers through the doll’s yarn hair with slow, absent affection.
Eira felt her fear melt. Not vanish but at least soften. The sight of the child eased something inside her chest. She walked forward carefully, making sure her footsteps were gentle then lowered herself beside the girl, resting her back against the cool stone.
She studied the doll. Crude but cared for. Loved.
“What is her name?” Eira asked softly, nodding toward the toy.
The girl smiled and answered in a lilting, unfamiliar tongue. Polish. Eira blinked and laughed quietly under her breath.
“I am sorry,” Eira said. “I do not understand.”
But the girl nodded as if Eira’s confusion made perfect sense. She returned to brushing the doll’s yarn hair, humming a soft tune that echoed faintly in the dream.
Eira leaned her head against the well’s stone rim, and her eyes found the girl's. Blue, bright, and achingly familiar.
“I’m sorry for what was done to you,” Eira murmured. Her voice shook with exhaustion. “You did not deserve that.”
The girl nodded again, her expression soft and knowing. She laughed suddenly and held out the doll to Eira, saying something else in that gentle foreign tongue.
Eira hesitated before accepting it. Turning the doll over in her hands, tracing every rough stitch. The floral dress hand sewn with care. The mismatched black buttons for eyes. The yarn hair. Tiny wooden shoes carved by a loving hand.
A child had cherished this. A child who had smiled at her once.
A child who had died because of the war.
Eira smiled faintly and handed the doll back with reverence, as though she were returning a priceless artifact. The girl accepted it with a tiny nod.
Eira noticed something on the edge of her vision then and turned her head, eyes narrowing.
Across the square something lay sprawled on the ground. A shape. A silhouette. She squinted, trying to make out details, but her vision blurred every time she tried to focus.
“Eira.”
A voice she recognized. Too well.
Her head jerked to the left to see a figure standing a short distance away. Shrouded in the harsh glow of the overhead sun. She lifted her hand to shield her eyes.
The light shifted just enough.
And she saw him.
The left side of his face was a ruined landscape of scars. Raw and brutal. Where his left eye should have been, there was only a hollow void that stared back at her with impossible depth.
Then she noticed the pistol.
Raised.
Aimed directly at her.
Her eyes widened, her breath catching. She barely had time to form a word. Barely had time to move.
A burst of white light consumed her vision as the pistol fired.
And the dream shattered like glass.
Eira’s eyes flew open as she bolted upright on her cot, a sharp breath tearing from her chest. Her fur bristled along her arms and spine as every nerve screaming as if she had narrowly escaped something with teeth. For a moment she did not know where she was. Then the flicker of the lantern cut through the fog, its small orange flame dancing against cracked concrete and exposed beams.
She was back.
Her gaze swept the room. The others slept in scattered pockets, some stretched out on cots, others slumped against pillars with rifles cradled close, fingers resting unconsciously near triggers. The soft sounds of breathing filled the space, uneven but steady. She rubbed at her eyes and tried to grasp the remnants of the dream, but the harder she reached for it, the faster it slipped away, dissolving like mist beneath the sun.
All but one detail.
The little blonde-haired girl.
Eira exhaled slowly and ran a hand through her hair, discovering that the bun had come loose during her sleep. She sighed, swung her legs over the side of the cot, and worked her claws through her hair once, then again, before pulling a length of twine from her coat pocket and securing it back into place.
Her thoughts drifted unbidden to the child and the village where she had first met her. The way the girl had looked up at her, unafraid and curious, as if Eira were something wonderful instead of something to be feared. Her throat tightened as memory followed memory, until she saw again the day she had passed through that same village with Emmett.
The silence.
The bodies.
The girl among them.
She shook her head sharply. What justification could there possibly be for such a thing. What excuse could the Reich offer for murdering villagers who had no weapons, no defenses, no chance. She could not find one, and the effort left her hollow.
Eira stood, slinging her rifle over her shoulder. She needed air. Space. Somewhere the walls were not pressing so close. The rooftop crossed her mind, but she dismissed it just as quickly. The city was crawling with eyes, and snipers loved nothing more than silhouettes against the sky. Instead she headed for the rear exit, the narrow alley behind the building offering at least the illusion of privacy.
As she passed through the room, Otto who had her back to her rolled over and glanced up from his cot. He had a small book in his hands, its cover worn and stained with age. He smiled faintly when he saw her.
“Heading outside?” he asked softly.
“Ja. Just need some air. I won’t be long,” she replied.
Otto nodded and returned to his reading, letting out a relaxed sigh as she moved on.
Eira pushed open the rear door. It groaned softly on its hinges, the sound loud in the quiet. She paused, listening, then slipped through and pulled the door nearly closed behind her, leaving it ajar by a narrow sliver.
The alley greeted her with cold air and the sharp scent of burning tobacco.
She looked up and spotted a dark figure leaned against the opposite wall.
“Trouble sleeping?” Dieter called quietly.
She nodded and walked toward him, arms wrapping loosely around herself. “Unfortunately. I came for fresh air, but it seems with your smoking that won’t happen.”
Her boot splashed through a shallow puddle as she stopped beside him.
Dieter chuckled under his breath and glanced down at the cigarette between his fingers. His gaze lingered on the glowing tip. “Terrible habit. Do you remember the studies they made us read when we were young? Harms the lungs.”
He took a slow drag and let the smoke drift from his nostrils. “Though I suspect a Russian bullet remains the greater danger.”
Eira leaned against the wall beside him and nodded.
Dieter reached into his coat and withdrew a small metal cigarette case, holding it out. “Do you remember Poland? When we were sent to capture what we thought was a scout. The one who had crossed paths with the Russian patrol?”
She shook her head slightly. “That scout was the American. You know that.”
“Ja,” Dieter said quietly. “I have come to suspect as much. Emmett, yes?”
She nodded.
He turned the case in his fingers before offering it to her. She accepted it, not to smoke, but to examine. The metal was dented. Worn smooth by handling.
“I took this from one of the men in that patrol,” Dieter continued. “He asked for a match. Wanted a cigarette before he met his end. After I shot him, I took the case. I did not know why at the time. I suppose I thought that if I were ever in his place, I would want the same.”
Eira handed the case back. Dieter slipped it into his pocket.
“After everything that happened,” Dieter continued, his voice lower now, “I began smoking. Losing you. Losing the others.” He exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl and thin in the cold air. “At the time, I did not think I would live long enough to regret it.”
He gave a quiet, humorless chuckle and shook his head. “The others never took to it. Which I cannot fault them for.” His eyes closed briefly as if picturing faces long gone. “All except Ulric. Once. Only once.”
Eira glanced at him.
“He tried one,” Dieter went on, the corner of his mouth lifting faintly. “Coughed. Gagged. Declared it vile. Said he would rather be shot than taste that again.” His smile lingered for only a second before fading. “He’ll never ask a second time.”
The smile faded.
Eira nodded slowly. The memory stung in a quiet way. She felt the urge rise in her chest to tell Dieter what had happened to Ulric. How he had actually met his end.
She swallowed and kept the thought to herself.
It was not shame that stopped her. Nor fear. It was something quieter. More deliberate.
Ulric had died fighting. And the final moment between them belonged to her alone. Sharing what had actually happen would only reduce what had been necessary into something smaller. Something uglier.
That burden was hers to carry.
They stood in silence for a long while. Somewhere in the distance, artillery boomed like distant thunder, rolling across the night sky.
Eira finally spoke. “I have never been good at remembering my dreams. Only how they feel. Although sometimes, a few fragments remain.”
Dieter turned to her, attentive, but did not interrupt.
She clasped her hands together. “Do you remember that village in Poland? The one where the little girl approached me?”
Dieter smiled faintly. “Ja. She was braver than any other in that place.”
Her expression did not soften. His smile faded.
“I passed through that village again,” Eira said quietly. “With Emmett. I cannot recall the name of the place, but it does not matter. They were all dead. Every one of them. Including her.”
Dieter studied her face. “Russians?” he asked carefully.
She shook her head. “Nein. It was our Germany. The cartridges. The signs. All German.” She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the stone. “I cannot understand it. They were unarmed. Children among them. And now she appears in my dreams. Not as something angry. Just as she was. Small. Innocent. Curious.”
Dieter exhaled slowly and crushed the cigarette beneath his boot. “I wish I had words for you,” he said. “But I do not.”
He looked at her again. “Does she speak to you?”
Eira hesitated. “Not in a way I understand. She speaks Polish.”
Her ears flattened. “What frightens me is that I do not know what I would have done had I been there and ordered to carry out the killing. I want to believe I would have refused.”
“I would as well,” Dieter said, his voice tired. “This war is not what we were promised. It makes me long for peace. Yet I doubt I will live to see it. Or belong in it if I do.”
He reached toward his coat, paused, then lowered his hand.
“Come, little sister. We should try to rest.”
She nodded and followed him back toward the building.
As they neared the barricade at the end of the alley, two Wehrmacht soldiers stood talking. Eira paid them little mind until a fragment of their conversation reached her ears.
“He just vanished,” the first said. “I was watching the fighting when it happened. Heard him yelp suddenly and then he was gone. Dragged into the open grate.”
“Russians?” the second suggested. “They have been using the underground more lately.”
“Perhaps. We searched. Found nothing. Although I will not miss him if I’m honest. Still, I find myself uneasy around those grates.”
The second snorted softly. “Ja. But he was SS. They would just shoot men like us.” The man paused as if considering something. “Honestly, if I had the choice between a clean bullet and being dragged below, I would take the bullet.”
The first laughed quietly in agreement.
Eira slowed for a moment, thoughtful, then shook her head and followed Dieter inside.
Something scraped through the Berlin underground.
The sound carried far in the tunnels, dragged and wet, echoing off brick and stone in slow, uneven pulses. Along the curved walls, service lights hummed inside caged fixtures, their dim red glow painting the passage in sickly streaks. Somewhere above, artillery thundered. The deep concussion shuddered through the earth, making the lights flicker as droplets of water and flecks of mortar fell from the ceiling before settling again into uneasy stillness.
A bound German SS officer was being hauled across the damp stones by his legs.
His body left dark smears along the slick floor as his head bounced uselessly against uneven sections. Each jolt sent pain lancing through his skull. He groaned as consciousness clawed its way back. Nausea rolling through his gut as his head throbbed where it had been struck.
His eyes fluttered open.
At first there was only blur. Filth. Shadow. Then one shape sharpened with horrifying clarity.
A broad-shouldered figure ahead of him, clothes torn and stained, hair matted and clinging to his face. A man moving with purpose through the sewer gloom.
The figure glanced back and grinned.
It might have passed for friendly at a distance. Up close it was anything but. The smile stretched too wide, teeth just visible, the expression empty of warmth. It was the look of a predator that had already decided how this would end.
“Guten Morgen, my friend,” Emmett said.
The cheerfulness in his voice made the officer’s stomach turn. The German was fluent, precise, but warped by a faint lilt that made every word feel off.
The officer tried to push himself backward. His wrists were bound tight against his belly with rough twine that bit into skin. Panic flared hot and sudden as he kicked weakly, boots jerking.
Emmett didn’t slow. Didn’t react. He dragged the man over puddles and patches of mold slick brick as if the resistance meant nothing at all.
The tunnel opened into a wider chamber. It was no cleaner than the rest of the underground, but it felt almost civilized by comparison. Crates were stacked along one wall. Torn blankets lay in a heap on a cot in the corner. A rusted lantern sputtered on a hook, its weak yellow light barely holding back the darkness.
Emmett dropped the officer’s legs where they landed on the floor with a dull thud.
“I apologize for the mess,” Emmett said casually. “The maid is out.”
The officer sucked in a sharp breath. His pulse hammered in his throat.
Emmett walked away as if bored and knelt by a crate. He retrieved a canteen, twisted off the cap, and took a measured sip. Swishing the water in his mouth before swallowing, eye unfocused, listening to the distant war rumbling above them.
Behind him, the officer struggled to sit upright. His arms trembled as he shifted his weight, trying to compose himself. He scanned the chamber, cataloging exits that were not there. His breathing came fast and shallow despite his efforts to control it.
Finally, he cleared his throat and spoke.
“Are you with the Russians?” he asked, the words coming out thin. A wave of nausea washed over him and his vision swam again. His temples pulsed painfully.
Emmett paused as if processing what the man had just asked, then he laughed.
Not loud. Not hysterical. A genuine sound, brief and sharp, echoing off the stone walls.
“Do I look like a Russian?” Emmett asked, his head cocking to the side slightly.
He turned and began walking. Slow. Unhurried.
The officer cracked one eye open. The sound alone made him flinch. His shoulders drew tight, instinct screaming at him to recoil even though he could not.
“No,” Emmett said mildly.
The officer opened his eyes to the sound of water sloshing.
A canteen hovered in his line of sight, held just close enough to be tempting. He swallowed and tried to lift his hands, only to feel the cord binding his wrists to his abdomen tug sharply. His breath caught.
Emmett said nothing.
He reached behind the officer with practiced ease and tugged a quick release. The tension vanished as the binding loosened, freeing the man’s wrists from his torso, then extended the canteen again. As patient as a priest offering communion.
The officer hesitated, then took it. Sniffing the mouth cautiously before drinking. The water was cool and clean.
He drank deeply, greedily, some of it spilling down his chin. The cool liquid easing his headache if only a little. He wiped his face with the back of his hands and offered the canteen back.
Emmett waved it away as he straightened to his full height.
“Nein. Keep it,” he said calmly. “We have much to discuss, and it seems you need it more than I do.”
He turned and dragged a chair across the brick floor, setting it squarely in front of a crate. The scrape echoed through the chamber.
He returned a moment later.
The officer barely had time to react before Emmett seized him by the collar and under his arm, hauling him upright. A startled yelp escaped his throat as his boots scraped for purchase. The canteen nearly slipped from his fingers.
“Relax,” Emmett said, his tone almost kind.
He dumped the man into the chair with a firm shove.
“Thought this would be easier on your back than the floor.”
The officer sucked in a shaky breath and forced himself to slow it. He rolled his shoulders, working life back into numbed muscles. Emmett stepped beside him and tugged the remaining bindings free, the cord falling away to the ground.
“I will not compromise the city,” the officer said, voice firm despite the tremor in it. “I will not speak.”
He set the canteen down and rubbed his raw wrists, jaw set.
Emmett laughed softly and patted the man’s shoulder as though humoring a stubborn child. He grabbed a rolled piece of paper off of a crate and dragged over another chair. He unfurled the paper and spread a worn map of Berlin across the surface. Corners curled. Pencil marks and grease stains marring the paper.
“Oh, but you are speaking already,” Emmett replied lightly. “And I am not really asking for much.”
The officer swallowed and finally looked up.
The lantern’s glow caught Emmett’s face in full. The scars. The dried blood crusted along his collar. The hollowed cheeks. The eyepatch and the single green eye that watched him with unnerving focus. The smile returned, stretched and empty, revealing nothing but appetite.
“I am looking for someone,” Emmett murmured.
He leaned closer. His voice dropped, rough and low, vibrating through the officer’s chest.
“A female hybrid. Fur white as snow.” His words came slowly, deliberately. “Blue eyes. She goes by the name Eira.”
The officer’s mouth fell open despite himself.
“A hybrid?” the officer said at last, disbelief cutting through his fear. “A Sturmwolf?”
Emmett’s grin slipped away and he nodded once in response remaining quiet as he watched, waiting.
The silence stretched. Water dripped somewhere deeper in the tunnels, slow and rhythmic. The officer swallowed hard and licked his lips.
“Who are you?” The officer finally asked. “Who are you with?”
Emmett leaned back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other, posture relaxed, almost casual. “No one, If I am being completely honest.” He said after a moment, before extending a hand toward the officer. “You can call me Jimmie.”
The officer stiffened. His gaze dropped to the offered hand, then returned to Emmett’s face.
He did not move.
Emmett sighed and withdrew his arm, disappointment flickering briefly across his expression. “I am not asking for much.” He gestured vaguely at the map. “Just the location of one individual. Not troop movements. Not supply lines. None of that nonsense.” He leaned forward slightly. “That is information safe enough to share.”
The officer’s jaw tightened. The temptation to speak flickered across his face, but he held his silence.
Emmett nodded, as if acknowledging a reasonable choice and settled back into stillness. The dripping water grew louder in the quiet chamber. Seconds passed. Then more.
Then Emmett moved.
The motion was so sudden that the man barely registered it. One moment Emmett sat relaxed. The next his hand shot out, seized the officer’s wrist, and slammed it flat against the crate. Steel flashed in the dim light as a blade drove down through flesh and bone, pinning the man’s hand to the wood.
The officer’s mouth opened, but no sound came at first. His legs spasmed violently, chair scraping across stone. The motion knocked the canteen over where it tumbled to the ground. His free hand flailed toward the knife embedded in his hand, fingers slick with blood.
Emmett grabbed him by the collar and hauled him forward until their faces were inches apart.
“You have seconds to respond,” Emmett growled, his voice low and shaking with restrained force, “before I cut out your tongue.”
The officer’s breath came in ragged gasps. Pain tore through him, white and blinding.
“Ja!” he cried. “Yes, I… yes, I think I have seen her!”
Emmett’s head tilted slightly. The green eye narrowed.
“You think?” he repeated softly, the words tight and dangerous.
“No, no!” the officer babbled, panic breaking him open. “I have seen her, I swear it! White fur, blue eyes! The north district, near the old rail yard! She was fighting the Soviets. I swear on my life!”
Emmett’s expression eased. Not into kindness, but into something disturbingly calm. He patted the officer’s cheek with gentle familiarity, like an uncle soothing a frightened child.
“Good,” he said quietly.
He released the man, who collapsed back into the chair with a strangled cry. Emmett stepped away and yanking the knife free.
The officer pulled his hand to himself, leaving a smeared red handprint over the streets of Berlin.
“Very good,” Emmett continued, wiping the blade against his sleeve. “Now you are going to tell me everything about her. Everything you have seen. Everything you have heard.”
The officer nodded frantically, breath shallow and uneven. Relief tangled with terror in his chest.
Emmett leaned back against a stack of crates, as he watched the man shake.
The officer’s pulse thundered in his ears as he stared into that single burning green eye.
It was not kind.
It was not merciful.
And it was hungry.
