“They say I’m a spy for the Double O?”
The man nodded. “For Ambrose himself. No one trusts a spy. Not even the man who’s got him doing the spying.”
Rowan laughed. Maeve had never heard him laugh. He moved his final move. The game was over.
The dark-haired man shook his head. “Another game?”
“No,” Rowan answered curtly. “I prefer to leave on a high note.”
The pair stood and shook hands. Maeve let go of the memory and held onto what she could of the dark-haired man’s mind. The memory misted into a void and a man’s voice rang out across the darkness.
“Death before dishonor,” said the voice. It bore a thick German accent.
Bright red light pulsed around her.
There was a scuffle around them. Many voices.
“Rolf,” said the German.
So that was his name.
“Chancellor,” replied the dark-haired man, Rolf.
Maeve felt the dark-haired man’s fear. She felt his insides quiver under this German man’s gaze.
And suddenly he appeared. Yellow blonde hair and pale blue eyes. A large nose with a bluntly trimmed golden mustache. A red and grey uniform with that black human symbol. The one like a distorted cross.
She looked up at Kietel, the self acclaimed Dread Descendant, through the dark-haired man’s eyes.
Panic raced through her. This was happening in real time. She was seeing him as he was. Rolf looked to their left, where the bodies of a man and woman lay sprawled across a set of chairs. Dead.
Maeve recognized the man.
There were Magical Militia there. Men with Orator’s Office insignia on their cloaks.
Rolf’s attention shot back to Kietel, who was looking at him sternly, with his head cocked to one side.
“Chancellor,” said another voice, addressing Kietel, but he held up a finger to the new voice and remained staring straight at Rolf. Straight at Maeve.
“Sir?’ Asked Rolf.
Then with a terrifying realization she saw across Kietel’s face his own realization that she was there. She exhaled sharply as fear flooded through her. She yanked on the doorway to Rowan’s memory, but it was too late. Kietel flung himself towards her. He slammed both hands around Rolf’s neck.
Maeve screamed as she felt the contact. Air flow through her lungs seized up. His hands constricted around her neck, pressure building up in her face.
“Who are you?” Spat Kietel, his pale blue eyes bore into hers with a dangerous fury.
Maeve gripped at her neck, her fingers desperately clawing at his non existent hands. Water flowed from the corners of her eyes. Her chest tightened.
“Who are you?” He spat each word as his hands grew hot. Magic pooled on his palms.
No no no- she panicked and pushed against Keitl, desperately trying to find her doorway out.
Maeve.
Mal’s voice echoed in her ears. Distant and muddled.
Her head grew fuzzy.
