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RYAN GRAUDIN

LITTLE, BROWN AND COMPANY

NEW YORK BOSTON

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the
authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons,
living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright 2015 by Ryan Graudin
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and
electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy
and theft of the authors intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other
than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at
[email protected]. Thank you for your support of the authors rights.
Little, Brown and Company
Hachette Book Group
1290 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10104
Visit our website at lbteens.com
Little, Brown and Company is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
The Little, Brown name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
First Edition: October 2015
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Graudin, Ryan.
Wolf by wolf / by Ryan Graudin. First edition.
pages cm
Summary: The first book in a duology about an alternate version of 1956 where the Axis powers
won WWII, and hold an annual motorcycle race across their conjoined continents to commemorate
their victory Provided by publisher.
ISBN 978-0-316-40512-6 (hardcover) ISBN 978-0-316-40510-2 (ebook) ISBN 978-0-316-40511-9
(library edition ebook) [1. Motorcycle racingFiction. 2. Government, Resistance toFiction.]
I.Title.
PZ7.G7724Wo 2015
[Fic]dc23
2014044026
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
RRDC
Printed in the United States of America

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TO DAVID, FOR BEING BY MY SIDE AND

SHARING MY MOST IMPORTANT JOURNEYS

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THE ROTTEN BONES ARE TREMBLING,

OF THE WORLD BEFORE THE RED WAR.
FROM THE OFFICIAL SONG OF THE HITLER YOUTH

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Once upon a different time, there was a girl who lived in a

kingdom of death. Wolves howled up her arm. A whole pack
of themmade of tattoo ink and pain, memory and loss. It
was the only thing about her that ever stayed the same.
Her story begins on a train.

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CH A P T E R 1
THEN
THE NU MBE R S
AU TU MN 1 9 4 4

There were five thousand souls stuffed into the train cars
thick and deep like cattle. The train groaned and bent under
their weight, weary from all of its many trips. (Five thousand
times five thousand. Again and again. So many, so many.)
No room to sit, no air to breathe, no food to eat. Yael leaned
on her mother and strangers alike until her knees ached (and
long, long after). She choked in the smell of waste and took
gulps from the n
eedle-cold buckets of water that were shoved
through the door by screaming guards. Far below the tracks,
a slow, shuddering groan whispered her name, over and over:
yah-ell, yah-ell, yah-ell.
You wont have to stand much longer. Were almost
there, Yaels mother kept saying as she smoothed her daugh
ters hair.
But almost there kept stretching on and on. One day rolled

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into two, into three. Endless hours of swaying kilometers and

slats of sunlight that cut like knives through the cars shoddy
planks and across the passengers gray faces. Yael huddled
against her mothers taffeta-silk skirt and tried not to listen to
the crying. Sobs so loud her name almost drowned in them.
But no matter how loud the sadness got, she could still hear
the whisper. Yah-ell, yah-ell, yah-ell. Constant, steady, always.
A secret under everything.
Three days of this.
Yah-ell, yah-ell, yahsqueal!
Stop.
Nothing.
And then the doors opened.
Get out! Hurry! a m
anbald, thin, dressed in clothes
like p ajamasyelled, and kept yelling. Even after they started
spilling out of the train car. He yelled and yelled in a way that
made Yael shrink close against her mother. Hurry! Hurry!
All around was darkness and glare. Night and spotlights.
The cold air was sharpened by the screams of guards, snarling
dogs, and snapping whips.
Men on one side! Women on the other!
Push, push, jostle, push, screams. There was a sea of wool
and shuffling. Everyone seemed lost. Moving and pushing and
crying and not knowing. Yaels fingers clenched the edge of her
mothers coat, so tight they could have been seams of their own.
HURRY HURRY MOVEan iron voice inside Yael
fought and pushed and criedDONT GET WASHED
AWAY

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They were all flowing in one direction. Away from whip

lash and dog fangs. Toward a man who stood on an overturned
apple crate, looking out across the platforms dark, milling
crowd. A floodlight bathed him. The pure white fabric of his
lab coat glowed and his arms were stretched wide, like wings.
He looked like an angel.
Every face that passed he measured and judged. Male
and female. Old and young. The man in the glowing lab coat
plucked and sifted and pointed them into lines.
Too small! Too ill! Too weak! Too short! Too old! He
barked out characteristics like ingredients for some twisted
recipe, sweeping away their offenders with a wave of his hand.
Those he approved of received a passing nod.
When he saw Yael, he neither barked nor nodded. He
squinted at fi
rsteyes serpent sharp behind his glasses.
Yael squinted back. There was a sharpness in her eyes, too,
whetted by three days of fear and t oo-bright lights. Her knees
ached and wobbled, but she tried her best to stand straight.
She did not want to be too small, too weak, too short.
The man stepped down from the crate and walked toward
Yaels mother, who shifted justso against her daughter as if to
shield her. But there was no defense from this mans gaze. He
saw all, staring at Yael and her mother as if they were suits
that needed tailoring. Taking measurements with his eyes,
imagining what a few stitches and tucks might do.
Yael stared back, taking measurements of her own. The
man looked different up close. Out of the light, with the shad
ows pressed in. (They seemed extra dark on him, as if making

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up for that first glowing impression.) He smelled different,

too. Clean, but not. Harsh, peeling scents Yael later learned to
associate with bleach and blood and uncareful scalpels.
This man did not trade in heralds or blessings or miracles.
He was an angel of a different kind.
Yaels knees ached, ached, ached. Her eyes stung and
watered. She kept standing. Kept staring. Clenching her
mothers skirt with stubborn fingers.
The man in the white coat glanced at the guard next
to him, who was busy inscribing notes onto a clipboard.
Reserve this girl for Experiment E
ighty-Five. Its long-term,
so she should be housed in the inmate barracks. And make
certain her hair is only cut. Not shorn. Ill need strands for
samples.
Yes, Dr. Geyer. The guard grabbed Yaels hand, snapped
his pen across her skin in two quick strikes. X marks the sur
vivor. What about the mother?
The man shrugged. She seems strong enough, was all
he said before he walked back to the crate, back to the light
that made him dazzle and glow.

Yael never did find out why Dr. Geyer chose her. Why she
out of all the young children who stumbled out of the train
cars and clung to their mothers coats that nightwas placed
in the line of the living.
But it did not take her long to discover what shed been
marked for.
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This was Experiment 85: Every other morning, at the end

of the four-hour roll call, a guard shouted out Yaels number.
Every other morning, she had to follow him through two sets
of barbed-wire gates and over the train tracks, all the way to
the doctors office.
The nurse always strapped Yael down to the gurney
before the injections. She never really looked at Yael, even
when she turned the girls arm over to check the numbers
stamped there. Those w
ater-weak eyes always focused on the
inanimate. Things like the n
ot-quite-dry bloodstains on the
floor tiles or flecked across the pristine white of her apron.
The shiny black leather of her shoes. The clipboard she
scrawled Yaels information on.
I N M ATE : 121358 X
AG E : 6 YE ARS
E XPE R I M E N T : # 85 M E L A N I N M A N I PU L ATI O N
S ES S I O N : 38

Dr. Geyer was different. From the moment he stepped

across the threshold, his eyes never left Yael. He sat on his roll
ing stool, arms folded over his chest. Leaned slightly back.
Examining the little girl in front of him. There were no
wrinkles on his faceno weary frown or weight of the world
sagging his skin.
He even smiled when he asked his questions. Yael could
see all of his white, white teeth, cut apart by the tiny black gap
where his two front incisors didnt quite meet. It was this part
of his face she always focused on when he spoke. The gap. The
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not-quite-fullness of his soft words. The single break in his

paternal mirage.
How are you feeling? hed ask her, leaning forward on
his toadstool seat.
Yael never really knew the answer to this question. What
exactly it was that Dr. Geyer expected her to say when the
bunk she shared with her mother and Miriam and three other
women was infested with lice; when the night temperatures
dropped so low that the straw in their mattress stabbed her
skin like knitting needles; when she was hungry, always hun
gry, even though the Babushka in the bunk across from her
snuck her extra bread rations every night.
DONT LOOK AT THE KNIVES TELL HIM
WHAT HE WANTS TO H
EAR
She wanted to be strong, brave, so she offered the one word
a strong, brave girl might say: Fine.
The doctors smile always grew wider when she said this.
Yael wanted to keep him happy. She didnt want the blood
stains on the floor to be hers.
Every session he examined her skin. Shone a dazzling
penlight into her eyes. Tugged out a few of her stubby hairs
for color analysis. When the string of questions and answers
ended, Dr. Geyer took the clipboard from the nurse stationed
in the corner. Always he flipped through the pages, his brown
hair tumbling to his eyes as he deciphered the nurses crude
writing.
Melanin production seems to be on a steady decline....
Note paler patches on skin as well as slight change in subjects

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iris pigmentation. Eumelanin is also d

ecreasingas can be
seen by subjects hair coloration.
They never called Yael by her name. She was always
subject. Or if they needed to be more specific: Inmate
121358X.
Were making progress. Dr. Geyers smile stretched, as if
his lips were being held open by tenterhooks. He handed the
clipboard back to the nurse, rolled his seat to the sterling tray
table, where the needles sat in a neat row. Straight silver fangs,
waiting to sink poison into Yaels skin. Fill her with another
two days of fire and agony. Change her from within. Take all
the colors and feelings and human inside. Drain, drain, drain
until nothing was left.
Just a ghost of a girl. A nothing shell.
Progress.

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C H A P TER 2
N OW
MA RCH 9 , 1 9 5 6
G ERMA NIA , CAPITA L O F T H E T H IR D RE ICH

The sun was a low orange threat in the sky as Yael stepped
out the flat door onto Luisen S treetan asphalt artery at the
heart of the city once called Berlin. Shed lingered too long
in the tattoo artists chair, bearing the needle and the sting
and the memories. Watching him put the final black touches
on the final black wolf.
It had been her fifth and last visit to the tiny back closet,
with its ink bottles and cracked leather chair. Five visits to
cover up the crooked numbers on her left arm. Five visits for five
wolves. They swooped and jostled and howled up her arm,
all the way to her elbow. Black and always running, striving
against her skin.
Babushka, Mama, Miriam, A
aron-Klaus, Vlad.
Five names, five stories, five souls.
Or, a different way to do the math: four memories and a
reminder.

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But Vlads wolf needed to be as perfect as the others, which

meant Yael pushed her luck to the edge, watching the clock
on the far wall tick its way toward sundown. In the end Vlads
wolf was a flawless open woundthrobbing under hastily
wrapped gauze.
Yael was late.
Germania was a dangerous place after dark. Official cur
few was not for a few more hours, but that didnt stop patrols
from lurking on the capitals street corners. Checking the
papers of random souls who passed. Ready to arrest at the
slightest aberration.
Nothing good happened at night, the National Socialists
reasoned. Honest Volk had no reason to be out once the shops
and beer halls locked their doors. The only people desperate
enough to do business under high moon and heavy shadows
were resistance conspirators, black-market scoundrels, and
Jews in disguise.
Yael happened to be all three.
The resistance leaders were going to have her head. Hen
ryka especially. The tiny Polish woman with too-bleached
frizz springing from every direction of her scalp was far more
fearsome than these features credited her for. Yael wouldve
preferred Reinigers stern National Socialist army commander
voice to the whirlwind/Mama Bear/spitfire that was Henryka.
More than likely they would both give her a talking-to.
(Henryka: How could you stay out so late! We thought you were
dead or worse! Reiniger: Do you realize how selfish you were
being? You could have compromised the resistance. Were close.
So close.) If the patrols didnt catch her first.
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Luisen Street was empty as Yael walked under its bright

ening streetlamps. A long row of
Volkswagens
identical
but for their plate n
umbersfortified the curbs. The grocery
down the block was already locked tight, windows dark. Propa
ganda posterssome tattered and curled, others still fresh with
pastelined the walls between flat doors, reminding strong
blond Aryan children to attend Hitler Youth. Reminding their
mothers to produce more strong blond Aryan children to attend
Hitler Youth.
Yael did not have far to walk, just a few blocks to the
safety of the beer halls hidden basement. But all it took was
one encounter. One t oo-hurried answer.
The necessity to move quickly and avoid detection beat
high in Yaels throat as she tore past the rows of posters, turn
ing a corner onto a sequestered side street.
And came facetoface with a patrol.
It was a standard unit: two young men with Mauser
Kar.98Ks strapped over their shoulders. The soldiers were
leaning against a wall, trading a single black-market cigarette
between them. Illegal smoke curled from their lips like doz
ens of phantom tongues. W
hitenot black like the billows
of Yaels childhood. The ones that poured, day and night, out
of tall smokestacks. When Yael was very little, shed thought
a monster lived inside those sooty brick walls. (She knew the
truth now. Saw the photos and endless lists of the dead. Rows
and rows of numbers like the ones her wolves hid. There was
a monster, but it didnt live inside the death camps cremato
rium. Its den was much fi
nera Chancellery full of stolen art,
and doors with iron locks.)
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This smoke, the white smoke, vanished quickly when the

soldiers caught sight of her. The first tossed the cigarette down,
crushing it under his heel. The second called to her in a rough
voice, You there! Frulein!
There was no turning back now.
WALK STRAIGHT SHOW NO FEAR NO F
EAR
When Yael reached the pair, she offered a mandatory,
unflinching salute. Heil Hitler!
Both soldiers mumbled it back. The first pulverized the
tobacco further into the cracked sidewalk with his heel. The
second held out his hand.
It took Yael an extra beat of a moment to realize what he
was asking for. Shed been through this dance with patrols
before (more than shed ever admit to Henryka and Reiniger),
but the sight of smoke, plus hours in the artists back closet, had
rattled her. Sessions under the needle always left Yael feeling
raw. It wasnt the ink and pain so much as the needle itself. The
memories of needles. What they could do. What they did.
Even at their most basic function, needles do two things:
They give and they take away. The tattoo artists needles took
white skin and numbers, gave her wolves. Dr. Geyers needles
had taken so much more. But what they gave...
Yael had many faces. Many names. Many sets of papers.
Because the chemicals the Angel of Death had crammed into
Yaels veins had changed her.
Papers, the second soldier demanded.
Yael knew better than to argue. Her fingers fluttered to
the pocket of her leather jacket, pulled out the tattered booklet
that belonged to todays face.
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Mina Jager, the soldier read aloud. Looking from pic

ture to face to picture again. He flipped to the next yellowed
page, taking in Minas unremarkable history: G
ermania-born.
Blond. Member of the Hitler Youth. The rough biography of
every adolescent within a s ixteen-kilometer radius.
What are you doing out so late, Frulein Jager? the first
soldier asked while the other read.
The real answer? Getting a b lack-market tattoo to hide my
Jewish numbers before I go on a top secret mission for the resistance
to bring an end to the New Order. A truth so absurd the soldiers
might even laugh it off if Yael voiced it. A small, contrary sliver
of her wanted to try, but she settled with the best answer. The
boring one. I was hoping to reach the grocery before it closed.
My mother ran out of eggs and sent me to fetch more.
Eggs... The first soldier frowned and nodded at her
arm. Whats that?
Yael followed his gaze to the cuff of her left sleeve. Her
gauze wrapping had been too hasty. Its netted white tail
peeked out from under the leather.
A bandage, she told him.
He leaned in. Closer, curious. His breath was stale with
smoke. Lets have a look.
Flash, thud, verdammt, went Yaels heart.
Yael could manipulate her appearance the way other peo
ple might change clothes. These skinshifts could modify many
things: her height, weight, coloring, the length of her hair, the
sound of her voice. But some things could not be altered: gen
der, wounds, tattoo ink.

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These things stayed.

The wolves were her constant, the single thing about her
that was solid and sure. Months ago, when Yael had returned
to the resistance headquarters with her first, fresh wolf, Hen
ryka had several peevish words to offer on the matter (the
foremost among them being dead giveaway). The Polish
woman even went so far as to point out that the religious laws
of Yaels people forbade the practice.
But what was done was done. Ink had been under Yaels
skin for more than a decade. By adding the wolves shed sim
ply made it her own. These new markings were far, far better
than the National Socialists numbers. Their presence alone
was not enough to condemn Yael, but they would raise ques
tions if the patrol saw them. Enough suspicions to get her
detained.
The only thing that would raise more questions would be
for Yael to refuse the soldiers request. Slowly, slowly she lifted
her sleeve. The gauze went all the way up her arm. Flecked in
rust spots and frayed at the edges.
The soldier squinted at it. What happened?
Yaels heart was louder now (FLASH, THUD, VERDAMMT. FLASH, THUD, VERDAMMT), pumping hard
with the knowledge that only a few threads stood between her
and disaster. All the soldier had to do was reach out and tug.
See the ink and the raw and the blood.
What then?
There was always a way out. Vlad had taught her that,
along with so many other things. These two men and their

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two rifles were no match for the skills shed learned, even in
this s eventeen-year-old girls body. She could knock them out
cold, disappear in twenty seconds flat.
Yael could, but she wouldnt. An incident so close to the
resistances headquarters, on the eve of her first mission, was far
too risky. It would draw the eyes and the wrath of the Gestapo
to the neighborhood. Expose the resistance. Ruin everything.
There was always a way out, but tonight (tonight of all
nights) it had to be clean.
Its a dog bite, Yael answered. A stray attacked me a few
days ago.
The soldier assessed the bandage for another moment.
His stance slacked from aggressive to conversational.
Was it bad? he asked.
Was it bad? Yael would take a thousand and one of Minas
dog bites in place of what had really happened. Trains and
barbed-wire fences. Death and pain and death.
I survived, she said with a smile.
Stray bitches make good target practice. Almost as much
as commies and Jews. The soldier laughed and slapped the
butt of his Mauser. Next one I see Ill shoot in your honor.
Yael kept her lips drawn up in Minas meek, demure fash
ion. The mask of a good little Reichling. It was only in the
unseen places she raged. Her toes curled hard inside her boots.
Her fingers slid back to her jacket pocket, where her trusted
Walther P38 handgun nestled.
The second soldier shut the book, so all Yael could see was
the Reich stamp on the front. The eagles wings were rigid: a

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double salute. The wreath and twisted cross hung effortlessly

from its talons. All as black as that monstrous smoke. The
same blackness that grew inside Yael if she let the memories
billow back.
Everything seems to be in order, Frulein Jager. He held
Minas book out to her.
The lining of Yaels throat tasted sooty. Her toes were
crackingpop, pop, poptiny, quiet gunshots inside her boots.
There was a time and a place for remembering. There was
a target waiting for her rage, her revenge. This evening, this
street, these men were not it.
Her touch slipped off the gun. Yael reached out and
grabbed the papers instead.
Thank you, she said as she tucked the pages of another
girls life deep into her jacket. I must go. My mother will be
worried.
The second soldier nodded. Of course, Frulein Jager.
Sorry to delay you.
She started walking, her fist shoved into one of the jack
ets normal pockets, clenching the talismans she kept there:
a blunted thumbtack, a pea-sized wooden doll with its face
worried off. One by one her toes uncurled. Bit by bit the
blackness retreated, back to its uneasy sleep.
Watch out for the strays! the first soldier called after her.
Yael held up a hand to acknowledge him but did not turn.
She was done with soldiers and strays.
She had much worse things to face.

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C H A P TER 3
N OW
MA RCH 9 , 1 9 5 6
GERMANIA , THIRD RE ICH

Yael held her breath when she entered Henrykas office

expecting a barrage of m
other-hen clucking and pecks of
guilt (Where were you? I was so worried! I thought youd been
discovered/killed/[insert disaster here]!). But the basement door
swung open to a H
enryka-less room.
Perhaps she had not been missed after all.
Yael let her breath leak out and stepped into the office. It
was not the fanciest of spaces, its smallness made even more
cramped by the shelves upon shelves, the military-grade desk,
and the card table petaled by mismatched chairs. Paper was
everywhere. Forests worth, covering the walls, sticking way
ward out of drawers, stacked in files all across Henrykas
desk. Documents of old operations, reams of intelligence on
the National Socialist governments top officials, and rescued
books. (Yael had read her way through Henrykas library

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at least six times, learning about the Biology of Desert Wildlife and the History of Western Civilization and Advanced
Calculus and everything else the battered encyclopedia sets
had to offer.)
But one piece of paper in particular always drew Yaels
eye: the operations map that took up the far wall. The whole
of Europe was stained in red. A crimson tide rolled over the
Ural Mountains, bleeding into Asia. Scarlet spilled through
the Mediterranean Sea and dripped down the crown of Africa.
Red: the color of battle wounds and the Third Reich.
Bitter, bright death.
Whenever Yael studied this map, she couldnt help but be
amazed at the scale of Hitlers victory. According to the sto
ries, when the Fhrer first announced his vision of an occu
pied Africa and Europe to his generals, some of them had
laughed. Impossible, theyd said. It cant be done.
But the word impossible held no sway over a man like Hit
ler. He sent his armies marching across Europe anyway; his
ruthless SS troops ignored all civilized rules of war, mowing
down soldiers and civilians alike.
Some countries, such as Italy and Japan, joined Hitlers
annexing rampage, hungry for territories of their own. Other
countries, too scarred by the war that ravaged the world two
decades before, refused to fight. It didnt take much persuad
ing for them to sign a nonaggression pact with the Axis. Peace
at all costs was the isolationist catchphrase in the American
newspapers. The Soviet Union put its pen to the pact as well,
for all was not right in its lands. Localized uprisings against

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Stalins ethnic purges and dissension within the government

were chipping away at the great Communist war machine. It
was far from battle-ready.
Britain was the sole great power that did not collaborate
or stand by. It was also the first of the great powers to fall. Its
planes and pluck could not stop Operation Sea Lion. After the
National Socialists hung their flags over the stones of a bro
ken Parliament, Hitler bided his time, solidifying his hold
on the conquered countries as he kept his calculating gaze to
the east.
The Soviet Union was fracturing under the stress of itself.
Stalins naysayers rose out of the woodwork, decrying his alli
ance with the Germans. Entire regions of the country splin
tered off into rebellions. By the time the Fhrer finally broke
his nonaggression pact in 1942, Stalins armies were too dimin
ished from within to fight a two-front war. The National
Socialists and Italians beat down the Soviets European border
while Japanese soldiers edged their way into Siberia.
Once Hitler was assured of the Soviets defeat, he turned
his sights back on his Italian allies (whose newly acquired ter
ritories happened to be in Europe and Africa). After using his
spies to assassinate the Italian leader, Mussolini, and blaming
the murder on Italian partisans, Hitler moved his armies into
Italy and its territories to stabilize the region.
They never left.
The red lands of Europe and Africa were claimed as
Lebensraum, living space for the Aryan people. Their native
populations were reduced to second-class citizens; any who

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resisted were shipped off to labor camps. Jews, Romani, Slavs,

and all others the Fhrer considered to be Untermenschen
were rounded up. Taken to camps of a different kind.
Crimson wasnt the only color on Henrykas operations
map. Two distinct empires made up the Axis: the Third Reich
and Japan, which helmed the Greater East Asia CoProsperity
Sphere. The Fhrer and Emperor Hirohito had halved the
Asian continent like a Christmas pie, straight down the Seven
tieth Meridian. Henryka had chosen an ominous gray to color
the Emperors territory.
At the top of the map, hanging in the high north, there was
no color at all. Just a vast white stretch of winter lands, where
echoes of Stalins army lived on. Too fractured, too under
resourced, and too cold for the Axis forces to bother with.
For over a decade these colors stayed the same. Settling in,
deeper, dye strong. (Though according to the resistances intel
ligence, Hitlers ambitions for the National Socialists and the
Aryan race were on a global scale. It didnt matter that hed
signed nonaggression pacts with the Americas or that he was
sworn allies with Emperor Hirohito. Intrigue and political
backstabbing were Hitlers specialty. Besides, why else would
the Reichs hundreds of labor camps be dedicated to churning
out war materials?)
But as Yael stared at the map this time, she wasnt looking
at colors or the lack of them. She was not counting the coded
operative pins that dotted the Reichs major citiesGermania,
London, Cairo, Rome, Baghdad, Paris.
Yael was looking at the road ahead.

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The Axis Tour.

The long-distance race had started its life as a Hitler Youth
activity, training for boys who wanted to join the Kradschtzen
motorcycle troop. It was so popular it evolved into a race. Once
the war was won, Joseph G
oebbelsthe Reichs propaganda
ministerdecided to televise the competition, to show off the
two Axis empires conquered territories, commemorate their
victory, and promote their alliance. Teenagers from the Hit
ler Youth and the Great Japan Sincerity Association competed
every year, racing their motorcycles from capital to capital. A
journey that captured the attention of the Axiss entire popula
tion for the better part of a month.
Henryka had marked the tours path as a dotted black line
that spanned three continents in a crooked U. Yael traced the
path with her forefinger. Starting in Germania, down the boot
that was once Italy, across the sea, along the Saharas sands,
through the Middle Easts rugged mountains, into the jungles
of Indochina, up to the port of Shanghai, over another sea, all
the way to Tokyo. It was 20,780 kilometers divided into nine
legs, traveled by twenty racers all fighting for victory via the
lowest cumulative time.
This was the journey she had to take. This was the race
she had to win.
The basement door swung open to reveal Henryka, w
ide-
eyed, cradling armfuls of documents.
Yael? The older woman always greeted Yael with a
question mark when she wore sleeves. There were, Henryka
sometimes complained, too many faces in Yaels repertoire for

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her to keep track of. (To be fair, the faces looked very similar:
oval shaped, light hair, bright eyes, long nose, straight white
teeth. Yael often had trouble keeping all the aliases straight
herself. They were almost, awfully, interchangeable.)
Yaels finger dropped away from Tokyo. She dropped
Minas face at the same time, letting Frulein Jagers soft fea
tures slough away. There was a new face in her mind, just as
Aryan but sharper. Yael sculpted it in practiced seconds. The
process of stretching skin, shifting bone, and warping carti
lage was always painful, but it was quick: snap, snap, snap. New
pieces, new girl.
Henryka watched Yaels transformation through strands
of brittle, h
ome-bleached frizz, a scowl growing on her face.
Where have you been?
Here we go. Yael could feel the rant whipping up in the
womans tiny body. It almost made her s mileHenryka still
fussing over her like some sort of ugly duckling, even after
years of the girls own scrappy survival and Vlads intense
operative training.
You were due here over a quarter of an hour ago! Kasper
has been waiting with the truck, and Ive been half out of my
mind with worry! I was five minutes away from notifying
Reiniger and sending out a search party! He could have can
celed the mission altogether! So much depends on you.
This lecture held too much truth for Yael to smile at.
Im sorry, Henryka. She paused, trying to think of
what else to say that wouldnt add another worry line to the
womans aging skin. I am.

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Henrykas anger wilted in a hearts space. Ten seconds of

yelling seemed to be all she had the energy for. Yael wondered
how long shed been awake. Stretches of sleepless days werent
rare for the older woman, who spent most of them in this hid
den officecoordinating drops for operatives and decoding
messages from cells all across the Axis territories. This place and
this indomitable Polish woman were the brain stem of the resis
tance. Collecting information, dispersing it through the many
nerve endings, causing movement.
Henrykas workload had been especially heavy lately, with
the upcoming Axis Tour. She had to make sure the world was
ready for what was about to happen if Yael completed her
mission: a complete uprising. Operation Valkyrie reborn.
Henryka moved over to her desk, tucking the new docu
ments into the avalanche of manila folders. In the far corner,
behind the mass of files and a worn typewriter, a television
whined out high, grainy frequencies. Its b lack-and-white pic
tures flickered strange light off the peeling ceiling paint. Hen
ryka paused to watch it. Old footage was playing, a montage
of last years Axis Tour. Short clips of motorcycles filmed from
the roadside were interspersed with shots of the racers official
times being recorded on the checkpoint cities chalkboards. But
the real meat of the coverage were the interviews conducted at
each checkpoint. Conversations with the racers whod clawed
their way to the top of this list. There were a slew of Mein
Kampfquoting German boys, proud and puffed. There were
glossy-haired Japanese boys, serious and honor-heavy.
And then there was Adele Wolfe. The girl who used her

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twin brothers papers so she could enter the all-male race. Who
cut her hair and taped her breasts and raced like all the rest.
The only girl who had ever competed. The victor of the ninth
Axis Tour.
Victor Adele Wolfe was a classic Reich beautypale, pale,
palewith corn-silk hair and Nordic eyes. This face was aired
all over the Reichssender (the televisions only state-approved
channel) just days after her victory and astonishing confes
sion that she was not actually Felix Wolfe but his sister. (Her
Iron Cross had almost been revoked by racing officials, but
the Fhrer had taken a liking to the svelte blond. She was, he
said, a perfect example of Aryan splendor and strength. No
one dared argue with him.) The cameras followed her every
where, documenting dozens of press interviews, an awards
ceremony in view of Mount Fuji, the traditional Victors Ball
at the Imperial Palace in Tokyo.
Out of her racing gear and wrapped up in a silk kimono,
Adele Wolfe almost appeared delicate. It was hard to imag
ine exactly how a girl who looked like a forest fairy straight
out of the Grimm Brothers storybooks had beaten out nine
teen burly boys under such grueling conditions. Even after
ten months of studying the race footage and mastering
the maneuvers and speed of her own Zndapp KS 601 motor
cycle on countryside autobahns, Yael still wasnt quite sure
how Adele had managed the feat.
But she was about to find out.
Henryka turned away from the screen, eyes back to Yaels
freshly changed face. You look just like her.

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Exact impersonations usually took days of study. Even

then they werent always accurate. There were always adjust
ments to be made, minute details to fix. The exact color of
eyes and hair. A missed freckle. The precise angle of the nose.
Scars deep and wide and worrying over skin.
Yael had perfected Adele Wolfes appearance in a single
week. She was tall (175 centimeters) with w
hite-blond hair and
three very distinct freckles on the left cheek. Unreal blue e yes
like ribboning layers of glacier ice, or tropical shallows. Repli
cating Adele Wolfes features was the easy part. It was every
other aspect of the ninth victors life that was the challenge.
Yael had been studying Adele Wolfe for nearly a year.
Breathing, sleeping, eating, living everything Adele. Observ
ing the girl from close and far. Perfecting the way she walked
(as if she were being pulled on silk strings). Noting how she
twisted the ends of her hair when she was nervous. Memoriz
ing every strange, seemingly useless fact from Adeles past.
Yael knew the following: Adele Wolfe had been born to a
mechanic and a housewife in the outskirts of Frankfurt, Ger
many, on May 2, 1938. Her two b rothersMartin (older) and
Felix (twin)taught her boxing and wrestling. Her mother
taught her knitting (not so successfullythe socks always
came out warped and unraveling), and her father taught her
racing (rather successfully, even though girls werent allowed
to compete in formal races). She hated beets and fish with livid
passion. Her favorite color was yellow, but she always told peo
ple it was red because it seemed fiercer.
Adele Wolfe wanted, more than anything, to be someone.

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She started racing under her twin brothers name at the

age of ten. At first it was just a race or two. But then she kept
winning. Felix Wolfe rose to the top of his age rank and even
had his name and photograph printed in the newspaper Das
Reich. Adele raced and won, raced and won, and there seemed
to be nothing that could stop her.
Until the day of Martins racetrack accident. The day the
Wolfe family broke in a way that could never be fixed. The
day Adeles parents swore off racing altogetherbanning
their remaining children from even watching the Nrbur
gring races.
But Adeles fear of the road was no match for her fear of
being lost. Swallowed into the Fhrers breeding systems to
mother a whole nation of blonds. Doomed to years of swollen
ankles, a body run down, and breasts sucked dry.
That would not be her fate. So, five years after her older
brothers death, she took Felix Wolfes papers, entered the
largest race in the Reich, and won.
As if on cue, the most popular film clip of Adele Wolfes
racing career flickered across the bubble screen. It was from
the Victors Ball of 1 955a party held for the winner of the
Axis Tour, attended by Tokyos high society and the Reichs
highest officials. Adele had shocked the world at the finish
line by revealing her true identity as a girl, but what hap
pened during the ball stunned some Reichssender viewers
even more.
Adolf H
itlera man notorious for being a stickinthe-
mud at p artiesasked Adele Wolfe to dance. The Fhrer,

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who left the Chancellerys great iron-bolted doors only twice a

year (and when he did, swarmed himself thick with the crisp
black uniforms of the SS), let Adeles skin collide with his for a
five-minute, televised waltz.
It was one of the many reasons Reinigerthe National
Socialist general and secret leader of the resistanceplaced
Adele Wolfes file in Yaels hands. Hitler had the girl close
enough for her to slide a knife blade between his ribs. If he did
it once, hed do it again.
And this time, the weapon would be ready.
But to attend the Victors Ball in Tokyo, Yael had to win the
race. To win the Axis Tour, she had to enter as Adele Wolfe. To
enter as Adele Wolfe, she had to take the real girls place. To
take the real Adeles place, she would have to carry out the kid
napping and retrieval before curfew set in. Soon.
Yael glanced around the office. It seemed too small, too
quiet for everything that was about to happen. Wheres
Reiniger?
Erwin wanted to be here to see you off, but he had...
other obligations. This was Henrykas code for National
Socialist duties. Yael knew that even when Reiniger was with
the National Socialists, he was doing the resistances w
ork
infiltrating the party for its secrets, converting officers whose
sense of horror and morality was somehow still intact after all
these New Order years, preparing great chunks of the army
for the upcoming putschbut the thought of him sitting in
meetings with men who danced in her peoples ashes and
blood always twisted her stomach.

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He wanted me to give you this. Henryka plucked a

folded sheet from the new papers and handed it to Yael. It was
a list of addresses and contact protocol, written in code. There
was one for each of the nine checkpoint cities along the dotted
black line.
Prague. Rome. Cairo. Baghdad. New Delhi. Dhaka.
Hanoi. Shanghai. Tokyo.
If you need anything on the road, these cells should be
able to help you. Just be certain youve lost any tails before you
pay them a visit.
Yael refolded the paper into eighths and put it away. Any
thing else?
The older womans lip trembled. Even her fingers were
shaky as she tucked her bleached hairs behind her ear.
When she shook her head, the wisps sprang back to their wild
selves.
Ill be watching you. Henryka nodded at the screen. Her
eyes were wet and there was a weight in her whisper. A sadness
full of the years theyd spent together: baking and reading and
spying on beer hall customers through a knothole in the old
headquarters. Years where Yael had almost felt like a normal
adolescent.
Do what needs to be done, then come back. The way the
older woman said this made Yael think of all the operatives
who hadnt returned. The pins that were taken off the map.
Leaving trails of tiny holes all over the crimson paper world.
Yael hugged Henryka, burying her face in the womans
blouse. Its thin fabric held an odd mixture of smells: butter

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and flour, old papers and typewriter ink. Henrykas arms were
much stronger than their scrawniness suggested, vising Yaels
ribs until a mist sprang in her eyes. Yael rested in the tears and
the holding for several seconds. Then she took one final, deep
breathlibraries, bakeries, homeand pulled away.
Neither of them said good-bye. It was too hard a thing to
voice. Too final and damning in times like these.
Yael walked to the door and gave one final glance at the
far wall. Where hole-riddled continents bled red, smoked gray.
This was the last time shed see the map like this.
Because tomorrow the end began. She was going to race
from Germania to Tokyo. She was going to win the Axis Tour
and earn an invitation to the Victors Ball. She was going to
kill the Fhrer and spark the death of the Third Reich.
She was going to cross the world and change it.
Or die trying.

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CH A P T E R 4
N OW
MARCH 9 , 19 5 6
GERMA NIA , THIRD RE ICH

Adele Wolfe lived alone on the outskirts of Germania. Hers

was the highest flat in the building, with a brilliant view of
the capitals winking lights. It had been bought and paid for in
full a year ago, with a chunk of the prize money from her Axis
Tour victory.
Just one of hundreds of facts from Adeles file. Though
Yael knew every meter of the victors living space through
surveillance and studying the old buildings blueprints, shed
never been inside the flat herself.
That was about to change.
Yael crouched in the back of the shiny laundry truck
(the one the resistance never actually used for laundry, just
stakeouts and courier errands), watching the entrance to the
building. It was quiet, weighted with the stillness of almost
curfew. In the past five minutes only one middle-aged man

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had been out, tugging a reluctant bulldog, urging it to relieve

itself as he stamped and grumbled under the orange lamp
light. Now he was gone and the way was clear: empty streets
and Gestapo-less cars. High, high above, the windows of
Adele Wolfes flat shone bright.
You ready? Kasper, driver and fellow operative, looked
at her around the cracked leather headrest.
A laugh bubbled in Yaels esophagus. Ready? Her readiness
was years in the forging. What had started in the death camp
as stubborn survival had bloomed into something far more
lethal. Vlads training left her brutal in handtohand com
bat. Bullseye deadly with every weapon she fired. Henrykas
books left her with a buffet of languages and information at
her disposal. In the camp shed picked up Russian to add to
her native German. Japanese, Italian, and English came later,
along with smatterings of Arabic. Shed learned all she could
about Zndapp KS 601 motorcycles. Shed studied the other
qualifying racers, memorizing biographies and favorite cheat
ing tactics. To cram all this into a word as short and simple as
ready seemed...well, funny.
Hence the laugh.
More than, she told Kasper. Ill signal from the win
dow when the target is secured. Be ready to help load her up.
Kasper nodded. Dont push it too long. Curfews in an
hour. I want to have Victor Wolfe back at Henrykas well
before then.
Yael made certain her face looked like Mina Jagers again.
After one last sweep of the street (still empty, eyeless), she

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slipped out of the truck, through the cold night, and into the
buildings marble foyer. At the end sat a shiny brass lift gate,
covered in a lattice of bright Xs. It was the easiest way up,
but too much like a cage. Too many Xs to cross over her face.
Cross her out.
Never again.
She took the stairs instead.
Yael wasted no time when she reached the door to Adeles
flat. Her heart rattled in time with her knock. Tap, tap, tap,
tap...
...
There was no answer. Just the flats heavy silence leaking
out into the hall. Accenting the sharp of her own heartbeat.
Adele Wolfe was not home.
Yaels fingers flew up to Minas hair, fished out two bobby
pins, and bent them straight. It took only seconds to coax apart
the lock, swing the door open, and enter.
Inside held a mess that put Henrykas office to shame. Yael
was, admittedly, not the cleanest person (it had taken Vlad
three months to break her habit of leaving dirty glasses in the
sink when she lived on his farm), but the state of Adele Wolfes
flat made her cringe. Clothes were everywhere. Strewn over
armchairs. Crumpled against the baseboards. The walls were
cluttered with Reich-approved art and photographs of Adele
at the Victors Ball, dressed in an elaborate kimono and sand
wiched ceremoniously between the Fhrer and the Emperor.
Giants of the East and West, smiling at the camera.
Yaels skin crawled, drawing tight over her bones. She

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couldnt look at their faces for long, so her eyes skated to other
pictures: the ones in frames scattered between long-standing,
half-finished mugs of creamless coffee.
The largest picture sat by the turntable. It sported a much
younger Adele: face sullen and arms crossed. Her hair was the
brightest thing in the picture, done up in pigtail braids. Her
brothers each held one; their expressions full of tease. Felix
and Martin were handsome (Yael had noted this fact long
before, when she first opened Adeles file), though it was hard
to tell in this photo.
The crawling. It wasnt in her skin this time, but her heart.
Yael looked at the faces of Adeles brothersher familyand
thought of the wolves on her arm. That lonely, lost pack.
Yael turned her back on all this and pushed the door shut.
From the looks of things, Adele was still packing. A quick
glance into the kitchen showed her that a kettle of water sat
on a lit burner. (Had she stepped outside to meet someone?
She must have used the lift.) Shed be back soonor else the
place would burn down.
Sure enough, the kettle was howling steam when the front
door rattled open. Yael hung back, out of sight in the scratchy
fabric shadows of the coat closet.
Scheisse! was the first word out of Adele Wolfes mouth.
Yael watched through the crack in the closet door as the girl
dashed across the flat. She flicked the flame off, muttering
more curses and a loud yelp as she tried to yank the hot kettle
off the burner.
The girl was distracted and frantic. Waving her burned

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fingers in the air. Her curses had disintegrated from Scheisses

to verdammts to other colorful verbiage.
Now was the time to strike.
The crawl of Yaels skin met the crawl of her heart. Her fin
gers latched on to her gun. She started to step out of the closet.
I see some things havent changed, a voicedeep and
malespoke just a meter from her, freezing Yael midstep.
Her free fingers hovered over the closet doors wood, too
stunned to pull back.
This isnt right. For months Yael had staked out the victors
flat. Watching her go in and out. Sometimes Adele lugged
armfuls of brown grocery bags; other times she was dressed in
biking gear, ready to ride. Always she was alone.
But not tonight.
Yael gritted her teeth and sank back into the forest of win
ter coats. The strip of door light darkened as the visitor stepped
past. His back was to the closet, but Yael could see he was tall,
lean, strong, with muscles that made themselves known even
under his jackets bulky fabric. He stood like a fighterlegs
planted apart. Even if she caught him unawares, she didnt
think she could overpower him and Adele.
Not quietly. Not bloodlessly.
Besides, if this strange boy went missing (last seen in the
company of Adele Wolfe), the authorities would get suspi
cious. Something this mission could not afford.
Scheisse, that hurt! Adele hissed, blowing on her burned
fingers.
So Ive gathered. The boy moved to the freezer and

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pulled out a handful of ice. Germanias done wonders for

your vocabulary.
Adeles swears drifted off. She accepted the ice warily, as if
she expected the boy to lunge at any moment. We both know
you didnt come all the way here to criticize my manners.
The boy said nothing. His shoulders had gone strangely
tense, as if he was expecting her to lunge.
Lets have it, then, Adele sighed.
You cant race tomorrow, the boy told her.
Adeles glare could have cut steel. She crossed her arms
and set her jaw to one side. Her hurt fist crushed tight over the
ice cubes. Why not?
I can think of about a thousand reasons: motorcycle sabo
tage, dehydration, road rash, flooded river crossings...Luka
Lwe.
The girls jaw tightened along with her fist. Melting ice
seeped through the cracks in her knuckles like tears.
And for what? The boys voice sounded as hot as the
kettle. Hissing syllables. Boiling consonants. Another Iron
Cross? More profiles on the Reichssender? More money?
I sent most of my winnings back to Frankfurt. You know
that.
We dont need your money, Ad. We need you. Please. Its
time to come home.
Home. This wasnt just any boy, Yael realized. This was
Adeles brother. Her twin brother. Of course. His hair was the
same silk-fine, b itter-blond as that of the girl who clutched
the ice. There were other similarities: their stance, their fists
curled to the same tempered tempo.
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Adele shook her head. Her arms crossed tight.

Were almost eighteen, Felix. The worst that can happen
to you is that youll be conscripted as a mechanic for one of the
Lebensraum settlements. But Ill be married off or put into the
Lebensborn. Adeles fist grew even tighter when she talked
about the breeding programs. An ice cube she held slipped
out, spinning across tiles and floorboards. It came to rest by the
closet door. This race is my last chance to escape that fate. To
prove that I can serve the Reich as well as any man.
I thought thats what you were doing last year, Felix said.
Adele Wolfes lip twitched. One win isnt enough. I cant
be as good as the men. I have to be better than them. No racer
has ever earned two Iron Crosses before.
Not, Yael knew, for lack of trying. The Double Cross
was elusive, which made both participating empires salivate
for it.
Over the years the Axis Tourofficially a celebration
of the Axiss continued alliancehad devolved into what
Reiniger called a pissing contest. The Third Reich and the
Greater East Asia CoProsperity Spheres partnership was ten
uous, crumbling a bit more with each passing year. They were
a long, long way from all-out war, but these tensions played
out every tour through the riders and their victories.
Win one race in the name of the Reich and you received
cash, fame, your choice of a Lebensraum assignment. Win a
second and youd have the Fhrer himself in your debt. The
proverbial world was yours.
Luka Lwe and Tsuda Katsuo will be fighting for that
same privilege, Adeles brother reminded her. Its their last
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year of racing, too. Theyre going to be out for blood, and its
your throat theyll go for first.
Adele said nothing. Her lips were pressed so tight they
were white.
How can you do this to Papa and Mama? After what
happened to Martin...
Martin. The other brother. The one who snapped his neck
on the Nrburgring racetrack on the twins twelfth birthday.
They were supposed to go home from the race and eat cake.
They went to the morgue instead.
All these memories played across Adeles face: ugly
shadow puppets. The white of her lips spread to her cheeks.
Anger past red. Its not the same.
Felixs hands knotted, anxious behind his back. Youre
right, he told her. What youre doing is far more dangerous.
Cramps were starting to vine up Yaels thighs. She shifted
as silently as she could and thought of Kasper in the laundry
truck, watching the window. Waiting.
The other riders fight dirty, but so do I. Adele said this
with her arms still crossed. I know what I signed up for.
Besides, the Fhrer himself gave me a special blessing to race.
He even sent me a telegram that said hed be cheering for me.
Felixs head turned ohsoslightly, so that Yael could see
the boys profile. His features looked apprehensive and pressed,
like his sisters. Exactly like his sisters. But for his slightly stron
ger jawline, her three freckles, and a few centimeters in height,
the siblings were almost identical.
I always sat back; I always kept your secret, always let you

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compete under my name, Felix reminded her. You know I

wouldnt be asking you to drop out unless I meant it. Trust me
on this, Ad. Please.
Adele Wolfe was silent for such a long moment that Yael
started to fear she might say yes. (Then what? Burst out of the
closet and say boo? Kidnap them both?)
But Adele did speak. Her words were slow, determined.
Im racing under my own name this time.
Felixs fists gripped tighter, cracking his knuckles with
his thumb. Five pops for the right hand, five for the left. The
sounds made Adele scowl. Go back to Frankfurt, Felix.
Not without you.
Stubbornness, it seemed, ran deep in the Wolfe family.
Yael would fit right in.
Adele shook her head. Im racing tomorrow and you cant
stop me.
If the twins had been rams, theyd be clashing heads, tan
gling horns. Instead they just stood, engaged in an invisible
battle of wills. It was silent, all in their eyes and history.
A winner emerged. Victor Adele Wolfe cleared her throat
and spoke. Its almost curfew. You should go.
Felixs hand fished into his jacket pocket, came back with
a pocket watch. It was a cheap, dented thing, making a tinny
sound as he snapped it open. The time was right: almost curfew. He broke his wide-leg fighter stance and retreated to the
door. Adele followed h
imboth moving out of Yaels slim
vision. The only thing left for her to watch was the ice cube,
melting into nothing.

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The door clicked open and shut. If there was any good-
bye between the twins, it was wordless. The flat fell silent and
the ice chip disappeared altogether.
Finally, Adeles footsteps creaked across the room. The
whine of a television sprang to life. Familiar sounds of the
Reichssender floated through the flat.
We now join our beloved and honored Fhrer on the eve
of the Axis Tour for a very special Chancellery Chat, a generic
male voice droned.
It felt as if ants were marching up and down Yaels arms.
Henryka loved her television; it stayed on for hours straight,
lighting up her office into the evening hours with news pro
paganda from all the Axis territories and stilted shows about
perfect Aryan families. But even Henryka couldnt stomach a
full Chancellery Chat.
The Fhrer was known for his speeches. His voice turned
words into living, breathing things that snaked under skins,
lit fires inside even the dullest minds. Many years a gobefore
the Great Victory, before the war stretched its long shadow
across the w
orldhed spoken everywhere. Pubs. Theaters.
Stages. Letting his bright red words wash over a whole nation.
He didnt appear in public anymore. He didnt have to,
when his words could be transmitted through wires and
speakers from the comfort of his own Chancellery. After f orty-
nine assassination attempts, the Fhrer hardly ever stepped
past the threshold of his hermitage.
There were two exceptions to this rule. The beginning of
the Axis Tour. And the end.

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Ten. That, my fellow countrymen, is the number of years

weve dwelt in a land of peace. A world of purity. The Aryan
race has risen to its God-granted station. We have tamed the
wilds of the East and Africa, scoured the filth of lesser races
from the crevices of our own continent.
Words from a monsters mouth. Aged, but still evil red,
intoxicating the masses like some potent wine. They made
Yael hot and twitchy and ready.
It was time. Now or never.
Yael pulled her P38 handgun out of her jacket, flicked up
the safety, and stepped out of the closet.
Adele stood in front of the television, watching the old
man behind the glasshis silvering mustache quivered as
he spit out words, words, and more words. The Axis Tour
is how we remember our Great Victory. We see the drive and
resilience of our race in our prized young racers. We watch
them travel through the lands weve conquered and purified.
We are the audience to our own progress.
Progress. Yael steadied her gun hand. She swallowed back
the anger. Deep, deep in her bones. Where it had to stay.
Adele still hadnt turned. Hitlers words were too loud,
too enveloping for her to notice the danger. Yael creptcloser,
closer.
A loose floorboard betrayed her, letting out a noise when
Yael stepped on it. Victor Adele Wolfe snapped around to
face her.
Though she still wore Minas face and form, Yael felt as
if she were staring into a mirror. It was all so familiar. The

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platinum hair barely long enough to pull back, tied into a twig
of a ponytail. The eyebrows so pale they were nearly invisible,
afterthoughts over her dagger-blue eyes. A bone structure that
belonged to a Viking queen.
They looked at each other for a long, still second. The gun
between them.
Sit on the couch. Yaels pistol flashed against the lamp
light as she waved it toward the dark red upholstery. She
tucked her free hand into her pocket, where the tranquilizer
pills nestled beside the doll and the thumbtack. Now!
Adeles eyes werent shirking or scared. Just...wary. They
never left Yael as she stepped around the coffee table, plow
ing through mountains of discarded clothes. When she got to
the couch, she stood. Her stance was the same as her brothers.
Wide, ready for a fight.
I dont want to hurt you. Even though these words were
true, Yael regretted them as soon as they left her mouth. They
made her sound weak, l ess-than, out of control.
Everything she could not be. Refused to be.
Sit, Yael barked again.
The girls movements were lightning quick. She grabbed
a half-empty mug of coffee, threw it at Yaels face, and lunged.
The liquid was cold, harmless. But the mug was not. It
clipped past Yaels jaw, shattered against the far wall. F
ifty-nine
kilograms of fingernail and kick barreled into her chest. Sent
her world flying.
The pistol tumbled to the floor. Adele dove for it with
hungry hands. Yaels limbs lashed out. They seemed to move

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apart from her, guided by hours and hours of Vlads combat

training. Painful, sweaty, bloody years all culminating in this
single chop to Adeles h
alf-bent wrist.
The other girls cry turned into something savage as
Adeles elbow met Yaels rib cage. Hurt sang under her skin
fresh and w
inter-bright. Yael didnt scream. She gathered the
pain close, harnessed its energy, and hit back.
Adeles body stretched long across the Turkish rug, fingers
straining for the butt of the P38. Yael lunged for her hand,
digging Minas nails deep into Adeles wrist, until she felt the
wet of blood seeping to the quick. She snatched the pistol from
the other girls reach, pointing it straight at Victor Wolfes
forehead in a swift, trained motion.
All went still. Silent except for their geyser-hiss breaths
and the Fhrers spinning-silk lies from the television: Our
racers are pure. Our racers are strong. They are the next gen
eration, bearers of light into the still-dark continents of this
world.
Adele didnt beg. Her eyes were ice and slit. She stared
past the gun, straight at Yael. Who are you?
Not What do you want? or What are you doing here?
Who are you? Who? Who? Who?
Why, of all questions, this one?
Yael did not answer. She held the pistol tight and brought
it down in a quick, blunt move to Victor Wolfes skull.

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