as you know, things in France turned very dark by 1940. We found ourselves with a choice: leave France or live in occupied territory. Of course, slipping out of the country wasn’t a problem for us, but I decided to stay behind in Paris. My father traveled to England to offer his services. Then, after the Germans invaded, it became clear I would need to join the Resistance. In France they were called Les Maquis, do you know that name?”
Indeed I did. All over the country there are memorials in tribute to the men and women who fought courageously against the Nazis and lost their lives. I had once visited the War Memorial Museum in Caen, with exhibits that went on in great detail about the brutal deaths resistance fighters faced. “Yes, of course,” I said. “They were heroes. You were a part of the Resistance?”
“Yes, and so was the Council,” he said, pausing. “The Nazis were the most evil people on earth, Olivia. They despised everything that failed to meet their vision of racial purity, including vampires, witches, and werewolves. They were happy to torture and kill anything they could not control or use to advance Hitler’s cause.”
Somewhere in the last few minutes, this had become a conversation that required eye contact. But when I tried to remove the cloth so I could see William, he stopped me. “No, leave it on,” he said. “It will help you heal and I prefer to tell my story without you watching me.”
I nodded, the heavy, wet cloth sliding slightly off my eyes. “What did you do during that time?”
“Everything and sometimes, it seemed, nothing. The goal was to hobble the Nazis and make it impossible to move men and supplies. I blew up train tracks, killed German soldiers, and helped free captured Allied men,” he said. “I infiltrated the highest levels of Parisian society, bien sûr, and fed the intelligence back to my father in England.”
“I was a perfect operative,” he continued. “No need to eat or sleep. I could travel great distances in the dark of night, and with my reflexes, I was able to sneak up on German troops without them hearing a sound.”
“Did anyone suspect you weren’t human?”
“Perhaps,” he said, “But it was war. It was better not to look too long at anything or ask too many questions. To be ignorant was safer. Those who were betrayed faced unimaginable torture.”
I realized that this was the second story I had heard about William’s father in the past, but I had never heard him mentioned as part of his life currently.
“William, where is your father now?”
“He’s dead, murdered in a village in Normandy,” he said. “There was an informant; the Nazis knew we were set to receive radio operators and their guides by parachute. It was a moonless night, perfect for Others to make a jump. They were watching and waiting. Before I could even get to the field, the Germans ran in and beheaded him, along with his colleagues. It was a well-planned ambush, right down to the silver bullets in their guns.”
“How did they know?” I asked.
“I never found out, but I have always suspected it was one of our own,” he said. “Who else would have known? It was 1943, no human had set foot inside the Council.”
This time I did remove the cloth from my face and sat up. I reached for William’s hand and brought his palm to my lips.
“I am sorry about your father,” I said.
He pulled me close and kissed my forehead. “Thank you. The worst part was watching and not being able to do anything,” he said. “To do so would have put the whole operation at risk.”
“And after?”
“I waited until the bastards had left and then I collected my father. His head had been severed from his body, and he had been shot clean through the heart with a silver bullet. I couldn’t risk a fire or a lantern, so I dug a grave in the darkness and buried him. I’ve returned to the area many times, but I’ve never located his grave. Finally, I gave up. After the war, I purchased a plot in a cemetery outside Caen and bought a proper tombstone for him.”
“Is that why you left the Council?”
“No. If anything, his death inspired me to work harder to create as much mayhem as possible,” he said. “My reasons for quitting were more complicated. It was the cumulative effects of the Nazis and their concentration camps, the