Bitter Fruit

“Arabella.” I pointed to the purple patch. “Why are we wearing this?”

“It’s how the soldiers classify us. It’s the color assigned to magickal beings.”

“Why?”

An older woman on another bunk said, “It keeps us separated. We’re not supposed to socialize with each other.”

Truly, we didn’t require colors to keep us apart. We were doing an excellent job of that ourselves. The usual sense of community inherent with Spelltwisters was woefully missing here. Each female in the room was like an island unto herself.

I didn’t understand how the soldiers were able to confine us to one area. We were magickal beings. All we had to do was utter the right incantation, and the camp would be no more. We could take on those soldiers. Darn it! We could take on the dictatorial leader himself. Alas, I seriously doubted if any of them would join me in the battle.

“Why haven’t Magickals stood up for themselves?” I asked.

Ursa’s blue eyes widened like saucers. She looked over her shoulder and then moved closer. She grasped one of her blonde pigtails and began playing with the tip. “Fear.”

“Of what?”

“Guns. Gas. The Nazis have tools that can punish us. They experiment on us.”

“All the more reason to show them what we’re made of.”

Ursa shook her head. “You must not let anyone hear such foolishness. Using our magick confirms what Hitler and his followers believe about us.”

That made no sense, and then I recalled the lessons I’d been taught about the witch trials. If the women accused had used their witchcraft, it would have affirmed the accusations.

Regardless, they were still executed.

Perhaps it was meant for Lance and me to be there. Somebody had to help those poor misguided Magickals. They had the power. It was time someone showed them how to wield it.