Inked

spoke before I could say a word—her tone cautious, careful. “His idea. He told me the Krauts were coming in for dinner at the White Horse. He thought if I waited on them, I might hear something.”
    “Did you?”
    “Not enough. As far as Hilter is concerned, most of the hard action is in Europe. Won’t waste good intel on the officers out here. But you never know. Little bits help.”
    “And the kids? I saw Samuel pass you a note.” And Ernie seemed to have made himself her unofficial protector.
    “They also help,” Jean said quietly. “They’re in a…unique position.”
    “With this…Black Cat. Who tattoos young boys and calls them her…men.”
    Jean said nothing. I leaned back, staring at the ceiling, which was covered in black patches of mold. It was still hot, but maybe I was getting used to it. I could breathe more easily. I heard gunshots again, in the distance. Jean looked at the window, drumming her spoon on the edge of the pie pan.
    “Black Cat,” she said quietly. “Russian whore. But she’s got her hooks in the local underground spy network. Happened right after Richard Sorge got checked out in ’41. He was a piece of work. Left behind a hole that needed filling, and the whore was in the right place. She had been one of his favorites, and knew some of his contacts. Except she’s no patriot. Not for Russia, not for anyone except herself.”
    “Have you met her?”
    “No.” Jean hesitated. “She’s dangerous.”
    “And you’re not?” My tone was sharper than I intended; for a moment, I sounded like my mother.
    Spots of color touched her cheeks. “You don’t understand what’s at risk.”
    “I understand she uses children to do her dirty work. I guess you all do, to some degree.” I ignored the flicker of guilt and outrage that flared in her eyes. “What was on that boy’s wrist?”
    She sat back, jaw tight, glancing from me to Zee, all the boys sitting quietly in the shadows of the room, watching us, and each other. All of them, so quiet. So solemn.
    “I don’t like this arrangement,” she finally said, ignoring my question. “I tell you everything, you tell me nothing.”
    I stood, dropping my spoon into the pie pan. “I’ll find out what I need on my own, then. Wearing your face should count for something, I think.”
    She swore softly. “It was a tattoo. Of a rose. She brands all her… men …with them.”
    “Samuel doesn’t look a day over eleven.”
    Jean said nothing. She did not need to. I looked down at my gloved hands. “I need to meet this woman.”
    “And do what? Kill her?”
    “Whatever it takes.” My voice sounded tough, decisive. It was a good act. Good enough to fool my grandmother, who, in this place, this time, was almost ten years my junior. I was the old guard here. It gave me new respect for my mother. And for Jean, for accepting my presence as well as she had. If my own descendant showed up one day to boss me around, I think I might suffer an aneurysm.
    Jean stood, utterly grim-faced. “There are circumstances—”
    A crashing sound interrupted her. It was from downstairs, like a door getting kicked in. Shouts followed: a frail male voice protesting in German, swallowed by louder, guttural Japanese tones. A woman screamed. I ran for the door.
    Jean got there first, blocking me. Below us, more shouts, and the crunch and crash of furniture being broken. The woman’s voice broke into a piercing wail. I could still hear the man speaking in German, but in ragged fits and gasps. The floor beneath my feet vibrated. I smelled smoke.
    She grabbed my arm. “You intervene, you’ll make it worse.”
    “Really,” I muttered, trying to shrug her off. “You sure about that?”
    “You’ll make it worse for them ,” she clarified. “And for me. I can’t afford to be noticed. Not like that, and not now.”
    I leveled my gaze. “Trust me. You can take it.”
    Her fingers tightened around my arm—a crushing grip. Behind me, at the door, someone knocked, but it was so faint it sounded like the scuff of a cat’s paw. Jean and I froze, and then we heard it again, followed by a whisper. I could not understand the words, but I knew the voice.
    Ernie.
    Jean let go before I could shove her away. Raw and Aaz were already clearing the evidence of our dinner, shoving plates beneath the couch, and silverware down their throats.
    “You can’t let him see you,” Jean hissed, blocking me as I reached for the doorknob.
    “Too late,” I