Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few.
-W. Churchill

David Johnson returned the salute of the guard beside his office door and entered, not sure what to expect. Within, a familiar figure sat in David’s chair; he was sorting a few slips of paper, pushing one away and pulling it back. “Uncle Vlad!”

The older man looked up and grinned through his whiskers. “How military.”

David grinned back at his godfather and took a seat on the corner of his own desk. “Air Command isn’t that picky and you’re not that official. Tell me you brought friends.”

The old man lifted a finger and concentrated briefly. The papers vanished. “They will be along shortly. You understand this is strictest secret, and so does the Prime Minister, yes?”

“Of course. He’s more than a little nervous about it, to be honest.”

“So am I. But we can save many people, many factories.”

David had never asked his godfather too many questions, not that he could remember. He knew the other man had been born in Russia; he knew that his own parents had taken in Vladimir Galkin as a young refugee in the last war. He knew that the older man hated the Germans with a dangerous passion. At this time, for this purpose, that was enough to know. “They will not hesitate at killing people to save people?”

“I think not. They are true Empire soldiers. And for my part, I have no qualm.”

“I don’t know why warlocks can’t serve openly.”

The old man smiled a little. “Because today’s soldier may be tomorrow’s uprising. They feel that the less we know of fighting, the better. I — I have read bad books.”

“For tonight, they are not bad. Not for tomorrow night either.”

A knock sounded at the door, cutting off the budding philosophical discussion. David would have regretted this, but the shadows were growing. There was little enough time to put everyone in place. David was just grateful that warlocks could be mobilized with such remarkable speed. “Come in!

Six slim black-clad figures walked in, not quite in a march, each with a staff in his left hand. The first drew the eye, a natural leader, taller than the others and square in his shoulders. At Vlad’s nod they lined up neatly for David’s inspection.

“Charlie McBain,” the first said, holding out a long-fingered hand to shake.

“David Johnson.”

And down the line. Samuel Bunter. Gilbert Ladbrooke. Mordecai Wolf. Franklin Thomas. And… “You’re a girl!” David blurted. Somehow he’d assumed combat magic would require a man.

“A witch,” his godfather intoned, but David barely heard him over the girl’s self-introduction. “Batty Nattie, at your service!”

Her smile showed all of her teeth, her jaws slightly parted. Batty indeed, he decided; in a moment of boyish bravery, he had once caught a bat, and her smile reminded him of how it had shrieked into his face. “Pleased to meet you,” David offered.

Thomas laughed. “Natalie Wyndham if you want to be formal about it, eh, Nat?”

“Well, yes, if we’re being formal an’ all.”

David turned to Vlad and arched an eyebrow. “Careful,” the older man said. “She’ll bite your nose off.”

David was absolutely not going to back up a step as if he believed such nonsense, though the girl’s sharp teeth made him want to. “Very well. I need one of you each for Southampton, Southend-on-Sea, Bristol, Reading, Glasgow, Belfast, and I wish I had ten of you for London.”

Vlad looked a little surprised, but nodded. “I shall take London. The rest of you? Remember, keep your heads down. Don’t let anyone see you. Miss Wyndham, you should take Southend. Behave yourself and stay out of sight. David, keep an eye on her.”

She seemed perfectly capable of keeping an eye on herself, and David had hoped to be in the air. They were shorter of planes than of pilots, though. He could let someone else fly his plane tonight if it would make Vlad happy. It didn’t make the girl happy at all, judging by the twist of her mouth, but she wasn’t going to argue with her old teacher. He wondered if she was the one most likely to spill secrets or do something a little too colourful. “There’s a nice covered spot near the coast, good and far from civilians. You should be able to see whatever you need from there.”

“Covered spots ’ave a way of becomin’ uncovered.” Still, she came with him.

“I don’t suppose that’s a Travelling Cloak,” he said of her floating cape.

“Nah.”

“We’ll drive, then, and fast.”

“Or I could meet ya.”

“Master Galkin said to stay together.”

She had no argument for that. They arrived without further discussion and found a quiet tree-covered spot with a view of the ocean. “Pity to waste such a nice night,” she observed.

“With luck, it’ll stay this quiet,” David said, already knowing it wouldn’t.

“What about Liverpool?” she said suddenly.

David shrugged. “They’ll have to make do with normal weapons. There aren’t enough of you to go ’round.”

“They come from there, right?” She pointed out over the water.

“Yes.”

“So the more I take, the less for everyone else, right?”

He grinned to himself. “Right.”

She gave a decisive nod in the growing darkness. “Good.”

It showed good spirit, at least, but he wondered how many bombers one witch could account for in a night. If the German command chose a different line, she might have nothing to destroy at all – and he suspected she would be worse company for it.

It was nearly full night, and nothing had happened yet. David excused himself and walked away to visit a bush. There wouldn’t be time for such things later, if all went as expected. He returned to the same spot he’d stood on moments before – and found no witch. A few confused circles later, he thought to look up, only to find a dim shape in the tree’s upper branches, a pale face peering down at him. She was laughing, the silly woman. “Is this why I’m to keep an eye on you? So you don’t break your fool neck before the Germans even get here?”

“The view’s better ’ere. And I think I ’ear something.”

A moment later he caught it too, a faint drone almost blending with the sounds of night. It grew. He could barely find an edge, a glimpse even as the noise raged almost overhead, just occasional darkness against the stars. He strained his eyes looking up, longing for a weapon.

Something blue-white rose from the edge of his vision, racing up, spiralling a little. An instant later its trail vanished into a burst of orange and roaring explosion overhead. He threw himself to the ground reflexively, counting seconds until the wreckage would hit. Watching from below the sturdiest-looking branch, still low to the ground, he saw the largest flaming bits come down a little further along the flight path.

“Cor! Liked that,” he heard her announce proudly from the top of the tree.

“Bloody hell, Nat!” he shouted back. “Remember the bits come down!”

“Forrard an’ down. Don’t’che trust me physics?”

“Mental,” he muttered to himself, knowing it would be lost in the roar of aircraft. A moment later another pale blue streak shot up to find a target. This time the explosion was much smaller. He dared to get up and dust off. “Fighter!” he shouted up.

“Bombers are better!” she called, and fired again.

“And none of them are ours!”

She didn’t answer that right away; she was busy. Again and again the blue-white rocket came from the tree. He had little to do but keep an eye out for anyone approaching on the ground and wonder if the spell smelled like lightning. He may have imagined the crisp tingling feeling in the air. In a lull, she told him, “I wouldn’t ’it one of ours.”

“We should move. They’ll start trying to hit you soon.”

“Just a jiff.” She did something he couldn’t see through the red streaks in his vision – he’d looked up again a moment too soon. He heard a slapping leathery sound, blinked around for its source, and missed it. A moment later, the girl stepped from behind the tree, surprising him. “I only fire on the ones with this.” She drew something in the air he guessed was supposed to be a black cross. “The spell won’t burn anything else.”

“Clever.”

She grinned as though she’d invented the whole idea of spells herself. “Where to?”

“A couple of ridges over, maybe. They’re starting to skirt here, see? Even if you could get them from here, there’ll be a fighter run on us any minute.”

She didn’t dawdle. He thought that, at least, showed a little sense. From their new position, they watched the ground torn to bits where they had stood. “I don’t suppose you can hit them without the trail all the way from here to there.”

“Sorry. And there’s a real one – there.” She pointed with her staff to what seemed to him just another patch of the roaring night. The light rose, engulfed, and consumed. This time he could hear bombs exploding within the blast of the plane. In the glow, he could see a fighter swerving too late, taking burning scrap into its engine, and tearing itself to bits. “Rather dull, really.”

“Dull?” He’d rather be in the skies himself, piloting one of the fighters, instead of standing here with nothing to do but watch this mad witch. Still, he didn’t feel that anything with explosions, bullets, bombs, and spells could rightly be called dull. He was beginning to smell woodsmoke, petrol smoke, and hot metal from all around them.

“Could be better.” She casually shot down another plane with an accuracy any gunner would envy. “Back in a jiff.”

He blinked at her. She gave him another toothy grin, lifted her staff to horizontal, and flattened it to a medallion between her hands. “Won’t you need that?” he started to say, but before the words were fully out, he no longer spoke to a woman. A large bat flapped before him, then rose upward into the night. This was probably the sort of thing he was supposed to have prevented, though he had no idea how.

He didn’t know a lot about magic, though perhaps a bit more than most normals. He did know that there was no way Natalie could cast spells in that shape. She could get hit with a stray bullet, or sucked into an engine, or something equally pointless. She could –

The blue-white streak stabbed downward, or so it seemed, a little distance away. A moment later, it struck somewhere else, from the side. He tried to judge what she had hit from the size of the explosions. She had certainly done some damage. In the evening she’d taken five Junkers, a Heinkel, and at least two fighters – no, three, he corrected. She’d earned a medal. Whole squadrons often did less in a night.

She couldn’t have one, of course, because the only thing more dangerous to the country’s well-being than admitting a warlock could do the work of several heavy guns was admitting a witch could do it. Even the most anti-warlock Englishman had a softer attitude toward witches just for being women, but that could change in a heartbeat. Nat would have to keep her pride secret in her heart instead of worn on her chest. Vlad would have told her all this, and there she still was – another plane spiralled down, its wing destroyed. She was still fighting for her country, with no prospect of reward unless she counted the relief from dullness. What was she doing out there?

At least they didn’t have to worry about retaliation from Germany’s magic-users. There were none.

She returned after a few more minutes of mysterious fire. This time, listening for it, he heard the whispering sound as wings. She fluttered in his hair, probably just to annoy him, came to rest, and rose from the ground to stand before him, a witch once more. “Good?” she asked.

Her hair was tangled into a fright; he could see that much even in the dark. He had a sudden mental picture of her flying up, turning back, and casting spells as she fell freely through the air. The black cloak draped on her shoulders was no parachute, though he supposed it might slow her a little. “You’re bloody mental.”

He could see her teeth flash in that alarming smile once more. She shrugged a few times. “Good, then. Shoulders are a bit sore.”

“Popping out of freefall into flight? I should imagine.”

The smile’s edges turned up into something a bit more pleased and less menacing. “Clever bloke.”

He pictured it for a few more moments, lacking anything else to do but watch her stretch, twist, and occasionally strike at another plane. “It’s more fun watching someone who can miss.”

“Is it? Besides, I can miss.” She said this as though she’d have to work at it. “I should think you’d rather be up there bein’ the one who can miss.”

“I would.” He eyed the sky, gauging the roars of the engines. “We should move again.”

“Back to the old bit?”

It wasn’t a bad idea in theory. “It’s on fire.”

“Well, then. Somewhere else.” She sounded as
though she was doing him a favour. He wondered if she could walk through fire.

He drove them on a bit farther, finding a new squadron for her to tear apart. He wondered what the German pilots were making of this new weapon. If any parachuted out, he might find out. He wondered what his fellow Fighter Command pilots were thinking. If he’d been up there, his thought would have been “Thank heavens.”

“Penny?” she said as he yanked the machine to a halt.

“Thinking what it would be like to be up there while you’re the latest weapon.”

“You do fly, then?”

“Usually, yes.” He didn’t add the thought that nagged at him: When I’m not babysitting a witch for no reason at all.

“It’s amazing up there.”

He waited for her to add something. She didn’t. “Of course, I’m wearing an airplane at the time.”

“Can you see them?”

He shifted on the seat to try to look at her. His eyes had grown used to the dark, but her expression was unreadable.

“The other pilots, the crew. Can you see them?”

He took a deep breath. “I don’t look.”

She nodded. “They’re tryin’ to kill us.”

“Exactly.”

He heard her bracing herself, and then she opened the door and got out. He followed. There was a lull in the noise, leaving them alone in the dark. She was leaning on the car looking up.

“What do you do when you’re not flying?” he asked her.

“Lately? I’m a warden. Neighbourhood’s almost forgot I’m a witch, unless someone’s leg wants ’oldin’ on.” He nodded his understanding. “This’s easier.”

“Is it?” He was a little surprised. He hadn’t thought about the jobs people were doing on the ground as he tried to defend his country from the air. He’d wondered a little about the firemen, because the fires below had demanded his attention, but from above it was easy to forget that the square structures and the fires had people in them.

“The first time they hit near me, I was on an errand. The building in front of me swelled up like a bloody balloon, showered glass everywhere, and went square again. I got blown right backwards. And that was when I became a real warden. I had to walk forward while everyone else was running away, and I had to wrap up bloody bits and dead babies who’d been blasted out the windows. What are they doing, taking a bloody fag break? Get over ’ere, you bastards.” She addressed that last to the horizon, which obligingly filled with planes once more.

“Another wave. Be careful what you wish for. And stay on the –” Ground, he’d meant to add, but once more she transformed herself and flapped away. He wondered what it would be like to be in a dogfight up there without the plane, just falling and flying. He wondered if anyone had managed to see her, and if anyone did, whether that pilot would believe what he’d seen. He wondered if her accent always faded a little when she wasn’t being deliberately annoying. Thinking about her was easier than wondering if he was strong enough to face a dead baby launched from a window by an explosion.

On the horizon David could see searchlights; right where they were, there was only Natalie, taking the enemy before they were expecting conflict, where there had been a small hole in the British forces. Here, Natalie was enough.

This time when she landed she was panting. He hadn’t brought water, but he did have a small flask of brandy for emergencies. She had a sip, then made a startled sound. “Strong stuff, mate.”

“Don’t drink and fly. Unless, of course, you have to.”

“I’ll stay down a bit. Knackered.”

“Don’t wear yourself down. We may need you again Wednesday week or tomorrow night.”

She dropped her head for a moment, her chin on her chest, her bush of tangled hair falling forward. “I’ll take Wednesday week, thanks.”

“I’ll let the Fuhrer know your wishes directly.”

She laughed, and without breaking the laugh or looking up jabbed her staff upward. A plane overhead erupted.

“Nat?”

With a sigh, she muttered a few words. Flaming metal bits rattled and slid from a dome that had not covered them moments before. “Picky bastard, aren’t ya?”

He thought of six things he might say to that and elected to say none of them. She shoved back his flask. He had a little. “I don’t hear any more.”

“I do. They’re going–” She pointed out to sea. “–that way.”

He wouldn’t argue with the hearing of a bat. “They’re running.”

“They’re out of ruddy bombs.” She offered a few foul words on the subject of Nazis, impressing him.

“Will you marry me?” The words popped out before he’d had time to think them, never mind censor them for any of a thousand good reasons.

She stared at him for a long moment, probably thinking of her own thousand good reasons. “Ten children, mind. And my own cat.”

“Poor cat,” he said in the same automatic way he’d said nearly everything to her tonight.

“If y’always spoke without thinkin’, Galkin wouldn’t have done this project with you,” she mused. Her expression suggested he was a blouse she was thinking of buying. “Any witches in your family?”

“My mum.”

She walked completely around him, looking him over and adding to his doubts. Now he felt like a horse at the market. Any minute now she’d check his teeth and fit him for a saddle. “Where’s your family from? It’s not any bit of Britain I know.”

“Mum’s from Russia, Da’s from Rhodesia.”

“That explains a bit.” She studied his face for a long moment. “All right, then.”

“Is that a yes?”

“It’s a ‘we’ll-see.’” She leaned against him and hooked her arm through his. “Ask again once we’ve lived through Wednesday week.”

He was taller than she – barely. He had time to think about this, provided they did live through a few more days of fire raining from the sky. “No. We’re getting married before that.”

“And you called me mental for falling among the Junkers?”

He quested back in his memory of the night. “No. In strict point of fact, I first called you mental for showering us with falling Junkers, but you’re close enough.”

She looked around the flaming ring of debris she’d shielded away. Luckily she’d also shielded the car; a large chunk of metal flared and sizzled a few feet from it. “I don’t know I can marry a man so fond of stayin’ alive.”

“You want ten children, you’ll need your man to stay around a while.”

She shrugged, which felt nice against him. “Should we go back?”

“We should watch a little longer. Sometimes there’s a predawn wave.”

She offered a few more fine words on the subject of Nazis, fighter planes, and bombers.

“Do you think Vlad’d be my best man?” To her blank look, he clarified, “Master Galkin, I
suppose you’re used to calling him.”

“Assuming a bit, aren’t you?”

They stayed until the eastern sky paled, watching the sky. In the distance bombs still fell; they could feel them almost more than hearing them. One of the last planes glowed, catching the morning sun in its smoky exhaust. To David’s trained eye, the black smoke looked like someone had scored a hit. “Out of range,” Nat grumbled.

A spirit moved in him, tired as he was. He bounced to his feet and shouted after them, “And stay out!” Nat giggled. “They never bloody listen.”

“I guess we report back now?” Nat asked, the last word scraping on the front edge of a yawn.

“Technically, you all report back to me, so I’d best get to where the rest of you lot can do that. Ready?”

“Is it far? I lost track.”

“Not far.”

“Good. I’ll use the loo there, then.”

He felt himself blushing. If she really did marry him, if they really did both hold to his mad impulse, then such intimate details would be commonplace.

They were the first back to Hornchurch. He waited in his little office for the others, startled by each and relieved. Vlad returned fully an hour after David and Nat, covered in soot and with his clothes torn. “London,” he said briefly, “will stand. Where is Ladbrooke?”

“Not back yet. Should we wait?”

“He took Bristol. I will search. The rest of you, sleep, I suppose, and prepare to be called again.”

David caught Nat’s eye. Their news could wait until Ladbrooke was found, or longer, if it had to. It could wait until the deed itself was accomplished if she liked it that way. Once more he imagined her falling through the air, casting her spell and grinning in her wild way, and his heart leapt. Vlad looked around the room before he left, his gaze lingering a moment on David. “Bristol,” David said. “The rest of you can sleep. I’m used to doing without.”

Some things came first.

---

About the Author

Erika Tracy lives in Georgia with her husband, too many dogs, an outnumbered cat, and an impending baby. She holds degrees in philosophy and music. After writing fantasy for years, she is now letting other people read it.

Just occasionally, she writes about dogs at sniffydog.blogspot.com.