- -
- 100%
- +
Copyright
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in the United States by William Morrow, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 2019
This edition published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019
Copyright © Kate Quinn 2019
Cover design by Elsie Lyons © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019
Cover photographs © Harry Todd/Getty Images (woman in station); © Shutterstock.com (plane and textures)
Kate Quinn asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008326173
Ebook Edition © February 2019 ISBN: 9780008326180
Version: 2019-01-21
Praise for The Huntress
“With magnificently audacious heroines who will haunt you long after the final page, The Huntress is a powerful and groundbreaking story of sisterhood that puts women back into history where they belong. Without a doubt, the best book I’ve read this year.”
—Stephanie Dray, New York Times bestselling author
“Quinn deftly braids the stories of a female Russian bomber pilot, Nazi hunters, and a young Bostonian girl staring down evil in the most unthinkable of places. The result is a searing tale of predator and prey, transgression and redemption, and the immutable power of the truth. An utter triumph!”
—Pam Jenoff, New York Times bestselling author of The Orphan’s Tale
“Prepare to be spellbound! The Huntress masterfully draws you in and doesn’t let you go. Another brilliant work of historical fiction by the incomparable Kate Quinn.”
—Susan Meissner, USA Today bestselling author of As Bright as Heaven
“The Huntress left me breathless with delight … Kate Quinn has created nothing less than a masterpiece of historical fiction.”
—Jennifer Robson, bestselling author of
Goodnight from London
“The Huntress is a triumph of a novel! Nina Markova is a veritable force of nature who would have had the Night Witches themselves cackling with glee at her wild daring in this tale of revenge and justice, truth and secrets during the aftermath of the world’s most devastating war.”
—Stephanie Thornton, author of
American Princess
“A thoroughly immersive page-turner, The Huntress captures readers from the first page, leading them on an explosive journey that shines a spotlight on the horrors of war and the legacy it leaves for those who survive. Impeccably written, richly detailed, tautly paced, and filled with compelling and intricate characters, Quinn’s novel is both poignant and thrilling. This book will take hold of you and stay with you long after you have finished. You don’t just read a Kate Quinn novel, you live it.”
—Chanel Cleeton, author of Next Year in Havana
“An impressive historical novel sure to harness WWII-fiction fans’ attention … Laced with Russian folklore allusions and deliciously witty banter, Quinn’s tale refreshingly avoids contrived situations while portraying three touching, unpredictable love stories; the suspenseful quest for justice; and the courage involved in confronting one’s greatest fears.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“Well-researched and vivid segments are interspersed detailing Nina’s backstory as one of Russia’s sizable force of female combat pilots (dubbed The Night Witches by the Germans), establishing her as a fierce yet vulnerable antecedent to Lisbeth Salander. Quinn’s language is evocative of the period, and her characters are good literary company. With any luck, the Nazi hunting will go on for a sequel or two.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Quinn delivers a suspenseful WWII tale of murder and revenge. This exciting thriller vividly reveals how people face adversity and sacrifice while chasing justice and retribution.”
—Publishers Weekly
Dedication
For my father—
How I miss you!
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Praise for The Huntress
Dedication
Prologue
Part I
Chapter 1: Jordan
Chapter 2: Ian
Chapter 3: Nina
Chapter 4: Jordan
Chapter 5: Ian
Chapter 6: Nina
Chapter 7: Jordan
Chapter 8: Ian
Chapter 9: Nina
Chapter 10: Jordan
Chapter 11: Ian
Chapter 12: Nina
Chapter 13: Jordan
Chapter 14: Ian
Chapter 15: Nina
Chapter 16: Jordan
Chapter 17: Ian
Chapter 18: Nina
Chapter 19: Jordan
Chapter 20: Ian
Part II
Chapter 21: Nina
Chapter 22: Jordan
Chapter 23: Ian
Chapter 24: Nina
Chapter 25: Jordan
Chapter 26: Ian
Chapter 27: Nina
Chapter 28: Jordan
Chapter 29: Ian
Chapter 30: Nina
Chapter 31: Jordan
Chapter 32: Ian
Chapter 33: Jordan
Chapter 34: Nina
Chapter 35: Ian
Chapter 36: Jordan
Chapter 37: Ian
Chapter 38: Nina
Chapter 39: Jordan
Chapter 40: Ian
Chapter 41: Nina
Chapter 42: Jordan
Chapter 43: Ian
Chapter 44: Nina
Chapter 45: Jordan
Chapter 46: Ian
Chapter 47: Jordan
Chapter 48: Ian
Part III
Chapter 49: Jordan
Chapter 50: Ian
Chapter 51: Jordan
Chapter 52: Ian
Chapter 53: Nina
Chapter 54: Ian
Chapter 55: Jordan
Chapter 56: Nina
Chapter 57: Ian
Chapter 58: Jordan
Chapter 59: Ian
Epilogue: Nina
Author’s Note
Reading Group Questions
Further Reading
About the Author
Also by Kate Quinn
About the Publisher
Prologue
Autumn 1945
Altaussee, Austria
She was not used to being hunted.
The lake stretched slate blue, glittering. The woman gazed over it, hands lying loose in her lap. A folded newspaper sat beside her on the bench. The headlines all trumpeted arrests, deaths, forthcoming trials. The trials would be held in Nuremberg, it seemed. She had never been to Nuremberg, but she knew the men who would be tried there. Some she knew by name only, others had touched champagne flutes to hers in friendship. They were all doomed. Crimes against peace. Crimes against humanity. War crimes.
By what law? she wanted to scream, beating her fists against the injustice of it. By what right? But the war was over, and the victors had won the right to decide what was a crime and what was not. What was humanity, and what was not.
It was humanity, she thought, what I did. It was mercy. But the victors would never accept that. They would pass judgment at Nuremberg and forever after, decreeing what acts committed in a lawful past would put a man’s head in a noose.
Or a woman’s.
She touched her own throat.
Run, she thought. If they find you, if they realize what you’ve done, they will lay a rope around your neck.
But where was there to go in this world that had taken everything she loved? This world of hunting wolves. She used to be the hunter, and now she was the prey.
So hide, she thought. Hide in the shadows until they pass you by.
She rose, walking aimlessly along the lake. It reminded her painfully of Lake Rusalka, her haven in Poland, now ruined and lost to her. She made herself keep moving, putting one foot after the other. She did not know where she was going, only that she refused to huddle here paralyzed by fear until she was scooped onto the scales of their false justice. Step by step the resolve hardened inside her.
Run.
Hide.
Or die.
THE HUNTRESS
BY IAN GRAHAM
APRIL 1946
SIX SHOTS.
She fired six times on the shore of Lake Rusalka, not attempting to hide what she did. Why would she? Hitler’s dream of empire had yet to crumble and send her fleeing for the shadows. That night under a Polish moon, she could do whatever she wanted—and she murdered six souls in cold blood.
Six shots, six bullets, six bodies falling into the dark water of the lake.
They had been hiding by the water, shivering, eyes huge with fear—escapees from one of the eastbound trains, perhaps, or survivors fleeing one of the region’s periodic purges. The dark-haired woman found them, comforted them, told them they were safe. She took them into her house by the lake and fed them a meal, smiling.
Then she led them back outside—and killed them.
Perhaps she lingered there, admiring the moon on the water, smelling gun smoke.
That nighttime slaughter of six at the height of the war was only one of her crimes. There were others. The hunting of Polish laborers through dense woods as a party game. The murder, near the war’s end, of a young English prisoner of war escaped from his stalag. Who knows what other crimes lie on her conscience?
They called her die Jägerin—the Huntress. She was the young mistress of an SS officer in German-occupied Poland, the hostess of grand parties on the lake, a keen shot. Perhaps she was the rusalka the lake was named for—a lethal, malevolent water spirit.
I think of her as I sit among the ranks of journalists in the Palace of Justice in Nuremberg, watching the war crimes trials grind on. The wheel of justice turns; the gray-faced men in the defendants’ box will fall beneath it. But what about the smaller fish, who escape into the shadows as we aim our brilliant lights on this courtroom? What about the Huntress? She vanished at the war’s end. She was not worth pursuing—a woman with the blood of only a dozen or so on her hands, when there were the murderers of millions to be found. There were many like her—small fish, not worth catching.
Where will they go?
Where did she go?
And will anyone take up the hunt?
Chapter 1
JORDAN
April 1946
Selkie Lake, three hours west of Boston
Who is she, Dad?”
Jordan McBride had timed the question perfectly: her father jerked in surprise midcast, sending his fishing line flying not into the lake, but into the branch of the overhanging maple. Jordan’s camera went click as his face settled into comic dismay. She laughed as her father said three or four words he then told her to forget.
“Yes, sir.” She’d heard all his curse words before, of course. You did, when you were the only daughter of a widowed father who took you fishing on fine spring weekends instead of the son he didn’t have. Jordan’s father rose from the end of the little dock and tugged his fishing line free. Jordan raised the Leica for another shot of his dark silhouette, framed against the feathery movement of trees and water. She’d play with the image in the darkroom later, see if she could get a blurred effect on the leaves so they seemed like they were still moving in the photograph …
“Come on, Dad,” she prompted. “Let’s hear about the mystery woman.”
He adjusted his faded Red Sox cap. “What mystery woman?”
“The one your clerk tells me you’ve been taking out to dinner, those nights you said you were working late.” Jordan held her breath, hoping. She couldn’t remember the last time her father had been on a date. Ladies were always fluttering their gloved fingers at him after Mass on the rare occasions he and Jordan went to church, but to Jordan’s disappointment he never seemed interested.
“It’s nothing, really …” He hemmed and hawed, but Jordan wasn’t fooled for a minute. She and her father looked alike; she’d taken enough photographs to see the resemblance: straight noses, level brows, dark blond hair cut close under her father’s cap and spilling out under Jordan’s in a careless ponytail. They were even the same height now that she was nearly eighteen; medium for him and tall for a girl—but far beyond physical resemblance, Jordan knew her father. It had just been the two of them since she was seven years old and her mother died, and she knew when Dan McBride was working up to tell her something important.
“Dad,” she broke in sternly. “Spill.”
“She’s a widow,” her father said at last. To Jordan’s delight, he was blushing. “Mrs. Weber first came to the shop three months ago.” During the week her father stood three-piece-suited and knowledgeable behind the counter of McBride’s Antiques off Newbury Street. “She’d just come to Boston, selling her jewelry to get by. A few gold chains and lockets, nothing unusual, but she had a string of gray pearls, a beautiful piece. She held herself together until then, but she started crying when it came time to part with the pearls.”
“Let me guess. You gave them back, very gallantly, then padded your price on her other pieces so she still walked out with the same amount.”
He reeled in his fishing line. “She also walked out with an invitation for dinner.”
“Look at you, Errol Flynn! Go on—”
“She’s Austrian, but studied English at school so she speaks it almost perfectly. Her husband died in ’43, fighting—”
“Which side?”
“That kind of thing shouldn’t matter anymore, Jordan. The war’s over.” He fixed a new lure. “She got papers to come to Boston, but times have been hard. She has a little girl—”
“She does?”
“Ruth. Four years old, hardly says a word. Sweet little thing.” Giving a tweak of Jordan’s cap. “You’ll love her.”
“So it’s already serious, then,” Jordan said, startled. Her father wouldn’t have met this woman’s child if he wasn’t serious. But how serious …?
“Mrs. Weber’s a fine woman.” He cast his line out. “I want her to come to supper at the house next week, her and Ruth. All four of us.”
He gave her a wary look, as if waiting for her to bristle. And part of her did just a tiny bit, Jordan admitted. Ten years of having it be just her and her dad, being pals with him the way so few of her girlfriends were with their fathers … But against that reflexive twinge of possessiveness was relief. He needed a woman in his life; Jordan had known that for years. Someone to talk to; someone to scold him into eating his spinach. Someone else to lean on.
If he has someone else in his life, maybe he won’t be so stubborn about not letting you go to college, the thought whispered, but Jordan shoved it back. This was the moment to be happy for her father, not hoping things might change for her own benefit. Besides, she was happy for him. She’d been taking photographs of him for years, and no matter how wide he smiled at the lens, the lines of his face when they came up ghostlike out of the developing fluid said lonely, lonely, lonely.
“I can’t wait to meet her,” Jordan said sincerely.
“She’ll bring Ruth next Wednesday, six o’clock.” He looked innocent. “Invite Garrett, if you want. He’s family too, or he could be—”
“Subtle as a train wreck, Dad.”
“He’s a fine boy. And his parents adore you.”
“He’s looking ahead toward college now. He might not have much time for high school girlfriends. Though you could send me to BU with him,” Jordan began. “Their photography courses—”
“Nice try, missy.” Her father looked out over the lake. “The fish aren’t biting.” And neither was he.
Taro, Jordan’s black Labrador, raised her muzzle from where she’d been sunning on the dock as Jordan and her dad walked back to shore. Jordan snapped a shot of their side-by-side silhouettes thrown across the water-warped wood, wondering what four silhouettes would look like. Please, Jordan prayed, thinking of the unknown Mrs. Weber, please let me like you.
A SLIM HAND extended as blue eyes smiled. “How lovely to meet you at last.”
Jordan shook hands with the woman her father had just ushered into the sitting room. Anneliese Weber was small and slender, dark hair swept into a glossy knot at her nape, a string of gray pearls her only jewelry. A dark floral dress, darned but spotless gloves, quiet elegance with touches of wear and tear. Her face was young—she was twenty-eight, according to Jordan’s dad—but her eyes looked older. Of course they did; she was a war widow with a young child, starting over in a new country.
“Very pleased to meet you,” Jordan said sincerely. “This must be Ruth!” The child at Anneliese Weber’s side was darling; blond pigtails and a blue coat and a grave expression. Jordan extended a hand, but Ruth shrank back.
“She’s shy,” Anneliese apologized. Her voice was clear and low, almost no trace of a German accent. Just a little softness on the V’s. “Ruth’s world has been very unsettled.”
“I didn’t like strangers at your age either,” Jordan told Ruth. Not true, really, but something about Ruth’s wary little face made Jordan long to put her at ease. She also longed to take Ruth’s picture—those round cheeks and blond braids would just eat up the lens. Jordan’s father took the coats, and Jordan dashed into the kitchen to check the meatloaf. By the time she came out, whipping off the towel she’d tucked around her waist to protect her green Sunday taffeta, her father had poured drinks. Ruth sat on the couch with a glass of milk, as Anneliese Weber sipped sherry and surveyed the room. “A lovely home. You’re young to keep house for your father, Jordan, but you do it very well.”
Nice of her to lie, Jordan approved. The McBride house always looked mussed: a narrow brownstone three stories up and down on the lace-curtain side of South Boston; the stairs steep, the couches worn and comfortable, the rugs always skidding askew. Anneliese Weber did not seem like the type who approved of anything being askew, with her spine ramrod straight and every hair in place, but she looked around the room with approval. “Did you take this?” She gestured to a photograph of the Boston Common, mist wrapped and tilted at an angle that made everything look otherworldly, a dream landscape. “Your father tells me you are quite a … What is the word? A snapper?”
“Yes.” Jordan grinned. “Can I take your picture later?”
“Don’t encourage her.” Jordan’s dad guided Anneliese to the couch with a reverent touch to the small of her back, smiling. “Jordan already spends too much time staring through a lens.”
“Better than staring at a mirror or at a film screen,” Anneliese replied unexpectedly. “Young girls should have more on their minds than lipstick and giggling, or they will grow from silly girls to sillier women. You take classes for it—picture-taking?”
“Wherever I can.” Since Jordan was fourteen she’d been signing up for whatever photography classes she could pay for out of her allowance, and sneaking into college courses wherever she could find a professor willing to wink at the presence of a knock-kneed junior high schooler lurking in the back row. “I take classes, I study on my own, I practice—”
“One has to be serious about something in order to be good at it,” Anneliese said, approving. A warm glow started in Jordan’s chest. Serious. Good. Her father never saw Jordan’s photography that way. “Messing about with a camera,” he’d say, shaking his head. “Well, you’ll grow out of it.” I’m not going to grow out of it, Jordan had replied at fifteen. I’m going to be the next Margaret Bourke-White.
Margaret who? he’d responded, laughing. He laughed nicely, indulgently—but he’d still laughed.
Anneliese didn’t laugh. She looked at Jordan’s photograph and nodded approval. For the first time Jordan allowed herself to think the word: Stepmother …?
At the dining room table Jordan had set with the Sunday china, Anneliese asked questions about the antiques shop as Jordan’s father heaped her plate with the choicest cuts of everything. “I know an excellent treatment to make colored glass shine,” she said as he talked about a set of Tiffany lamps acquired at an estate sale. She quietly corrected Ruth’s grip on her fork as she listened to Jordan talk about her school’s forthcoming dance. “Surely you have a date, a pretty girl like you.”
“Garrett Byrne,” Jordan’s father said, forestalling her. “A nice young man, joined up to be a pilot at the end of the war. He never saw combat, though. Got a medical discharge when he broke his leg during training. You’ll meet him Sunday, if you’d care to accompany us to Mass.”
“I would like that. I’ve been trying so hard to make friends in Boston. You go every week?”
“Of course.”
Jordan coughed into her napkin. She and her father hardly went to Mass more than twice a year, Easter and Christmas, but now he sat there at the head of the table positively radiating piety. Anneliese smiled, also radiating piety, and Jordan mused about courting couples on their best behavior. She saw it every day in the halls at school, and apparently the older generation was no different. Maybe there was a photo-essay in that: a series of comparison photographs, courting couples of all ages, highlighting the similarities that transcended age. With the right titles and captions, it might make a piece strong enough to submit to a magazine or newspaper …
Plates were cleared, coffee brought out. Jordan cut the Boston cream pie Anneliese had brought. “Though I don’t know why you call it pie,” she said, blue eyes sparkling. “It’s cake, and don’t tell an Austrian any differently. We know cake, in Austria.”