Herrenvolk

[doyle]

Herrenvolk

"Can she talk?"

"Not English."

So this is their answer, Patterson thinks, why the world has lacked a Slayer these last three years. "Look at her," he says, disgusted. "She's weak, untrained... it would take another three years to get her strong enough to fight even a human."

"It's Hitler's fault," his subordinate says. "Him and his bloody herrenvolk. Master race my arse."

Patterson frowns at the language.

She offers no resistance. It's over in moments, and even if someone cares enough to investigate her sudden death, the tattooed number on her forearm will cover the mark from the needle.