The Midnight Guardian (23 page)

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Authors: Sarah Jane Stratford

BOOK: The Midnight Guardian
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“Look, Fräulein, there is a little bit of shade already. That will be pleasant for you, I am sure,” the porter pointed out helpfully.
It wasn't much shade, but Brigit would take what she could get. She lowered her veil, feeling like a knight preparing for a joust. As they were stepping down, however, the doctor wended his way toward them, a purposeful look on his face. Alma could feel the chill even through Brigit's glove, but managed not to look at her. Brigit turned to the porter.
“I'm finding that man to be rather too persistent, and really, I do not want to be delayed in getting the children settled on the train, it is not good for them, they're delicate, as you can see. I don't suppose you can find a way to, er, detain him, and maybe you can then steal a moment to come help us settle in our compartment?”
Exactly how she was able to press another five marks into his hand and brush her breast lightly against his elbow he wasn't sure, but, still holding the parasol, he sprinted to the doctor and insisted on being allowed to be of assistance to the great man, managing to upset several other waiting passengers in the process.
Brigit seized the children, hissing at Alma to lead the way, and barreled forth toward the inspections room, gritting her teeth. Pain shot through every bit of her, even her hair ached. The eager rays assaulted her clothes, her hat, dug around searching for her tightly closed eyes, desperate for a flint on which to strike.
Faster, faster!
The newly erected building was no more than a shack, but stepping into it was like dipping into a cool bath and it was all Brigit could do not to sigh in relief. She desperately needed to sit, would have preferred to curl up on the floor, but forced her shaking muscles to keep her erect and smiling.
There were two inspectors in the little office, both of whom looked as though they felt they'd drawn a short straw in their assignment, though they perked up slightly when Brigit lifted her veil. On inspecting the three impeccable sets of papers, however, one of the men frowned and turned to a pile of notes in a file marked “To Be Questioned.”
“What a funny thing that is!” Brigit cried in her most guileless and cheery accent. “Isn't everyone to be questioned? Else what are you here for?”
The inspector stared at her, struck by her twinkling eyes and the obvious artlessness of her manner. He'd heard the Irish could be a bit backward, but this seemed absurd in the extreme.
“Don't you know there is a war on?” he asked with heavy condescension.
That question again! These people have got to learn variety.
“Oh, but that is exactly what I mean! There is a war on, and so everyone must be questioned. Who knows what we might be? Goodness, I should like to hear of your catching a spy. The British think they are so clever, but I have never seen anything to warrant it and would like to see their so-called brilliance handed back to them with interest. I'm not sorry London is being bombed, none of us are …”
She stopped at last, the look on her face slightly guilty, as though wondering if she might have said too much, even knowing the Swiss were neutral, like Ireland itself was meant to be, though it was hardly a secret that Ireland was friendly to Germany.
But are you Swiss of the same bent? Or are you merely trying to stay out of trouble, keep the clocks ticking?
The mad chattering seemed to work. The younger inspector, entranced by the pretty, dim blonde, noticed that the people outside were growing impatient. It seemed so unlikely that there could really be any trouble with this girl, or the children under her care. In fact, it seemed to him the only reason she was to be detained was to determine her suitability
to care for children when she herself was so clearly in need of guardianship.
The other inspector glanced at the fl agged papers. They were much the same as many others, saying there was suspicion the children were Jewish and that the blonde … he looked at the note again. It seemed to be written in code. It must be. That, or the Nazis really were as mad as some whispered, and why on earth anyone in the Swiss government should be placating them was a mystery. He glanced at the smiling girl, watched her bend over the little boy and gently wipe his damp nose with her lacy handkerchief and chuck him under the chin. He swore she squeezed the little girl's hand to reassure her. Even if the children were Jewish, he didn't understand the Nazi fuss about Jews. Personally, he had no opinion about them one way or another. They kept banks running, which kept economies in order, and he liked order. The papers the blonde presented were certainly in order, and that was good enough for him. He stamped each one, then noted on the alert that they had been duly questioned and there was no trouble. That cut down on paperwork, which was all to everyone's good. With a friendly salute, he waved them on through.
Brigit had steeled herself, but the pain of the sun seemed even greater as they trotted to the train, and it was with a hot, trembling hand that she gripped the handrail and dragged herself in. Someone took her elbow and helped her into the corridor. She raised her veil and involuntarily released a puff of smoke. The towheaded German porter blinked, startled, and noticed her face was bright pink. He decided it must be a blush, and the smoke, well, perhaps he'd only imagined it. He must have, because her wild eyes promptly focused, snapped, and lit up.
“Well! So you were able to join us!”
“It's highly irregular, but I could not resist such a warm invitation.”
The new train's porter deliberately turned away, tucking a bank note into his pocket and smirking as the hungry man guided Brigit and the children to their compartment.
He made a point of showing them all the amenities, even though he didn't know this train at all, and kept glancing at Brigit, waiting for her to send the children to the observation car. Brigit simply smiled placidly, although inside she was roiling. The demon was still cowering in pain
from the sun and she was yearning for a cool sponge bath and sleep. The stress meant she would need to eat again soon, but she hoped to avoid that for as long as possible. And she wanted to laugh, even dance—they had done it! It had been so easy! What was a little pain, they had done it! They were in much safer territory now, she was sure, even if Maurer was still following them and there were warnings floating around about who they might really be. It was not far to Spain and it had to be easier from now on, it simply had to.
Careful. Don't get too giddy. Keep me in temper.
The voice was right, but Brigit was still too shaky to listen to her own good sense. She needed the steady hand of Eamon on her for that. It was Mors she was feeling right now, Mors who would be crowing with the triumph of having walked in the sun—in the sun!—and made it back to safety. Looked all the enemies in the eye and winked.
Like I always say, there's nothing we can't do if we put our minds to it.
She smiled at the echo of Mors's cocky voice in her ear, and the porter smiled back.
“Perhaps I could have a quick word with you, Fräulein? Alone?”
She acquiesced, told the children to wait a moment, and stepped out into the corridor with him.
He looked cross.
“I rather meant that you and I should be in your compartment. We have only ten minutes at most.”
“I'm not sure I understand you?”
His eyes narrowed, but her face remained perfectly pleasant.
“You, you rather suggested … I did you a favor!”
“Yes, for which you were handsomely paid.”
“I was expecting a payment of a different sort.”
“I see.”
She pulled him round the corner into a lavatory and kissed him deeply.
“That sort of payment?” she asked sweetly.
“That, and perhaps a little something more,” he whispered huskily.
“Believe me, I would if I could, but I have responsibilities, as you know. And so do you. This is no time for such idle pleasure.” She ran a
regretful hand down his chest and stroked the top of his trousers. “Don't you know there is a war on?”
He stared, dumbstruck. She took pity on him, even though she was exasperated.
“Oh, here, then.” She seized his hand and jerked it under her knickers, allowing him a long squeeze of her bottom. “There's your extra payment, enjoy it, and next time, try pressing your advantage when we're actually on the same train.”
She skipped back to her compartment to revel with the children, but the porter had to wait several moments before he was fit to be seen. The man he'd bribed was helping passengers onto the train. He smirked at him again, shook his head, and muttered, “Stupid Germans.”
“What was that?” asked the well-dressed man whose luggage he was carrying.
“Nothing, sir.”
“I should hope not.” The doctor smiled.
Berlin. February 1940.
“Do you think it's my fault?”
“Don't be stupid.”
Mors had cornered Brigit on her way back from another fruitless, exhausting night with Gerhard. She hadn't even sensed him approaching. In the weeks since her massacre in the theater, her strength and faculties had gone into an alarming decline. It wasn't generally discussed, but she could see that the others were suffering as well. Even Mors, she was appalled to note, looked tired and almost haggard. His eyes still sparkled, though, and his smile was as wicked as ever. He turned to her now with a strange urgency and she felt a sudden rush of power. It gave her just enough energy to smile, a question in her eyes.
“Their war machine is heating up again.”
The smile drained from her at once.
“Where, what?”
“You must have known. Gerhard—”
“Yes, but I can only find out so much. He's only got one piece of all of it. They really know their stuff.”
“Know how to hide it, you mean. From us.”
“Us?”
Mors hesitated, then shook his head impatiently.
“I've found out something, but it means a new mission.”
Brigit reeled, and he grinned.
“Don't look like that,” he chastised. “This will be fun. Just you and me, on a little journey of adventure.”
He whirled her around for emphasis and she pulled away impatiently.
“Just tell me what you know.”
“That we can bid France au revoir,” he smirked, giving her the least merry wink she'd ever seen. “Our friends here are gunning for the French and they've got a damn fine chance of rolling right over them like so much pastry.”
“But the Maginot Line?”
He snorted. “Is my point. The French trust it, the Germans know it, and they're just going to slide right around it. A minor detour, hardly noticeable.”
“Why should they attack France?”
“Do you need me to explain the thought process that governs domination? Where have you been the last millennium?”
“France isn't weak. And England will join in.”
Mors scowled.
“Join in a fight that might make things a lot worse. They've never learned to work together, you know that. The English and French generals will try to score points off each other, they won't focus on strategy. It'll be the Great War all over, only worse, I think.”
He paused, and Brigit looked at him searchingly. His eyes wandered around the dark, quiet square, then further, and Brigit felt dizzy, watching him spin back through centuries of human warfare. At last, his focus came back to her. He smiled, but it wasn't his usual smile, and it made Brigit shiver.
“I suspect we are entering the realm of the last chance, my girl. I hope I'm wrong, of course, but how often have I been wrong?”
“Since I've known you?”
But it wasn't a moment for teasing, or levity. Mors was deadly serious and Brigit knew he was right, of course he was. This thing was its own demon, a human-propelled demon spinning with chilling precision
to a conclusion of absolutes. The war had paused only so that the Nazis could stretch, sigh luxuriously, grin at one another, and start again. So France was next, and why should anyone be surprised?
“All right,” she murmured. “All right. So what can we do?”
“I've got it all sorted. Too easy. I'll be good Major Werner, turncoat extraordinaire, come to call on General Michaud, oh yes, I've already done the proper research! And inform him of the war plans of which I so heartily disapprove. I will have proof, papers they can't dismiss. And I'll have you for extra credibility. We know how the French have a weakness for pretty, plausible girls. I will be eminently believable,
et voilà
: the Germans will get quite a surprise a few weeks hence.”
Brigit shook her head.
“Why should he believe us?”
“Oh, now, don't insert cynicism into the proceedings. We know this game. An officer will believe another officer, even if he is a German, and a traitor. Honor among thieves, if you will. Especially if the traitor perceives a possibility of reward.”
“We should go to him as Britons, as spies who have worked here awhile and learned something.”
“Now you are being ridiculous. Weren't you just fretting about them believing us?”
“Why ridiculous? The British are their allies.”
“Yes. And no matter the circumstance, the French will always trust a German before they'll trust a Brit.”
Brigit said no more that night and Mors whistled happily all the way back to the lair. But as they finessed the plan over the next few nights, with Cleland and Swefred offering advice and Meaghan more fretful and morose than ever, her apprehension grew. This mission would take only hours, perhaps one day and night in total. And there was a clear target and good information, and yet it all seemed too impetuous, too rushed, too void of details to be anything other than disaster.
The night before they were to leave, Brigit took advantage of being alone with Mors to confront him.
“We're not ready, we need more hard evidence for him, we need to talk more thoroughly, we need—”
“Do you think the Nazis waste much time in talk? They're men of action.”
“Men of action, who plan! They plan everything, meticulously, or haven't you noticed? How else have we managed to uncover anything useful?”
“Of course, but what I'm telling you is that we have to go, and that we have to go now. The sooner we get to the French, the sooner they can form a new strategy. They can defeat the Germans, if they just play smart.”
“What about us? Why are we even here, except as the exemplars of playing smart, and we are to tumble forward into the ether with only some flimsy pieces of paper to guide us? Who is this general? Shouldn't we try to find more than one? And the French, the French have always had a sense for vampires, the same as they discern good wine. How do we know he won't know about us, what we really are? Why not find some British generals, that can't take much longer, and surely we could do better with them? What if—”
“Brigantia!” he roared.
The use of the ancient name stopped them both. Brigit sat down as hard as if she'd been struck, the stale syllables reverberating painfully in her skull. Mors stroked her head, seeming to know exactly where it was pounding.
“Brigantia,” he whispered, the warm fondness on his tongue soothing. “I know, I know, but we have to go now. To wait is to waste time. We'll make the man listen. We have our ways, and you know it. Now, I will be a turncoat major, and you are my well-connected wife whose additional information corroborates my story.”
“I look too young to be your wife, better to say I'm your mistress. A hungry young thing.”
She spat out the words and took one brief moment of pleasure in the sting they delivered before remorse overcame her.
“A hungry young thing with a weakness for handsome, powerful men.”
He smiled, choosing to take her first comment as a joke. Wrapping her hand in his, with his other hand on her waist, he danced her about the room.
“O mistress mine, where are you roaming? O stay and hear, your true love's coming …”
If he didn't sing the song in such a funny, un-Mors-like manner, the lyrics would have upset her all over again. But he spared her that. When at last they headed off to their beds, he caught her chin and grinned in encouragement.
“There will be no worry or fear. We're what we are, right? Millennials know no fear!”
But all that sleepless day, and throughout the quiet and tense train journey to Paris, Brigit could think of little else except fear. Her palms were sweating, staining her white wool gloves. Fear. She certainly knew all about the concept, but had spent the bulk of her undead life causing it, creating it, occasionally reveling in it. It wasn't as though she hadn't experienced it at all, but this, this chilly apprehension that seized her muscles, prodded her pressure points, this was alien and unpleasant and felt like a cobweb she'd walked into and couldn't shake away. They could do this, they could zip around Berlin, killing their way into the inner circle, they thought, and they could journey to Paris to try to circumvent a bloodbath, but she couldn't help feeling like a rat in a maze, running thither and yon, but ultimately controlled. Or at least watched. Whichever it was, Brigit hated it. And she could say nothing to Mors. She wouldn't. She didn't want to spoil his happiness.
Brigit pushed the troubling thoughts away and focused instead on Mors. There was something strange, both exhilarating and disconcerting, about being alone, truly alone, with him again. It had been a long time.
His face seemed foreign under his German officer's hat, but it was still happily familiar. Though he wasn't beautiful, Mors was certainly attractive. The longer you looked at him, the less easy it became to take your eyes from him. And if he spoke to you, the hypnosis was complete. His was an astonishingly melodic voice, sensual, enthralling. You looked into deceptively mild green-blue eyes, and the voice ran rings around you, stroked you, pulled you closer, an embrace by a Hindu god. Tucked up in so many arms, you couldn't want to go anywhere else, even if you had the power.
It was not only his face that was so fascinating. When he wasn't briskly, cunningly funny, he told spellbinding stories, tearing into them
with the same exuberance as a warm, fresh neck. Then, too, he could be curiously quiet, and those moments were almost more seductive in their frustration. He was thinking, he couldn't not be thinking, but his removal from the center of things, his silence, made him more present and drew more attention than his antics. Those who knew him best, to the extent anyone really did, were sure it wasn't calculated. Mors simply had places in his mind he needed to go, and no one could follow.
What Mors really was, more than any of the rest of them, was sexy. The other males were handsome, of course, and carried about them the aura of danger and mystique that was the mark of undeath, and the deep passion and otherworldly violence that lurked under the veneer of human flesh. But Mors was something else again. He usually adorned his bald head with silver earrings in intricate shapes, and wore several rings that might have been old in Roman times. He'd made himself massive boots out of strange black leather that looked like some magical idea of dragon skin. When asked how he'd managed it, or what it really was, he only grinned that strange, stirring grin. Lips closed, one side curling up toward an ironically cocked eyebrow. How many girls had come out of evening prayers, from pagan times on, and halted, startled at the sight of the sleek-headed man with the twinkling eyes? And he smiled at them, and they floated into the web of that smile. Though he wasn't tall, you didn't realize it, so well formed was his figure. Power, that's what he exuded. It had drawn many men to him as well, and he never minded. He never seemed to mind anything. Life was too good. Brigit smiled. It must be lovely, being Mors.
 
The next evening, they called at General Michaud's unbecomingly nouveau riche home as early as they dared. A late-afternoon rainstorm allowed them to step out long before they might otherwise have done, and Mors crowed over the good sign and their obvious luck. Brigit simply nodded, clinging to her umbrella and concentrating on the sound of her heels thudding on the damp pavement. The air was slightly humid and felt thick, an acrid smell swirling around the manicured trees. The fabled prettinesses of Paris held no charm for Brigit this evening, and she refused to remember nighttime strolls along the Seine or down the Champs-Elysées with Eamon. Paris had been a springtime pleasure, a place of
heavy blossoms and stuffy salons full of exciting new art. The Folies and the Comédie Française and the Divine Sarah and music at once cheerful and melancholy, teasing and tickling the flesh even under heavy fabrics and boned corsets. And, of course, there was the food.
French food had a particularly storied flavor among the vampire world. There was a distinction, a peculiar sort of ferocity and bite to it. An individuality that meant no meal would ever be generic and each would be remembered, would linger like a fine wine.
A je ne sais quoi.
Brigit didn't smile. Each young man who passed her, looking at her with smiling desire, even noting the menacing presence of Mors, smelled like hypocrisy. Or complicity. Brigit suspected she'd spent too much time in Germany to discern the difference anymore.
Or maybe my senses aren't what they were.
Nothing was. She knew that. They all knew that. They didn't discuss it out of some absurd combination of politeness and superstition, but it was true. The armor was melting.
Two girls huddled under a single umbrella were skipping down the path, but slowed to drink in Mors. These were girls who had just left school, were just stepping down the road toward sex, and they perceived the power in the smirking man, even with the lovely blonde on his arm. Mors gave them the merest hint of a wink, never breaking stride. Brigit turned to look at them, not bothering to paste affront and fierce possession on her face. She was simply interested. They looked back at her, curious. Finally, the older one shied from the look and drew her companion away.

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