Brigit had a brief vision of a brood of empty-faced, empty-headed children waddling around after Elsie. The fangs slipped another millimeter.
“But surely, if your fiancé has left you ⦠?”
Another braying laugh rolled out of Elsie. Brigit could smell old onions on her breath.
“I just didn't want him to have the last word, see? Saying he'd only ever agreed to it because his mother liked mine, but now she's dead and he could do what he pleased and was damned if he'd marry a fool cow like me. He wanted a new life, is what he says, see, and whatever it says about him, running off from a fight, well, it's his life, isn't it? I'm amazed the Swiss let him in, but apparently he's already married to this girl, and how he managed that, well, I can't think, but if he's not mentioned me, she's going to get a bit of a shock, I think!”
Elsie's beady eyes were twinkling.
“What does your family say about this? They couldn't have just let you go off after him all on your own, and during a war, no less.”
“Oh, the war. That's just over England now, isn't it? But I didn't tell them, why should I? They'd have tried to talk sense into me, and that's never been worth anyone's time and I'm quite right anyway. Besides, I'm not going to go back. Whatever he's done, he's done, but I'm sure I can find me some young Swiss farmer who likes the look of a girl who isn't afraid of work, see?”
Brigit saw. No one knew where Elsie was going and no one was expecting her. She'd aroused no interest on the train and was not memorable enough for anyone in her compartment to notice if she didn't come back. Or, by the time they did, for anything to be done. There was nothing appealing about her as meals went, but she was, essentially, being handed over on a platter.
The demon couldn't even be bothered to turn Brigit's eyes red. The fangs flew out and Brigit clamped her hand around Elsie's mouth, although it wasn't really necessary, as Elsie didn't even have time for a gasp of surprise before her fat neck was pierced and the blood started pouring into Brigit's dry, desperate mouth. Brigit ate like a greedy child, swiftly sapping the strength out of Elsie so that she hardly struggled at all. Brigit dug in deeper, clutching at her prey as if hoping the blood might seep in via her pores. The taste was not so terrible as might have been expected, and the strapping girl was full of decent blood. When Elsie was dry, Brigit closed her eyes, feeling the blood coursing through her, replenishing her brain, her skin, her senses. Plumping her up. It was not the full and pure restoration she would have liked, but she never expected that. It was, however, a relief. She wiped her lips on Elsie's collar and took a long breath. This time, the oxygen took hold and calmed her. For the first time in days, she felt a little bit like herself.
Quickly, she tended to the body. Popping a talon out from under her fingernail, she slashed at the bite wound so that it looked like a knife attack. The bloodstains on the collar might prevent anyone from examining the rest of her blood, although probably not, but Brigit couldn't spare that a thought. She heaved the body over the railing and down an embankment. It bounced through the trees and landed in a pile of brush. With luck, it would not be found for several days, and the work of the weasels would hamper the investigation. Elsie's small bag had dropped to the floor and Brigit riffled through the contents. It held only some papers, a compact mirror, and a hopeful lipstick that had seen nearly no use. Brigit used it now, even knowing the color was not ideal, then crushed it between her palms, sifting the powder onto the tracks. The mirror followed. The papers she tucked into her jacket pocket to be wetted and destroyed in private and the bag she flung with gusto into the air, knowing it would land in the next county. A quick hand over her hair assured
she was groomed as per usual and she slid the door back open, feeling quite equal to whatever new hurdle this maddening journey was going to present.
Â
Brigit's renewed strength and confidence wobbled precipitously as she reached her own corridor and saw three men outside her compartment door. One of them turned at the sound of her heels and muttered something to the other two. The stoutest moved forward, a courteous smile on his face, his hand extended in greeting. It was the doctor whom she mistrusted with such a passion.
“Good evening, Fräulein. I am Doctor Schultze. I hope I did not startle you. I have been wanting to speak with you for some time now.”
“Have you? And you thought it was acceptable to come to my door, when we might so easily have chatted in a common area?”
It was more of a remonstrance than a snap, because this girl's inclination, however supercilious she may be, was to look on most men with a friendly eye, at least until they gave her reason to look otherwise.
“I thought perhaps a bit of privacy would be appreciated. But yes, that was presumptuous of me. I hope you can find it in yourself to be forgiving.”
There was no discernible sarcasm in his smooth and overcareful English, and his smile was perfectly pleasant, but it was all such an obvious ruse. Or perhaps the doctor didn't know that, with the proper proximity and faculties, she could sense that his lackeys were hunters-in-training, which put a whole different gloss on the situation. She sometimes forgot how little they really understood of her abilities. It was an advantage, and she had to embrace advantages.
At least it's only me they're after. That's something.
Although as to that, she couldn't be sure. The main thing was to expect that all possible disasters were on the table, that way she was less likely to be surprised.
“I was actually on my way to get a drink, Doctor. Perhaps you'd care to join me? You and your friends?”
It was only with the greatest effort that she didn't refer to them as “little” friends. He glanced at the two men, as though only just remembering they were there.
“How very rude I am being! It must be chatting to a pretty girl that does it, for I ought to have introduced my young interns straight away. Weber and Lange, and they are as ready to be at your service as am I.”
Each man shook her hand, and she wondered if they were assessing its temperature.
The joke's on you, little men, because between the weather and the meal, I'll feel human to the touch for days.
“And, I am so sorry, but may I ask your name?”
“McRae. Brigit McRae.”
“So very charming to make your acquaintance, Fräulein McRae. Let us indeed repair to the bar. Unless, of course, there is anything you wish to do inside your compartment first?”
“No, nothing that can't wait.”
Weber and Lange exchanged glances, but tagged behind Brigit and the doctor obediently.
The doctor waited until Brigit had swallowed some of her wine before starting to explain his purpose.
“The fact is, Fräulein, I noticed that you seemed unusually pale and drawn for one so young and rich and of a healthful weight. It is presumptuous of me, of course, but I could not help but be concerned. Perhaps you are under a great strain?”
His smile was solicitous, but the absurdity of the lie made her want to pop out a claw and rip off his unctuous face. Which, she realized, was the idea. Not the face ripping, but the claw. They wanted evidence. She wondered why they didn't try to stake her then and there, without these nonsensical preliminaries, but undoubtedly they had something bigger in mind. A capture, a public execution, or something else, something diabolical. If there was one thing she'd learned in the last two years, it was that these Nazis did not tend to think small.
That they didn't know how to best weaken and overpower, much less dispatch, a millennial was little comfort. The doctor's eyes were greedy. Brigit knew a prize when she was one. Worse, there was no sexual yearning, not from him or the would-be hunters. That made it trickier.
“I think I'm quite well, thank you. I've always been a pale girl. Ireland isn't known for its heat waves.”
“You should take advantage of the European summer and get some sun.”
“Can't exactly sunbathe on a train.”
“No, but you should take a stroll on the platform at the next day stop. I am sure it is healthier not just for you, butâ”
“She's got some color now.”
Schultze glared at Lange, and Brigit blinked, having expected him to be too well indoctrinated in his role of silent intimidator to actually speak. Weber simply gaped at his companion, then stole a glance at the doctor, eager for a cue.
Lange was studying Brigit with interest. She wrinkled her nose and turned back to the doctor.
“The heat, you see, is quite exhausting for me. And, of course, I have my responsibilities. Your concern is gratifying, Doctor, but I am, as you observe, a healthy girl and think I am quite capable of maintaining that all on my own. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have business to attend to.”
As she hastened away, she could hear the three men muttering, but her feelers were not strong enough to glean any words. Not that it mattered. They knew. They probably knew everything. But how, how did they know? The plans had been so good and careful. And a doctor, why on earth would a doctor be the one they sent after her? There must be something more to it, to all of it. Or perhaps there wasn't. Perhaps it was just yet another twist in the giant morass the Nazis were making, into which the world would descend.
Perhaps it is simply madness, with no method. No method at all.
They were approaching Stuttgart at last, and Brigit began to feel exhilarated, hoping there might be a telegram waiting for her. She'd been able to send Eamon a message before getting on the train and, if all had gone according to plan, his reply should seem to have originated in Berlin. But if they knew who she was, and her business, then it might have been intercepted. She was sure, however, that Eamon knew where she was, and what she was doing. She could feel him, feel the energy he was marshaling toward her. She knew he would give anything to be there, to partner her through this nightmare, but he would stay in London, as he had all this time, and follow her journey in his mind. Yes, she could feel him, but she wanted that telegram. Desperately.
To her great rage, Maurer appeared almost out of nowhere as she reached the train's door as it slowed, giving her no chance to use blinding speed to reach the office before anyone realized she'd even disembarked. She calmed herself as best she couldâfar better he be with her than sniffing around her compartment and the unguarded cargo. He strolled with her as if by right, ignoring his lack of invitation, and grinned.
“Walking alone again, Fräulein?”
“It would seem otherwise, Sergeant Maurer.”
“I don't believe in squandering opportunities.”
“How prudent.”
And at the first opportunity, I am going to kill you.
“Is this just a little ramble, or are you wanting something? A newspaper, perhaps, or some chocolates?”
“You're a bit inquisitive, Sergeant Maurer. I can't say as I like it.”
“You're a girl who invites questions.”
“And if I choose not to give answers?”
“Well, I suppose we all are free to make our own choices.”
Certainly. Unless you're Jewish, French, Polish, Roma, communist, homosexual â¦
“But you'd be wise to accommodate me, little Brigit.”
She knew the red glow swirled in her eye, even as a fang caught her lower lip, but she was past caring. Few passengers were embarking here and she had, at best, five minutes to conduct this business and was not about to be stopped. She reached up so her lips were nearly brushing his ear.
“Would I? Would I be wise, little man?”
And she blew an idea through him, reveling in this brief return of some of her abilities. It wouldn't last, and he might guess later, but she needed to do what she needed to do.
There was no time to enjoy the sight of him lumbering back to the train, slightly drunk and dazed with wondering if the nurse tending to the unruly boys might really be hoping to meet him in the observation car once the children were safely in bed. The telegraph machine was whirring busily in the tiny office and the slim, stooped man tending it whistled as he prepared messages. He looked up sharply at Brigit's ringing “Excuse me?”
“Well?”
“I'm expecting a telegram. Miss H. Morris.”
The man appraised her briefly, then skimmed the neatly sorted file of recent telegrams. His fingers rested on one near the front. He paused, and ran his eyes up toward Brigit again.
“From Berlin?”
“That's right.”
He looked at her, then the telegram.
“From a Mr. Jakes. That's an English name, isn't it?”
“I suppose it could be, but he's Irish, like me. My cousin, actually. He's there on business.”