He also wanted to know about Brigit's birth as Brigantia, and how she spent the 274 years before she found him. She told him a few stories, funny stories, usually involving Mors and often Cleland and Raleigh, but he watched her dance away from details and questions, her eyes averted, although never so quickly that he couldn't see the clouds, and wondered if it was really so awful as that. He knew she trusted him, and suspected that her refusal to delve the past so thoroughly had something to do with a sliver of mistrust of herself.
The truth did come at last, however, and was spurred in a manner none could have wished. It would have come eventually, but it was hastened by death.
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For their five hundredth anniversary, Raleigh wanted to visit Ireland and the place where he'd made Cleland. Cleland was more wary. Raleigh had found him in a prison cell, awaiting his torture and death after having been forced to witness that of his lover that day. It had been a good joke on the tribe to discover the empty cell, and a better one when the pair revisited the tribe that night, after Cleland's rising, but Cleland had no sentiment about Ireland and would have been just as happy to hear it had sunk into the sea. Raleigh missed the music, and the action that could be found there, and thought that now, as an old and powerful vampire, Cleland might find that to enjoy and thus eradicate some of the bad blood of the past. Raleigh was a vibrant, fun-loving vampire, and it was hard to deny him anything. When Mors, Brigit, and Eamon decided that they would like to holiday in Ireland as well, Cleland gave in.
Eamon was immediately struck by the music in Ireland. It was so lovely, so plaintive, so evocative. It seemed to call out over the sea to long-vanished lovers, promising eternal fidelity.
“Music like that, it could reach the one who'd gone away and pull him straight back to his beloved's arms.” Brigit sighed, and Eamon nodded, pulling her into his own arms.
Mors liked the Irish girls and the wildness. Raleigh liked the old spots and the entertaining stories he could tell of various exploits, only half of which they believed. Even Cleland began to relax and to pick up strands of happy memories. There was something in the air that unnerved them all, made the demons restless, but the dizzying chill of the wind excited their senses too much to care. They had heard that the hunters in Ireland were particularly refined, but they were not fresh young things, easily picked off. They must be immune.
Why they'd ever thought such a thing was absurd, because even Mors was in more danger than he knew. Some Irish hunters knew how to dispatch a millennial. They were heading toward an ancient site that was meant to give luck to all who entered it. Raleigh had been there once before and was running ahead, shouting at Cleland to hurry up. His voice changed midshout, and Mors snatched the other three and used his own special powers to bear them into the forest, somehow keeping them silent, even with only two hands. They never questioned how he found a cave, he simply deposited them there and left it to Brigit and Eamon to hold Cleland down while he went back for Raleigh.
He rejoined them alone, his face gray, his eyes those of an old, old man. He took Cleland in his arms, put his hands over Cleland's ears, and rocked and sang to him throughout the rest of that night and the next day. He, Brigit, and Eamon sat in helpless horror, listening to the hideous screams that rhythmically punctured the air, the long, slow end of Raleigh. They hadn't known a vampire could be tortured, and it was only years later, reading a gleeful account by a hunter, that they learned he'd been confined to a box and exposed to short bursts of sunlight through the day, burning chunks of him off bit by bit. It was only when he begged for the hunters to finish him that they did, but not quickly. They wanted the fun to last.
Brigit never believed that Raleigh had begged. That was just a
flourish to make for a better triumph. She told only Eamon that, though. Among her and Cleland and Mors, Raleigh's name was not mentioned again.
The hunters had searched for them, but Mors knew how to get them home. It was not fear that any of them felt, not really, just fury. That Raleigh should be cut down was bad enough, but the torture bespoke something else, something deeper. Vampires viewed hunters with respect, and naturally kept their distance, but these men seemed more like beasts than their own selves, and Mors and Brigit were determined to avenge their friend.
Otonia had called for a communal gathering by the river. Eamon knew it was a sort of memorial, but Otonia did not want to say as much. Cleland had not spoken a word since they'd returned and was under watch. Otonia clearly hoped that this reminder that there was love and friendship here, that many of them had experienced loss but had recovered and found love again, might start him on the path to acceptance. Brigit made him a special bouquet of herbs for healing and remembrance and Mors and Eamon each had new songs to share.
It was Meaghan who threw a bitter golden apple into the circle.
“At least you tried to do something,” she congratulated Mors and Cleland. “We all know someone who didn't lift a finger to help when her maker was staked.”
Even Otonia was shocked. Meaghan so rarely spoke to anyone but Swefred, and rarely loud enough to be heard, and why she should want to lob such a vicious insult at Brigit was unfathomable. Swefred simply gaped at her, and so no one tried to intervene when Brigit turned to her accuser with steaming eyes.
“If memory serves, you were not there, so you don't know,” Brigit hissed through clenched teeth.
“As though anyone had to be there!” Meaghan scoffed. “You despised Aelric, that was hardly a secret, you were relieved to see the end of him. You broke the code, you ought to have been chastised, cast out, and yet here you are, happy and in love, as though you deserve it! I'll tell you what I think, I think the wrong vampire was killed over there in Ireland, and if ⦔
The fire exploded. The circle, too. Mors was closer to Cleland, and
seized him as he hurtled toward Meaghan with a yowl of fury. Leonora, the only other one who had seen what could happen to Brigit when so roused, had her hands full quelling Swefred, who was raring to pounce on Cleland. Eamon felt he must be caught in a nightmare, seeing the massive flames pouring from his beloved's eyes, ears, and mouth. Even Otonia's terrifying bellow, which silenced the others, did not stop Brigit from gripping Meaghan's wrist, but the flames were overwhelming her. Hardly even thinking, Eamon threw his arms around Brigit, ignoring the hot pain, and tumbled them both into the river.
They rode the current for a long time, Eamon holding Brigit underwater till her skin felt smooth and cool. Her eyes were closed, and he sensed this was as much out of a fear of looking into his as out of sheer exhaustion. He laid a hand on her belly. It was cool and still. The fire was gone.
It was nearly dawn when Eamon carried her back to the lair and was grateful to get inside their own cave without meeting anyone. She was still sopping wet and he took up a few towels and began to dry her hair.
“My name was Hilda,” she began, and only a slight rasp under her words betrayed that she'd nearly been suffocated by her own self earlier that evening. Slowly, with infinite care, she told him of her human life, and Aelric, and what had become of him. The whole while, Eamon sat quietly, drying her hair.
Evening had fallen by the time she'd told him of the seconds that she remembered with such horror, and those first few miserable years under their shroud. She paused, realizing how tired and thirsty she was, and finally allowed her eyes to meet his. The question in them tore at him, and he kissed her several times before whispering that of course, of course it changed nothing.
“Or if it does, it's only that I love you more, now that I am beginning to really know you.”
And it was true. Aelric and the fire, these things were all a part of who Brigit was. They had formed her, grew her into the vampire who had sensed the possibilities in him. To love her meant to love the negative qualities, too, as well as that in her past that shamed her. Eamon cared about none of that, only that she was his, and he wanted to know more and more of her. Each detail was a note in a song he decided would never end.
So, like Scheherazade, she spent every night over the next several months telling him the whole of all her days leading up to him, remembering details she hadn't known were stored inside her. The stories opened up her life, and she found herself fascinated and rather liking this curious creature who was now called Brigit.
Eamon was opening as well, and they studied him with equal fascination. Music constantly poured forth from him, more, now that there was more to sing about. He pulled them out of Brigit's stories, her laugh, her tears, the wind. Brigit loved each one, each more nourishing than any blood could ever be, and when he sang, she curled around him, head on his shoulder, hands folded over his heart, letting him transport them.
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Meaghan was too shy to apologize, so Swefred did those honors. It was when they'd returned from a journey of vengeance to Ireland. Cleland was speaking again, and could even sometimes be seen to smile. Brigit felt he'd enjoyed the close brush they'd had with death, the knowledge that they were now wanted vampires. The Irish hunters might have followed them to England, but the Black Death refocused their concerns on the human world. Eamon's sense of the coming plague and suggestion that they shore up animal blood to keep them nourished, along with Mors and Brigit's hard work in stealing pigs and sheep, made Meaghan feel guilty.
“It was the fire, too,” Swefred explained. “She hadn't meant to provoke that. We didn't really believe that old story, you know. She knows you didn't let Aelric die on purpose. She was just upset that night, frightened. She'd had a nightmare that it was me instead of Raleigh, and she knows she can't do without me. She oughtn't to have taken it out on you, and she is sorry.”
Brigit had long since stopped caring, but was pleased. The community was at peace, as it should be.
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One night, shortly before the outbreak of the War of the Roses, Brigit and Eamon sat at the top of Bootham Bar, watching the quiet city engage in its nightlife.
“We're going to leave York, I think. All of us. In a decade or so. Go somewhere bigger, richer.”
Brigit was used to these occasional pronouncements.
“Will we miss it?”
He hesitated. The remains of the homes in which he and the other Jews had lived were long vanished, and the hulking tower where the Jews had died was still a wart he circumvented whenever he traversed the city. But the countryside was beautiful, the new architecture in the city pleasing, and there were happy memories here. The hillside where he'd first looked into Brigit's eyes, and so many other places, these they would miss. However, they prized adventure over nostalgia, and he sensed good adventures ahead.
“Not really. We'll be too busy.”
“You'll hold it all for us anyway. Isn't that what âEamon' means, after all? âWealthy guardian'?”
“And I am certainly wealthy.”
He kissed her ear.
“And I'm a guardian. Of you, of us, of ⦔
She touched his face, sensing his tiptoe into dangerous territory.
“Of old souls,” he finished. “Old, old souls.”
“That seems a lot to protect. More like a job for two, really.”
“Yes. Yes, so it's lucky I have a partner.”
They were silent for a long time. When Brigit spoke again, it was with soft regret.
“I haven't got a soul, of course.”
“You have more and less than a soul, I think.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don't know. We'll have to spend the next several hundred years parsing it.”
They laughed. He nuzzled her neck, her shoulder, nipped at her breast, and pressed his lips to her palm hungrily as his fingers crept up her clothes, seeking warmer, wetter climates. The moans that soon emanated from the top of the bar made the humans quiver in their houses. The dead were awake, and speaking volumes.
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What they didn't say was that Brigit shared Eamon's soul. That scrap of soul was a voluminous thing, and powerful enough to cradle them both.
BaselâBilbao train. August 1940.
“You were singing again.”
Brigit rubbed her sore eyes and gazed at Alma, flummoxed.
“I what?”
“Sometimes you sing in your sleep. You were doing it again, just now.”
“Was I really? Anything in particular?”
“Nothing I've ever heard before. They're usually ⦠pretty, though. The songs. Can't make out the words, most times.”
Brigit suspected this was because some of the songs were sung in medieval English, or, if later, with inflections that had long since disappeared. The children spoke excellent English, but humans could not be expected to understand the bulk of Eamon's lyrics.
“Pretty,” though. Yes, I imagine the songs are at least pretty. Whatever I'm singing in my sleep is probably downright ethereal.
She was still managing only snatched minutes of sleep here and there and would have preferred to avoid sleep altogether. Sleep was dangerous. The issue of food was rearing its vexing head again and she was determined to wait until they were in Bilbao to take care of that. No more meals on the train, and she would resist the temptation of what might be available on a French platform. It was, however past time the children ate. Brigit thought that it might be safe enough to bring them to the dining
car, that it might look less strange than confining them to the compartment and ordering soup and sandwiches, as she had on the German train. She didn't trust the Swiss or French, either, but felt they must be at least somewhat safer and wanted to play up her role as supposed nanny.
Lukas was delighted to go to the dining car and confided to his sister that he was going to order stew and eat three hot buttered rolls. Alma assured him that sounded delicious. She also reminded him, to Brigit's great relief, that the dining car was a place for very, very quiet conversation, and it was best that a big boy like himself concentrate on his meal and speak only when their guardian or she, Alma, spoke to him. He nodded solemnly, anticipating the momentousness of the experience with pleasure.
The white tablecloths and steady clinks of silverware did not disappoint him. Brigit sensed that even Alma was elated. Her parents would not have deemed her old enough to be taken to a fine restaurant until this year, most likely, and even the Jewish-owned eateries were virtually gone from Berlin. Brigit felt a sudden swell of delight for the children, imagining the life they would have in London, free of being marked as undesirable, able to go to theater and concerts and films and restaurants. The delight was quickly singed with a pang. They would do all this with their aunt and uncle, not their father. Not now, anyway, and more than likely, not ever.
Well, no one ever said life was fair. Or kind.
They were seated in a corner and Brigit found herself enjoying the supervision of the handling of cutlery and the careful use of butter. A war was on, after all, and wherever they were, nothing must be wasted. The children ate their food with slow, considered pleasure. Brigit had to force herself to eat, the meat sliding down her throat only serving to make her more ravenous for real nourishment. The demon was wretched, but it simply had to wait.
Alma's eyes rolled up above Brigit's head and widened just enough that Brigit whirled around before she could control the response. She didn't know what upset her more, that the doctor was smiling down at them with such venom, or that he'd seen the apprehension in both Alma and herself.
“Well, Fräulein, what a pleasure to continue our journey together.”
“Doctor Schultze.”
“And you have brought your little charges to lunch, how delightful.”
Brigit loathed the sneer in his voice. Its only use was in assuring her that his quarry was all three of them. He must be certain of who and what the children were, and seemed unpleasantly certain of her as well. For the thousandth time, she cursed the stupidity of a situation that made it impossible for her simply to kill him as the demon implored.
The children finished their food and lay their cutlery across their clean plates. Brigit dabbed her lips with her napkin and smiled at the doctor.
“It seems as though the children are done eating, so I must get them back for the little one's nap.”
“Nonsense, they have not had any pudding. I am quite sure that young man there would love a nice bit of gâteau.”
Lukas's eyes lit up and he was about to announce that he would indeed, but Brigit broke in loudly.
“I have some chocolate waiting for them already, thank you.”
Schultze was about to argue, but Alma was on her feet and helping Lukas fold his napkin. The hovering waiter coughed meaningfully; there was another family waiting to be seated. Brigit forced her smile to look regretful, rather than triumphant.
“Enjoy your coffee, Doctor.”
He hesitated, then caught her as she stepped into the corridor. The children lurked just ahead, nervous.
“So sorry, Fräulein, but I cannot help noticing the little boy looks pale.”
“First me and now the boy! Really, Doctor, I know it's your profession, but you seem obsessed with cheek color.”
Brigit laughed, but Schultze's face was grave. Only a small spark in his eyes gave him away.
“I can forestall my coffee for half an hour to give him a brief examination. Surely his nap can wait that long?”
“I suspect that he's only pale because he's overtired. Traveling is exhausting business. I can take care of him very well, thank you, but I do appreciate your concern.”
Lukas yawned obligingly.
“There, you see?” Brigit chided the doctor. “Now really, I must ask you to let me tend my duty.”
She raised her voice just enough that a pair of busy, matronly women on their way to coffee stopped to enjoy the scene.
“After all,” Brigit continued, laying on the melodrama for her audience's benefit, “his mother entrusted him to my care. She was very particular about his sleep schedule. The poor lamb is hot and overtired and an examination will only frighten him. Please, sir, will you let me get the boy to bed?”
The women were properly shocked.
“Keeping a child from his nap! For shame, what sort of business is that?”
The doctor held up his hands, fending the women off.
“I am a doctor! I only noticed that the boy was looking pale and offered to examine him, quite free of charge.”
Brigit tossed her head, insulted.
“Are you insinuating that I would not be able to pay for medical services? Or, perhaps, that I would ask for some sort of discount?”
While the women might have swayed under the authority of Schultze's being a medical professional, their shared umbrage at his implication incited a verbal fusillade under which the doctor promptly sank. He slunk back into the dining car and the women turned to Brigit with an excess of solicitation. They patted and praised and encouraged her and guided her back to her compartment under a constant stream of chatter so fast and shrill, Brigit could hardly decipher a word. She was grateful for another large yawn from Lukas, even though it sent her defenders into raptures of tender concern, because they at least avowed to hurry away, though they first had to advise Brigit at length as to the best means of getting a child to sleep properly in the afternoon.
They bustled off just in time. Brigit realized she had been so distracted by the doctor, she hadn't been paying attention to the sunlight, and the rays were just creeping up to the windows on their side of the corridor.
“Well, that was eventful,” Brigit said with more sarcasm than she knew was appropriate. She supposed she should be thankful they weren't waylaid by Maurer as well. He wasn't working with the doctor, she
knew that now. His plan was separate, special, and, she suspected, just for her.
“We are almost there, aren't we?” There was a pinch to Alma's voice.
“Almost.”
“And we will get on a ferry?”
“Please don't worry.”
“Brigit.”
Brigit had been pawing through their papers again, obsessively assuring herself that there would be no trouble in Bilbao, that they would indeed be let on the next ferry bound for Cork. The sound of her name arrested her. Alma had thus far managed to avoid using it. She looked up at the little girl and saw the uneasiness in her face. Alma looked down at the drowsy Lukas.
“He is looking pale.”
It was true, Brigit realized with a flash of fear. She'd noticed his overall listlessness, but put it down to the heat and the strangeness and the confinement. Now, however, his color was definitely off. Even as she looked at him, a greenish tinge was spreading over his cheeks.
She got him to the toilet just in time. Alma stood behind them, arms wrapped around herself, her lips pressed together in a thin gray line. When Lukas finally finished vomiting and accepted a tin cup of water from Brigit, he began to cry.
“I liked my lunch so much!” he howled.
Brigit rubbed his back with an awkward, unpracticed stroke.
“That's all right, quite all right. We'll get you feeling better and then you'll have an even lovelier supper, I promise.”
He continued to cry, sounding pained, and Brigit thought his little body felt too warm. She laid a hand on his forehead and he whimpered. Even through her own chill, she could tell he was running a fever. Her first fleeting thought was that the doctor had done something to make the boy ill. She would not put it past him, past any of them, but neither did she think it was possible. It was just a pleasant coincidence for Schultze, who must not knowâno one must knowâthat Lukas was indeed unwell. A full examination would mean the discovery of his circumcision, and that would be the end of all of them. Brigit would defend the
children, as she had been charged and sworn, so the end would be spectacular, but she had a very different end in mind for this journey.
And I've temporarily lost my taste for the spectacular.
“Do you think it was something he ate?”
Alma was twisting her hands. Her face was nearly as white as Lukas's.
“I hope so.”
The sun would still be high and fatal at the next stop. Even if she could risk being seen buying medicine in the station's shop, she simply couldn't go out. Possibly she could feign a headache and ask the interfering women for some aspirin, but she had no idea if it would help Lukas, and was leery of even the slightest confidences. The only remedies she really knew for illness were herbal, and she hadn't brewed a concoction in more than a thousand years.
Nor do I know what I'm dealing with.
She kept her cool palm pressed to Lukas's forehead, hoping it gave him some relief. With any luck, whatever was troubling him would pass quickly and no one would be the wiser. Or, if he was still ill when they got off the train, she could pretend he was asleep. Once they were settled on the ferry, it wouldn't matter. But there were a lot of steps to take before they were on that ferry and at sea.
Brigit wrestled down her worry. Alma was upset enough, and if she sensed how Brigit was feeling, she might lose her control. So Brigit smiled.
“We'll manage. You'll see. Screw your courage to the sticking place, and stick close to me. Lukas will be fine, as will we all. I promise.”
“And if you're wrong? If they catch us?”
“Well, we won't make any of it easy for them, will we?”
For the first time since they'd agreed to this journey, the hint of a real smile played across Alma's face.
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Half an hour outside Bilbao, and Lukas was only worse. He'd vomited several more times and his skin was waxy. Even without a thermometer, Brigit could tell his fever was dangerous. He lay on the bathroom floor, drowsy and delirious, and Brigit and Alma were sponging him down with the lukewarm water Brigit desperately wished was colder. He barely
blinked when they both jumped and gasped at the sound of a sharp knock at the door.
“Stay here,” Brigit whispered, shutting the bathroom door firmly behind her, grateful for the pretense of privilege that had allowed them to claim another private compartment with a bath. Money didn't help everything, but it was certainly useful.
She knew before asking that it was Maurer at the door. The demon's head rose, and she couldn't blame it.
“Ah, Sergeant Maurer.” She smiled, leaning against the door frame. Her voice was friendly and casual, but she was taken aback by his appearance. He looked flushed and his upper lip was damp with sweat. She could tell by his smell that he hadn't bathed. It was with a strangely hunted look that he glared at her.
“Never mind, never mind, where are those little brats?”
“I
beg
your pardon?” Her eyebrows raced to the top of her forehead.