“Let me in,” he snarled, pushing past her. She laid a restraining hand on his wrist as hard as she dared.
“They're having a bath now.”
“This close to arrival?”
“We'll be catching the first ferry we can and I didn't know if there would be another chance, now if you please ⦔
“Good, keep them in there. This won't take long.”
And he launched himself inside, slamming the door shut behind him. He seemed to relax and gave her a knowing smile.
“You could have kept me out. You could throw me out physically, if you wanted. Isn't that right?”
“I have no idea what you're talking about. All I know is that I didn't ask you to come in and yet here you are.”
“No idea what I'm talking about ⦠Do you take me for a fool?”
Yes. But don't you take me for one, little man.
“Sergeant Maurer, please ⦔
“We each have something the other needs.”
“I doubt that very much.”
“Stop it!” He smacked the wall with more force than she knew he'd intended, and she enjoyed the look of pain that flitted across his face.
“Sergeant Maurer, you seem upset.”
He glared at her with mingled loathing and yearning.
“We haven't much time. Although believe you me, I can make more, if necessary. There is some flexibility. I think it would be better for you, all of you, however, if you just accommodated me now. You do that, and then I can assist you.”
“I really have not the pleasure of understanding you.”
He clawed for her again, growling. She slid away from him.
“I know who you are, do you understand that? I know who and what you are.”
The desperation in his voice fascinated her and she listened with courtesy, which he took for tacit agreement.
“I've made a study of you, of your people. I know what you can do.”
“Not much, it would seem. What do the Irish do but try to fight the British, drink, and dance jigs?”
“Stop, stop, stop!” he was nearly tearing at his hair now and she watched with flattering concern.
“You have power,” he whispered, and the entreaty in his voice was almost sweet. “You have a gift you can give me. Share with me. I want to be stronger, I need to be stronger, it's my only chance. You do this for me, and I can get rid of them, I can make sure you travel safely. I will have more strength, don't you see? And you, you need me. You don't know what you're dealing with, and you are compromised. Give me, give me what you have.”
She gaped at him. It was inconceivable he should be asking to be made a vampire.
“I ⦠there is no gift.”
He seized her shoulders.
“There is, there is! I have read about it, and all the old folk say so. You can bestow some of your power without turning us. It's in all the books.”
Brigit swore she could feel the demon rolling around inside her, laughing helplessly. The humans so often managed to get important details wrong.
“My dear Sergeant, you can't believe everything you read.”
“But my grandmother always saidâ”
“Or hear.”
He glowered at her, every inch a sullen adolescent. His movement was swift, but the strike of a man who needed more physical adeptness. It was just an ordinary stake anyway, and he had no intention of driving it in, he only wanted to frighten her. She glanced down at the stake, then at him, curious.
The conductor's call echoed down the corridor. All those who would be disembarking at Bilbao were advised to be ready. They were ten minutes from the station.
“Well, Sergeant Maurer, this has been delightful, but I must get the children in order.”
With a sudden civility that astonished her, he slipped the stake back in his pocket and nodded to her.
“You do what you must do. But be aware, Fräulein, that I shall as well.”
“Marvelous.”
He stalked out of the compartment without giving her another look.
Alma opened the bathroom door, her face ashen.
“Is Lukas any better?” Brigit asked, more out of polite hope than any expectation.
“No. But what will you do about him?” She jerked her head in the direction of Maurer's departure.
“I'll take care of him. That's what I do, remember?”
Alma looked uncertain, but nodded. They hurried to dress Lukas. Brigit bit her lip at the sight of his color, then drew some rouge from her bag and made him up with care. If he didn't look truly well, he at least looked less ghastly. Alma's face was wan and ashy, and Brigit rubbed some color into her cheeks as well. Alma couldn't resist looking at herself in the mirror and Brigit wondered if she was letting herself imagine what she would look like in a few years, when she would put on makeup every day. Just now, she looked disappointed, because the light touch Brigit had applied meant she only looked like her own healthy self.
“What about me, do I need any color?”
That almost-smile flitted across Alma's lips.
“No, you're all right.”
Â
The station was shaded and it was late enough that Brigit, once she'd fitted on her big hat and gloves, felt no fear on her own account as they disembarked and headed for the ferries. She carried Lukas, keeping his head nuzzled in her neck, and it seemed not unreasonable that the little boy would be sleepy in such unaccustomed heat, and after such a long journey.
At first, Brigit was sure they would be all right. The bay was so tantalizingly blue, and she squinted, sure that she could see the coast of Ireland all those miles away. She could hold out on a meal a while longer when they were this close.
A dock man stopped her with a wormy smile.
“So sorry, señorita, but the last ferry has just left.”
“I thought there was an evening ferry?” she demanded, outraged.
“No, señorita, not tonight. But there is a pensione just over the road. Shall I call someone to assist you with your luggage?”
“I ⦔ Brigit was flustered. “Yes, all right. But tell me, please, what time does the first boat leave in the morning?”
“Tomorrow morning?”
“Yes, tomorrow morning.” Her teeth were clenched and Lukas whimpered as she tightened her grip on him.
“Have you the proper boarding passes?”
“Of course. We arranged those in Berlin.”
The man shook his head, his smile wormier than ever.
“I'm afraid those won't do. You will need Spanish passes. They ought to have mentioned it. Undoubtedly the war makes them distracted.”
Brigit stared at him. She was suffused with fury, but couldn't really be surprised.
“Very well, where can I get proper passes?”
“The shipping office. They are closed now, but open at nine.”
With a sinking feeling, she inquired flatly what time the ferry left.
“Nine o'clock sharp.”
“But there is another?”
“Oh yes. The schedule is a bit erratic, as you understand. The Germans and their war, you see. We must work around them. The shipping office can give you all the information you require.”
He grinned as a porter arrived with the luggage.
“Will you be needing anything else, señorita?”
“No ⦠yes, where is the shipping office?”
“Ah! It is that little building just over there.” He pointed, and Brigit could see only too easily that there was no shade around the office, and that it would only be accessible intermittently. She was tempted to ask if the weather was forecast to remain sunny over the next few days, but didn't dare.
“Lovely. Thank you so much.”
“My pleasure, señorita.”
He gave her an oily bow and waved her toward the pensione. She and Alma walked slowly, each consumed with the same questions. The only thing Brigit could focus on was the need to be inside, to have a door shut behind her, to be concealed from all the many pairs of hostile eyes she could feel burning into her flesh.
Berlin. April 1940.
One week after their return from Paris, Mors had a new swagger to his step, and no one could blame him. The Nazis indeed became more pliable with distraction. Their focus was so wholly on the upcoming rout of France that they became careless, and so more plans were uncovered and several more deaths “arranged.” Thanks to Swefred, the vampires could drop in forgeries of conflicting plans and thus create confusion, but to their dismay, the disorder was soon resolved. Mors chose not to be bothered. He was too busy trying to send copies of plans to warn officials in Britain and the Scandinavian countries.
“Knowledge is power,” he assured his companions. “When they know that for which they must be prepared, they can plan accordingly.”
All the while, they were also planning their own departure. They did not want to count on the French and British heeding their warning about the Maginot Line and thus considered that travel through France would be nearly impossible.
“Never mind that, we'll just go around.” Mors dismissed all concerns with an airy wave of the hand.
“I don't think we need to go that far,” Cleland opined. “Our papers should get us through France if the trains are running. It's getting across the Channel that I worry about.”
They were all very worried on that point, less for themselves than
for Britain. They'd discovered the plans for Operation Sea Lion and knew that if France fell, their beloved Britain was next. It was inconceivable that Britain should be attacked and that they themselves would not be there to defend it. Mors had acquitted himself with a brilliance that was renowned through the vampire world when Napoleon had thought Britain could be tangled with, and he was itchy for the chance to prove himself again.
“Don't be too itchy,” Brigit warned. “We want to avoid all this, remember?”
No one had forgotten, but as the weeks passed, their anxiety mounted. Less and less was going according to plan. Nothing they set out to do seemed to have any effect. Each of them but Mors complained of feeling tired, even weak. As though they were burdened with an extra self slung over their shoulders.
“Come on, come on!” Mors exhorted them. “Ambition should be made of stronger stuff than this! It's all a matter of belief. Believing in the thing will make it so.”
Brigit believed, but she knew that wasn't the problem. She was frantic to comprehend what was really going on in both the party and herself, but it was taking all her energy now simply to go forward. Gerhard was being malleable enough, even amiable, and she had uncovered many useful plans via his caresses.
If only I could be sure they'll be used properly.
Therein lay the rub.
Â
Denmark. Norway. Valiant countries that stood hard, knowing they stood no chance. And then the big battle, quickly begun and quickly over. The day France fell, the vampires huddled around the wireless with ashen faces. Long before photos and film were shown to the elated German public, they could see it all far too clearly. The swastika adorning the Arc de Triomphe with such brazenness, the newly subject French raising their arms before a gleeful Hitler. Brigit wanted one of them, even one, to hurl himself into the motorcade and forfeit life before liberty in the hopes of taking the oppressor down. Even if someone were to throw a rock, or an egg. Invective. Anything but this meek acceptance. These were the people who had mustered the vehemence and resolve to see the blood of their
own royals spilled, from children to crowned king. And they had danced and cheered around the severed heads as though they were maypoles. How was it that, less than two hundred years later, they should consent to being governed by a new, harsh, foreign king? The British they scorned so deeply had allowed a German king to rule their realm. Since when did the French want to emulate the British? But there they were, allowing it to be so. The vampires determined to think no more of France, for which they now entertained only the bitterest contempt. As Churchill, a man they were starting to love, pointed out, the Battle of France was over. The Battle of Britain was soon to commence.
The evacuation at Dunkirk pleased them all, but they knew it wasn't enough. They each redoubled their efforts, hoping against hope that there might yet be a chance.
“I bet we could disable some of the Luftwaffe,” Mors suggested. “How hard would that be?”
“We'd have to kill the guards, break in, and then suss exactly how to damage hundreds of planes. Do we even know where any hangars are?” Brigit wasn't against the idea, but thought it impractical.
“I believe I'm close to finding out,” Mors assured her.
So that was their plan, and they knew they had mere weeks to carry it out. They would have no choice but to be successful, both to save their country and to avoid trying to get home to defend her via Ireland, which was perilous for all of them, especially Brigit, Cleland, and Morsâor they would have to find a boat that would take them up to the Scottish islands and work their way southward from there. It all involved far too much potential for sun exposure. But they were going to get home. There was no question of that.
“I'm in desperate need of a Pimm's Cup,” Mors complained. “And this may be the last summer they have Wimbledon for the duration, so I refuse the miss the finals.” The others begged him not to make such jokes. He waved off their squeamishness with disdain.
“Please! That's like begging a fox not to steal chickens,” he rejoined.
Brigit and Mors were working their particular contacts to uncover hangars. The need for speed was perversely slowing them down, and they were getting sloppy. They couldn't help it. The Luftwaffe had already
begun engaging the RAF over the water and there was little time before the battle over the land began. Most of the hangars were well outside Berlin and the risks involved in getting to them were too great, especially with the nights being so short. Swefred was trying to procure them a car, but Brigit was sure from something that Gerhard had once let drop that there was not just a hangar on the outskirts of the city, but a bomb-making factory. Such a tantalizing pair of targets was not to be dismissed, and Brigit was thus chipping away at Gerhard's secrets with renewed vigor.
Increasingly, however, with her diminished strength, it was impossible to trick him into believing they'd had sex. She confided as much to Cleland. It was different for him, as his quarry were several women. He wouldn't feel sullied in the same way, but he understood.
“I'd have more energy if we did do it, I'm sure, I'm sure I'm spending myself unnecessarily, trying to tease him with visions, but I just can't bear it. I hate him touching me, even through clothes.”
“Of course you do. Hold hard, Brigit. It's not for much longer.”
“But every night is such torture!” She knew she was whining and hated herself for it. Cleland squeezed her hand.
“You could ask Meaghan how she's managing,” he ventured.
“I could,” she conceded. “But there's no comparison. She gets resurrected in Swefred every dawn. He must be keeping her stronger. They look better than us, don't they?”
She spoke with some trepidation, but knew from his face that she was right. The two of them were looking worn. It wasn't something anyone outside their own circle would notice, not without very careful study, or knowing where and how to look, but they could see it in each other.
Cleland opened his mouth to answer her, then snapped it shut and pulled her close into a tight embrace. She was astonished, but grateful. They held each other a long time. Finally, he muttered into her neck: “It won't be much longer now.”
Â
Brigit's decision to believe Cleland was making this night with Gerhard pleasingly illuminating. She'd purloined a bottle of excellent schnapps from her invalid aunt and about half of it was sloshing inside her jolly young man, who, in consequence of having at last received a promotion,
had also made the monumental decision to buy a bottle of champagne and was too happy to realize he wasn't sharing much of it with his dear little mistress.
“We are on our way, we are on our way!” he crowed, dancing her around his superior's office. This was strictly forbidden territory, but it was a night for throwing caution to the winds.
“And where are we going?” Brigit asked.
“Anywhere your heart desires. Paris, then London, then perhaps New York. The world will soon be Germany's oyster. Isn't it marvelous?”
“I'm breathless with excitement.”
He grinned and dove for a kiss, ending up with a mouthful of curls. She laughed mercilessly. He scowled, but then decided to laugh as well.
“You're a cruel, cruel little girl, and you must be punished accordingly.”
“Oooh, âpunished,' eh? Well, well, I'm not so sure about that.”
“But I am. I am very, very sure.”
His mouth was on her again, hot and hungry. She kept her eyes open and scanned the room, noting the oak file cabinet and rococo desk that, to her shocked delight, were not locked. Another long swallow of champagne later, and Gerhard had to stagger off to the toilet, admonishing Brigit to be a good girl while he was gone.
She worked quickly, riffling through the various files with a practiced eye. Munitions stored here, munitions manufactured there, details for British bombing raids, which she made note of, but nothing for their own more immediate purposes. Large shipments of arms prepared for Poland and other ⦠Brigit paused and looked more closely at the papers. She read and read again, still not registering exactly what she was reading.
“What are you doing?”
Gerhard's voice was cold with fear and anger, but she didn't care.
“Why do you need so many guns for countries that have already been subdued?”
A twinge of power in her voice made him forget her espionage. He answered, a sly smile on his face.
“For cleansing, of course.”
“Cleansing?”
“You are an artless, naïve girl. Yes, cleansing. It is never enough to scatter a people out of a country in which they do not belong. They still exist, don't they? The earth must be properly cleansed. I have told you this many times. You have no memory.”
“Jews. You're going to shoot Jews.” It wasn't a question, but she was still incredulous, and disgusted with herself for it.
“It's all planned. Very clean and quiet. Round them up, march them away, have them dig their grave, then finish them off. They go into the earth and will fertilize the land. A use for them at last. Mind you, I do think it's insufficient. There are such a lot of them ⦔
He kept talking, but Brigit tuned him out. She could feel the fire rising.
No. No. No.
The demon helpfully tamped the fire down. It sensed an interesting turn of events and wanted to be more than ready.
“Why are you doing this?” An unfamiliar taste rose in Brigit's throat. She suspected it was bile.
“Don't you want to live in a clean world?” His eyebrows were raised.
“I don't think you know the meaning of the word.”
He took a long swallow of schnapps, glaring at her. A slow laugh worked its way up through him as he staggered toward her, dripping menace.
“You couldn't know all we know. I suppose you think you're very clever, but you are like a little girl playing at a game. The Third Reich, we are not to be played with. It is perhaps time you learned that.”
She wondered how long he'd known she was a spy, and what else he knew about her.
“You owe me, I think,” he informed her as he downed the last of the schnapps.
“Owe you what?”
“What you haven't given the way I want it.”
He twisted her hair and jerked her up against the wall. Both she and the demon were too impatient to use any verbal tricks. She tore herself out of his grasp and was about to strike when he slammed the side of
his pistol into the softest part of her head. It would have knocked a human unconscious, but it shouldn't have felled her. The fact that it did made her howl with rage into the carpet, giving him ample opportunity to flip her around and tear at her clothes. Buttons went flying into corners. She stared at his deranged face, too stunned to fight back as he tore the chemise from her shoulders and struggled with her bra. What the hell was wrong, where was her power?
Oh. Oh, Eamon. It's the food. Of course, so simple. The food. It's too tainted. It's blunted us.
A cold hate pumped through her body harder than blood. Hate for the Nazis, for Germany, for all the Germans who enjoyed the world that they were paving in other people's blood. And hate for Gerhard, for this slimy, hungry little man so desperate for a fuck. If she were a human girl, he wouldn't marry her, not even if she became pregnant. She wasn't connected, had no money. He was seeing a new empire, a world of German princes and dukes and barons. He was going to be a noble and feel the adulation of the peasants. She was just a primer from which to learn, and entertainment.