Swefred knew it, too, because he didn't even try to hop to safety.
“Meaghan!” he yelled. “Stop screaming, don't give them that satisfaction.”
Meaghan fell silent instantly, her eyes locked on Swefred's. His skin was crinkling and turning black, smoke curling from under his hair and nails, but he smiled.
“I love you, my princess. One more for them, all right?”
With that, he picked up his severed leg and whirled it around to get the blaze roaring. He threw it at a cluster of hunters and knocked them all down.
The final conflagration came with blessed speed, the flames consumed him greedily and then, realizing there was nothing left to feed them, disappeared in a burst of orange smoke.
Brigit caught Cleland's eye. She could see him wanting to run across to them, to help them control the hysterical Meaghan, but he couldn't move.
A flaming arrow flew right at Brigit's eye and Mors grabbed her arm and jerked her behind him. It gave Meaghan all the advantage she needed. With one furious twist, she was out of Mors's grasp and in the
courtyard. Mors clutched Brigit to him and they stared, helpless and fascinated.
A long, low, weird cry emanated from somewhere deep inside Meaghan, something that had once soared down across the Scottish Highlands, penetrating the mist. It was a piercing buzz and it dazed and froze the crowd of hunters so that they stared numbly as Meaghan took up a hogshead of fuel, bust it open, and began to whirl, dousing the factory, the buildings, and all the hunters in and around them in cold gasoline. Even then, they didn't budge. She whirled harder, her arms outspread, her eyes facing a blue sky she hadn't looked at so openly in centuries.
Then Brigit understood the secret of Meaghan's demonic life and longevity, the magnet she used to draw in prey. Her emerald-green eyes, always wide and limpid, swelled and turned liquid, so that a man knew if he walked toward them they'd envelop him like a clear lake on a hot summer's afternoon. Even Brigit was not immune. She would have moved forward to bathe in those eyes, were it not for Mors's firm grip on her. The flames took full hold, but the eyes took on a life of their own, rising well above the fire, refusing to be swallowed. With one last, hard, fiery spin, Meaghan exploded, and the flames shot round in a perfect circle, catching the gasoline-soaked hunters and buildings.
Fireballs leaped from the factory and all its surrounding buildings in a deafening display. The bombs inside went off, sending even more fire into the sky and down the surrounding streets. Ball after ball of fire bounced toward town and the ashes of dead men were all dwarfed by the ashes of two millennial vampires.
Mors bore Brigit deep into the sewers, outrunning flames and sharp debris. Brigit didn't even feel them move. Meaghan's eyes had finally burst and sent green marbles of liquid in a hot shower that had landed on Brigit. The feel of Meaghan's eyes on her skin doused every other sensation.
It was a long time before either of them moved or spoke. A sound, an echo of the explosions far above them, roused Brigit suddenly, reminding her that they were alone.
“Cleland!” she cried.
“He's all right. He had to run through the U-Bahn tunnels, that's all. He's fine. Fine.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because I am. He's Cleland.”
“Mors, please. Don't protect me.”
“It's true. He's been my friend for fifteen hundred years. I would know.”
“How? Even you aren't that good.”
“But Cleland is. He's got too much life in him to die. Not here, not now, and not alone.”
Brigit nodded, clinging hard to the belief. Mors smiled at her.
“I don't know if cowards die many times before their deaths, but it certainly does seem that the valiant never taste of death but once. Would you have ever imagined we'd say such a thing about Swefred and Meaghan?”
She shook her head, wishing she could brush the droplets of eyes off her skin. She was proud of the dead couple, proud that they'd created a new legend to awe the humans, but it was Cleland she was thinking of now, hating that he was alone, fighting off the thought of any other possibility, and wishing with all her power that she could reach out into the darkness and pull them into the circle made by herself and Mors. For the first time since leaving England, she put Eamon completely out of her mind and concentrated all her energy on Cleland.
Cleland. Sweet, strong, wonderful friend. Don't be dead. Don't be gone, a pile of ash, caught up in the remains of all those horrid Nazis. Don't be debris, blown through the air, part of the smoke. A shadow, a problem of theirs solved. Be alive, my dear friend. Be their headache, their disaster, their doom. Hurt them, hinder them. Be their nightmare, and then come home. To Padraic, to Otonia, to Eamon, to me, and to Mors. Your family. Be strong, be brave, and Cleland, whom I love so well ⦠be.
Mors was humming a lullaby that dipped into her brain and blew away the buzz. Only minutes ago, she thought she could never achieve peace again, but now she was drifting into sleep. Mors wrapped himself more tightly around her and they slept for hours.
Â
Brigit woke and blinked, readjusting her eyes to the sewer's poor light. Mors was already awake and on his feet, stretching like a yogi, working his muscles and even breathing so as to focus his power and energy.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting ready.”
“Where are we going now?”
“No, my dear friend. Not we. I've had a long think and there's only one sure path for each of us now.”
She sat up very straight.
“What are you saying?”
He spoke with deep seriousness.
“It stopped being about vengeance, or even our food supply, quite some time ago. You knew that. We all did. I want to see an end to these Nazis. They'll eat the world if they're not stopped. I'm not going to sneak back to Britain with my tail between my legs, and anyway, we haven't the time to waste. It's quicker for you to go on your own and less dangerous, too. On your own, you'll make it easily.”
“But ⦠but what about you?” None of what Mors was saying was the least bit comprehensible.
“Rumor has it, the Nazis have their eye on Russia. The idiots. I don't think they know what a Russian winter is. I'll pay Moscow a call, rally up the comrades a bit. Their problem is relying a tad too much on that snow of theirs to slow invaders up. I'd like to give the bear a bit more teeth than that.” He laughed, shaking his head. “Yes, I'd like to see the Nazis exit, pursued by a bear.”
Brigit was in no mood for such jokes.
“You dare say such a thing, you dare even think, you ⦔
She flew into him, punching and kicking with what little strength she had left. Mors subdued her quickly, folding her limbs underneath him.
“It's my way, Brigit, it's my way. You know me. I don't want to leave you, why would I want to leave you?”
“But you said ⦔
“It's what I have to do. You won't travel safely with me. They know my face too well. You, wonderful girl, you're going to live. I need you to live, and thrive. You're going to get home to our London and ⦠and to Eamon.”
The crack in his voice pulled her straight into his eyes. There it was, the love that he had kept so carefully tucked inside him, hidden. He
didn't have the strength to hide it anymore, and didn't need to if he was going away. The sharp edge of that unrequited love sliced into Brigit's heart. He pulled away from her eyes, not wanting to be tempted to speak what she already knew, however much she didn't understand it.
“Why? You had so many, many years after Aelric and before Eamon. Why didn't you say something?” She spoke with the full weight of hypocrisy, knowing that to have become the lover of Mors would have meant there would be no Eamon, but the idea that Mors had loved her all this time and, perhaps, forgone any other love in his life because of her, shredded her insides to ribbons, and she had to know why.
He pressed his face against the sewer wall. She moved to stroke his arm and he pulled away from her. His hand slowly crushed a loose brick into dust.
“Mors, I ⦠I ⦔
“Oh, Brigit,” he croaked, and reached for her. He turned her to face him, her hands wrapped in his. The rims of his eyes were pink and his whisper ragged.
“Don't you see? You were always the perfect one for me, but I was never the perfect one for you.”
The heavy truth of that bit into her. When she was Brigantia, their energies were far too similarly high and angry and potent. One fire would have burned out another's burning. They'd have been the greatest legend of all, but they would not have lasted. Or she wouldn't. Mors was not made for dying, but she, without the more balanced temperament given her first by the seconds before Aelric's death and then by Eamon, she would not have stepped into the possibility of infinity. Mors would have given her much, but he could never have tempered her, have given her leisure for reflection. The energy in her was so powerful only because she gave it room to breathe. Her pursuit of knowledge, her passion for the arts, her communion with herbsâin as much as Mors would have encouraged all this, and of course he himself indulged in the arts and loved knowledge, they would instead have drained each other. With Eamon, she reached for the stars, but with Mors, she might have sought to touch the sun, and thus burned.
Thinking of the sun brought her back to the dark sewer and Mors's new intention.
“Please, Mors, my dearest friend. Don't go to Russia. If we have to travel separately, all right, we'll travel separately, but I have to know you're going home with me, you're going back where we both belong and can now do the most good. You can't go to Russia. Even you can't survive white nights.”
“Oh, now, Brigit, can you really be underestimating me?”
She smiled despite herself.
“But Mors, please. England needs you. I need you.”
His glance slid to his knees and he spoke flatly.
“And what about what I need?”
Brigit was pierced. She'd loved Mors like a brother, given him so much, second only to Eamon, but he had never suggested there might be something in the world he actually needed. She wondered if this reckless plan was the answer, that he needed to constantly brush up against his own death to feel alive, if he couldn't have love.
His eyes, those beautiful green eyes, so different from Meaghan's and so wholly magnetic, found hers again. She didn't register them coming closer, half-shutting, the lashes brushing her brows until his lips were on hers. Their arms were so tight around each other, there was no telling where one set ended and another began. As they kissed, Brigit felt herself spinning back through centuries, through all of Mors's happy dreams, dreams that involved her and the merry adventures they had behind his closed eyes. Deep in his mind's eye, he was her maker, it was he who enfolded her in the dark kiss and then, the next night, opened her body to his and channeled that fire in wave upon wave of unending lust. Suddenly she was drinking, a sweet, sparkling liquid coursing through her, filling her up, sending her bouncing and floating through ether with an unheard-of potency. It was better than being drunk, because she was in complete control.
He pulled back lightly then, pressing his forehead to hers, coaxing her eyes into his, a hand stroking her cheek. She gasped, realizing what he had done, and wildly wondering if this was where fairy tales got the notion of resurrecting kisses. He'd gifted her with a new strength, a power only a double millennial could wield, and with that weapon and the echo of Eamon's music, she would have the capacity to get home.
“But Mors, you need that! You have to need it more than me.”
“For now, I have everything I need. I do. And I've got plenty of strength in reserve. I grow it like you grow your herbs. I'll be all right, trust me.”
“I'm begging you. Don't leave me alone.”
“Brigit. If there's one thing we've all known for centuries, is that as long as Eamon's somewhere, you're never alone. They've started attacking our England proper. I hear it. One mission failed, so now we've each got a new mission. We wanted to interfere with the humans, so this is where we are. And you and I, we're vampires of honor, we're going to see it all through to the end. It's not in the stars to hold our destiny, but in ourselves. Isn't that right? Now, look at me.”
He folded her hands against his chest and stared intently into her eyes. One tiny heartbeat fluttered under her palm and then went still again.
“That's it. Look at me and promise me one tiny thing. You won't go forgetting this silly old mug, okay?”
Her eyes traveled the circumference of his intriguing, endlessly attractive face. That beloved half-smile, the cocked brow, the dancing eyes. She laid a hand on his cheek, then wrapped her arms around him, nestling her head into his neck. His arms went tight around her again, and she could feel a cool sigh down the back of her blouse. She stroked the back of his smooth head, wishing she had Eamon's gift of feeling what might be coming, or Mors's own powerful confidence in the future, but she had neither. So there was no choice, then, but to hope that some bright night, back in a peaceful England, Mors might come singing through the darkness, a dog by his side, ready to join their community again, and with new stories to tell.