Brigit had never studied the art of battle, but she had Mors inside her now, and a man did not become a general of the Roman Republic without knowing some tricks. Her mind emptied, she concentrated only on the hot music inside her, a tune that whirled her this way and that, dispatching men in a frenetic ballet. She heard their shouts, felt blades cut into her limbs, even her torso, but she was too possessed to allow the pain to slow her. Heat was rising, inside and out. The sun and the fire were coming.
“Now, Brigit! Come now! The boat is leaving!” Eamon shouted.
The remnants of the fog Brigit and Eamon had created meant no one on the boat, save the three most concerned, could see what was happening on the dock, and the sailors methodically went about their duty so that the mail could go through.
Brigit paused. She could escape now. No self-respecting Irish hunter
would tread upon the province of the British hunters to stalk a vampire, it was only that she was Brigantia and had dared breach their border that they fought her with such venom. But then she caught the scent of Nachtspeere. Weber and Lange hadn't been the last; there were some here in training, and some that had been sent ahead in case all else failed and this was necessary. Irish hunters siding with Germany, and Nachtspeere. To finish them now meant the Nazi purge of vampires was confined to the Continent, and thus as good as done. She had gone to Germany to avenge her kind. She had come to care about the fate of humanity itself, but this was the end of the circle. If she had failed to stop them from killing humans, she could make one final strike on behalf of the vampires and see more of their strong young men fall, their dazzling hope for the great Aryan future diminished.
With a roar that reached far back into history, Brigit whirled and swung the sword, taking no pleasure in the necks it sliced through like sausage links, feeling only that it was an act of completion that was too late.
A hunter leaped on her from behind, the shock and his weight knocking her to her knees. She spun, and smelled the furious zeal and the sure power of the stake, not the one Leon had used to make his point, but one forged hundreds of years ago and saved for the chance to wield with such certainty and precision.
On the boat, Eamon turned the children into him, pressing their faces to his chest. They would not bear witness to this, nor to the redness rising in his eyes. His Brigit was in danger of shuffling off her almost-immortal coil, and there was not a thing he could do about it.
The tip of the stake pierced Brigit's breast, she could feel flesh pulling away, as though making a path for the weapon that was meant to finish this unnatural body. But Eamon was in the heart that stake intended to touch and thus shatter, and Mors was alive somewhere, pulsing under her bones. She clamped her hands around the stake and squeezed so it splintered and crumbled. Her hand flew through the hunter's shocked eyes, sending brains soaring across the dock.
Hazy sun rays poked through the clouds. The boat was unmoored, was beginning its slow chug toward Wales. The remaining two hunters, feeling their advantage, ran toward Brigit as she stumbled to her feet.
The blood from her many wounds still oozed down skin that was starting to steam and crack in the coming sun.
No.
She staggered down toward the dock, her eyes swimming with furious tears. She could not possibly be about to die.
One hunter shot a stake at her with a crossbow. It pierced her hip and she yanked it out, disregarding the pain, wishing that the smoky hand would come back for her.
“No, Eamon, no ⦔ Her voice was a plaintive squeak, an echo of her own self. She took another few steps and slipped in brains, landing hard on her back.
The hunters yelled their delight, weapons aloft. They made to jump on her. She saw their eyes, saw that they were tasting triumph, that she was nothing more than a finished thing.
“Nooooooo!” she bellowed, seizing each man as he closed in, finding strength in their malice and certainty. With another ear-piercing cry, she ripped out their hearts and squelched them in her fists. She shook the residue from her fingers and ran for the plank.
The boat was gone, the sun was brightening, and Eamon was crouching, clutching the children and crying out for her in a silent plea. She had not saved those children, not come this close, only to be stopped now. With a scream of defiance at the sun, she dove into the water. She kicked hard, pushing herself almost to the bottom, exulting in her burst of strength, in her complete independence of the need for oxygen. The salt was torment on her open wounds, but she didn't care, she swam like a creature possessed.
It was Alma's voice she heard when her head broke water, Alma shouting that her aunt had fallen overboard. And though none of the boatmen could remember any of the passengers boarding, two of them rushed to the side and pulled Brigit aboard. One man threw a heavy blanket over her; the other pulled her into the little office where an emergency medical kit was snapped open and her congealing cuts and bruises inexpertly but kindly tended.
Brigit didn't give a damn about any marks upon her body, they would heal in hours. She craned her neck, frantic for a sight of Alma. When she saw the girl, she clenched her almost too hard.
“Are you all right?” she asked in a squeak.
“Yes,” Alma panted, still shaken from her trip through the tunnel and the interminable last five minutes. “Yes, we're all right. All of us.”
The boatmen had no idea what the child meant, but were pleased to see the beautiful blonde relax.
“The waters here can be a bit rough,” one of them commented. “It was lucky you were able to make it back on board.”
On the whole, Brigit agreed.
London-bound train. August 1940.
The sky was bright in Holyhead, but there was shade on the dock, the station was sheltered, and the train would terminate at Kings Cross that night. Brigit's clothes were still damp, but she otherwise bore no visible mark of what she had just endured, and the little group garnered no notice. Eamon waited until Brigit and the children had their tickets before joining them on the platform. At last, he and Brigit could look at each other and embrace.
Lukas stared openly at the vampires with their arms wrapped so tightly around each other, but Alma, after watching a moment, turned and looked at the track instead, anxious for the train to arrive.
The train was full of soldiers and heavy with cigarette smoke and careless chat. They finally found a quiet compartment and Eamon swung their bags into the hold. He smiled at the children and held out two bars of chocolate. Brigit tsked.
“They haven't had a proper breakfast, they'll be sick, eating that now.”
“The trolley will be round in a few minutes, it'll be all right.”
“Please?” Lukas begged.
“No, wait until you've had some milk and sandwiches first. You don't want to be sick again, do you?”
Lukas grumbled and stuck his head around the blind that Brigit had closed so he could look out the window.
She and Eamon exchanged amused and sad smiles. The one thing they could never share. It was something a female vampire rarely thought of, but they all knew their demons lodged in the womb, in the most comfortable and reasonable empty space inside.
After the children had eaten, and Brigit escorted them to the tiny lavatory to wash up, they all settled in the cushions. Lukas slept. Alma struggled to stay awake, watching Brigit and Eamon.
Brigit seemed a very different creature. She was still alert, aware of the daylight outside, but more concerned that Alma and Lukas be safely delivered into their relatives' hands. Alma knew they would be all right now. England would cradle them. But Brigit wouldn't rest until she'd seen the job through to the very end. She was, however, more relaxed than Alma had yet seen her. Her head fit perfectly in the hollow of Eamon's neck, her hand rested against his heart. His own hand caressed hers, his other arm tight around her, fingers on her elbow, his cheek leaning on her head. Their eyes were half-closed, looking at nothing. Alma remembered seeing her parents like this once, caught in a moment of wordless conversation, the picture of a love so deep, it was almost painful to witness.
When they crossed the border into England, Eamon nudged Brigit and smiled at the children.
“Welcome home.”
Home. It was Brigit and Eamon's home, but Alma suddenly registered what she hadn't allowed herself to think since the day her father told her what he was planning. She would probably never set foot in Germany again. The land of her birth was foreign, hostile territory now. It didn't want her. If she was to live, her life would be here. She would make it a good life. She would do her father proud.
Her eyes found Brigit's. Cleared of fear, concern, and pretense, Alma could see how amazingly old those sparkling young eyes were. There was a lost world inside them, wild places, great unknowns, clear air, and a starry sky that roared out over a wondering world. There was laughter and love and something that had to be called humanity in those eyes. It made Alma's scalp prickle, and she turned away.
As she did, she accidentally looked at Eamon and saw tears sparking in his eyes as he drank in herself and Lukas. He radiated a peculiar warmth, and his soft smile made her want to smile in return. She could feel him wanting to say something, even to reach out to her, but he would not be so presumptuous. She found herself liking him for that.
Brigit wished she could know what Alma was thinking. She wouldn't ask, she respected the girl's privacy, but she wanted to know. She wondered if Alma looked at Eamon and saw a tenuous thread to her own history, understood that he had done as much as she herself had done to see that Alma and Lukas had come to this place. What Owen had said was true: Firstborns do become hunters. There was immense power in Alma, and strength, but Brigit saw glowing light behind the dark eyes, too much light to be confined solely to the darkness.
Will I see you again? And if I do, will it be in the moment before I die at your hand? Or would I see you as you cut down Eamon? He and I have saved you, but that does not make us human. We are still your natural enemy. Or do we have a bond now, you and I? Your life is about to unfold before you. What path will you take?
The conductor came through to see that the blackout curtains were drawn. There was no bombing tonight, or not yet, but this was the new order. The soldiers' songs were louder, defying bombers and the probability of imminent death. Soon, too soon, they'd be in the throes of battle. They would sing while they could.
Alma and Lukas changed into fresh clothes and Brigit supervised one last wash. They were all silent as they pulled into the dimly lit station, the boisterous soldiers pushing around them, shouting and laughing. Brigit helped the children down the stairs and they kept near her, looking for the couple who must be looking for them. Brigit didn't realize she was trembling until Eamon laid a steadying hand on her shoulder.
A woman who Brigit saw must be Leon's sister approached them. She turned and called to her husband, who was farther down the platform. He hurried to join his wife. They avoided the vampires' eyes, bending down to greet the children.
“Alma, Lukas, we are so happy to see you.” Their aunt spoke in slightly accented English.
Lukas clung shyly to Brigit and his aunt bit her lip. Brigit knelt and put her hands on the boy's shoulders.
“This is your auntie and uncle, Lukas. They will take superb care of you and you will be very happy. Go on, now. Let them take you home.”
He hugged Brigit and she hugged him back, longer and more tightly then she meant to, feeling his little heart beat against her, strong and healthy.
His aunt sucked in her breath, and as Brigit nudged Lukas to his new guardians, she saw them brush at him, as though wiping off filth.
Brigit nodded, standing awkwardly and backing toward Eamon. Alma stood between the two couples, hesitating. Her aunt extended a hand.
“Come, dear, we've got to get a taxi yet and it's difficult in the blackout.”
Alma took a step toward her aunt, then hurried back to Brigit and took her by the hand, pulling so that Brigit knelt to her and they were eye to eye.
“Thank you.”
Brigit smiled and touched the girl's round cheek. She feared seeing her again, but ached at the realization that she would not see the woman emerge from under the child. She knew that woman would be something incredible to see.
Alma didn't move and Brigit leaned closer and whispered to her.
“There are three things in this world that make a life whole. They are perhaps all the same thing. Happiness, peace, and love. If you have them, you have everything. I wish these things for you, in abundance. Them, and a long life in which to enjoy them. Go well, Alma. Go well.”
Alma's mouth was quivering. She nodded, touched her lips quickly to Brigit's cheek, then turned and ran to join her family. None of them looked back.
Brigit and Eamon watched until the family rounded the corner to the taxi bay. Eamon slipped his hand in Brigit's and guided her outside.
London under siege was a chilling thing, and Brigit pressed closer to Eamon, not feeling that she was, indeed, home. The city was frightened, huddling under the blanket of darkness that brought no protection. The blackness reminded Brigit of the world she'd loved hundreds of
years ago. But she'd lost her taste for it. She liked a world where lights twinkled in the streets. She straightened her shoulders, ready for yet another fight. She was going to see that world come back.
Eamon turned her to face him. She'd seen too much, he registered with a pang, noting the aching and sadness etching her features. She knew without having to ask that there was no word from Mors or Cleland. Her fears and disappointments hung heavily on her shoulders. But she was still his Brigit. He touched her cheek and saw the ancient sparkle. There was a new beauty in her face, new terrain to explore.
“In all the years to come, I don't think I can ever tell you how happy I am that you've come home.”
Brigit couldn't answer. Her heart was too full. She wished they could step two hundred and fifty years into the future, into the greater safety of Eamon's millennial, but like so much else, it was impossible. There was no choice but to treasure the present.
They kissed, and Brigit concentrated on the kiss. A kiss without beginning or end, a sweet elixir sweeping them into endless joy.
We still have this. And it is everything.
“Come, good lady, the bright day is done, and we are for the dark.”
She smiled. Tomorrow, she would hear all the grim news of the war and what was happening in England and abroad. Tomorrow, she would tell everyone all the disheartening details of the last week, the last month, the last year. Tomorrow, she would join the vigil of hope for Mors and Cleland. But for tonight, she and Eamon wrapped their arms around each other and headed off home through the dark.