Two hours later, they all arrived at the lair. It was an idle section of the U-Bahn, with the extra advantage of never having been completed, so there was only one entrance accessible by humans. Over time, the vampires who had lived there had dug an extra tunnel that wended down into the sewer network. This was kept blocked by a concrete slab that you'd have to be at least a double centennial to budge. Even the stairs led up to a blocked entry, and then a conveniently sheltered yard behind an abandoned butcher's shop. Brigit was surprised, what with the war machine revving up, that valuable property like this wasn't being put to use; but the entire area was run-down and just enough on the city's edge to be unappealing for anyone to want to work, much less live there, unless there was absolutely no other choice. She could understand why vampires had thrived here for so long. Ulrika had assured
them that neither Nachtspeere nor true hunters had ever come anywhere near the lair.
“The Nachtspeere, they're interested in action, not subterfuge. They want to get us when we roam. They certainly don't want to spend much time in forethought.”
Brigit was unconvinced. The Nazis seemed to like convenience, and what could be more convenient than to find the homes of vampire families and simply throw firebombs in them at midday? For true hunters, of course, this was both unsporting and anticlimactic. A tactic saved for the last resort. One didn't go through all that training and prepare for battle and death, only to kill a vampire without even looking at it first, showing it the face of its doom. This was not like war. A born vampire hunter lived the calling as an art. These wormy Nazi thugs who dared term themselves hunters were not interested in art, the refugees made that perfectly clear. But they were only too keen on seeing the eyes of their victims before they dissolved.
Bastards. Souls of geese that bear the shape of men.
The place was musty, with the feel of a home that hadn't been lived in for a long time. Even when vampires had been there, it was nothing like the lovely underground castle in London. Meaghan sniffed and looked fretful, but the others set about lighting a coal fire in the main room and airing the beds.
“I don't know about you lot, but I'm almost tired enough to sleep hanging upside-down from the ceiling,” Mors joked.
Even Meaghan smiled at that. Some humans did get the funniest notions. Personally, Brigit loathed bats and found it insulting that anyone thought she might have an affinity with the filthy beasts, never mind partly being one.
Besides, what a waste of time sleeping would be if you had only parts of your own self to wrap up in?
Wishing she hadn't thought that, Brigit concentrated on picking out her own pocket-sized chamber with a single bed. The less space to move, the less she might notice the body that wasn't there with her. The body that had wrapped itself around her every day for more than seven hundred years.
Brigit pressed her palms tight against her temples. She gulped hard,
and even drew a few breaths. The body's memory allowed the act to be calming. She wiped her hands on her skirt and was perfectly steady when she headed back to the main room, where Mors had called on them to gather.
He'd thoughtfully filled a thermos with blood from the girl at the train station, and now poured it out into five goblets. He grinned as they all held them aloft, watching him.
“To the mission,” he announced, with a solemnity that startled them.
“To the mission,” they repeated, and drank. It wasn't very tasty, but it was still warm, and filling. Better than trying to sleep on an empty stomach.
“A little bit cheerier, all of you! Come on, this isn't so bad. We'll be home soon.” He looked steadily at Brigit and Cleland as he said it, his confident grin large.
They nodded, even smiled, but carefully avoided one another's eyes.
London. November 1938.
Everyone was being so kind. Suggestions for theater outings and concerts and the late-night museum shows and all the things he and Brigit partook of so readily flowed in every evening. Eamon was touched and grateful, but, for now, preferred to be alone. Padraic felt the same. Eamon, feeling his responsibility as one much older, had asked Padraic if he maybe wanted to attend a scientific lecture at King's College. Padraic and Cleland liked that sort of thing. He'd smiled at Eamon's invitation, the first smile he'd managed in a week.
“You wouldn't stay awake ten minutes.” He grinned.
“Oh, I don't know. I could probably manage a good half hour for science. One of your strange numbers things, though, that would put me right out.”
“And they say musicians have an affinity for mathematics.”
“Not this musician.”
Padraic smiled again, and nodded.
“Thanks, Eamon. Another time, maybe?”
Eamon nodded, too, and left Padraic to his studies.
He prowled disconsolately around the West End. There was a lot of nervousness in the air. Londoners felt sure war was coming, and very likely soon. They were almost forcibly enjoying themselves, both to stave off apprehension and to laugh as much as possible before humor was
sucked out of the world again. Eamon smiled. He liked their determination, their stoutness. It was the sort of thing that made him proud to be British.
The theaters held no allurement for him tonight. He couldn't imagine going to a show without Brigit. They'd been going to theater and concerts together for hundreds of years. How could he sit in a theater, how could he concentrate on a show, never mind try to enjoy it, without his Brigit by his side? Unthinkable.
Instead, he walked slowly up Charing Cross Road, vaguely wondering if there was a letter waiting in the post office box they'd gone to such pains to secure. Eamon knew it was too soon for anything to have arrived. He preferred to enjoy the anticipation than experience the flatness of disappointment. Otonia had also devised a series of codes they could use for communicating via telegram, but this was only to be resorted to in an emergency. Picking up telegrams required visiting the office in person. She was sure they would eventually be able to steal their own telegraph machine, but until then, all steps must be taken to avoid suspicion.
Two businessmen walked past Eamon, heading for a club.
“Say what you will about Hitler, you can't deny he's a man of action. Imagine what the stock market would look like if Chamberlain could manage that much action.”
“Shaky, I would think. I prefer steadiness in the market myself. I think I'll be putting my money into shipbuilding. Mark my words, it will yield a fortune.”
“I would guess aeroplanes. Rather wish the war would start already, if we're going to have it. Great bore, waiting.”
Eamon turned to look after them, incredulous. What a peculiar thing, to be considering one's money when the cost of war was human. Perhaps the general public found it easier not to think about it too deeply. He supposed it was useless to expect real understanding, even though the Nuremberg Laws had been printed in the papers and discussed with properly expressed abhorrence before turning to the home news. Everyone approved of the Kindertransport, but quietly agreed that it should have its limits. In spite of the vast improvements, it troubled Eamon to realize that little had changed in the overall attitude toward Jews in Britain since he
himself had been a member of that community some eight centuries ago.
Contemplating the breadth of general prejudice, he'd remarked to Brigit back at the time of the Russian pogroms that it was almost a shame Jews weren't vampires, as some stories had it.
“They'd be a damn sight safer, anyway.”
“But still dead, the way those devils want it.”
“There's always a catch, isn't there? Of course, if death is coming anyway, at least as vampires, they could fight.”
He knew his logic was muddled, but this was not an area in which he could think with his usual clarity. As a Jewish vampire, made on the eve of the York massacre in 1190, he still had a tenuous tie to that segment of human society. The Jew-haters were wrong: Jews were not bloodthirsty and there was no good reason to link them to vampirism, which in any case was so much older than any established religion. But Jews made excellent vampire companions. Theirs was one of the few human groups of which Otonia was aware that had no theory of an afterlife when the human body was spent, so that an observant Jew, once sired, would always retain a shroud of humanity. In one of his songs, Eamon described it as the bittersweet weight of a partial soul. It was indeed as though the soul could not wholly depart but must cling to the animated body it had known, sharing space with the newly lodged demon. The demon was as powerful as in any other vampire, but that fragment of soul gave a Jewish vampire a different sort of light. They were often called the only beating heart of the community. Their lot was not the easiest, because, as Brigit liked to joke, “You eat as heartily as the rest of us, but you feel guilty afterward.” Not entirely true, more that they felt a little melancholy, but it was the idea. Still, they were loved, they were respected, and they were equals, and that was generally such an improvement over their human experience, beyond the Jewish community, that they were prepared for the trials of undead life.
The “millennials only” rule for this mission made sense, but it rankled nonetheless. He hated the idea of not doing anything. Eamon was energetic, and he liked to be active. There were some foolishly vocal Nazi sympathizers to tease and pick off, but they were so inconsequential as hardly seemed worth the effort. Eamon wanted to make a difference.
Even worse than the sting of uselessness was the prickly feel of impending chaos. He couldn't literally see the future, not exactly, but even in his human days, when something explosive neared, he could sense the vibrations, the way some animals knew when a natural disaster was approaching. It had bloomed on his making, and intensified over the centuries. He'd gotten the feel of the plague coming, not it precisely, but something that meant the vampires had better be prepared. So they stole a few sheep and pigs from all the local farmersâmost of whom would later be dead anywayâand maintained them in a hidden shed. It wasn't anyone's favorite solution. Animal blood has not the same nutrients and potency. Some of the new ones had argued strenuously for the stockpiling of plump humans who could be made to last. With not a little asperity, Otonia had reminded them that such torment was not the vampire way. Arousing a bit of fear during the chase, if you fancied, was acceptable and could add a pleasing spice to a meal, but to kidnap and feed from a human for months on end was an act even the demon would repulse. The animals didn't provide quite enough, the vampires had to ration, but it kept them alive. Theirs was the only circle in Europe that remained whole, and thus the tribunal only enhanced its influence.
This time, Eamon wasn't yet sure what they should do, but there was a weight in his abdomen that told him the war was likely unavoidable. Which meant that Brigit and the others were not going to succeed, were putting themselves in danger for almost no reason. It was the damndest thing about humans. Their will would always win out, if it was strong enough.
No, no. We've never tried this. I'm just upset because I miss Brigit. There's no reason they won't accomplish all we hope, and more.
A slow grin spread across his face.
Those poor brownshirt bastards. They won't know what hit them.
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Despite the chill, the streets in Soho were crowded. There was the usual rush to nip down a quick drink, or tuck in a chop or even just a sandwich before one had to be at the theater or concert hall. The people who were out only for supper, or were headed for a private engagement later and thus had more leisure, regarded the desperate ones with happy, haughty amusement, even though they themselves might have been in the same
predicament the night before, or would be so the following night. For himself, Eamon preferred to get a drink after a show, when its pleasures or horrors might be discussed at length. As to eating, well, that was a show all onto itself. One generally guaranteed to be pleasurable.
He began to hum as he strolled, smelling the air, searching. It was one of the only things he and Brigit didâany vampire didâalone. Hunt. Eat. A few occasions called for a shared feast. The monarch's birthday. Winter Solstice. But for most meals, it was a dance you danced as a single. To your own music.
“Literally, in your case.” Brigit smiled.
This was true, but it wasn't a typical tune. Hardly even music, really, more like a code. Eamon's hum swirled into the air like a spider's web, spreading out and out in concentric circles, wending its way through dingy alleys until at last it secured a moth.
About half an hour later, he felt a note hit. She was two hundred yards ahead. He felt the girl's head turn, wondering, interested. She smelled of stealth. He stopped humming when he turned into the alley and leaned against a wall, watching the girl, who was now focused on the back door of a grimy pub. When a drunken young man came out, tugging his hat low, she set upon him, skillfully relieving him of a pocket watch. As she made a play for the purse, however, he noticed her.
“Oy, get off! I ain't interested,” he barked, assuming she was a streetwalker.
“No harm trying.” She grinned.
He made a disparaging gesture and staggered up the street.
She held up the watch, squinting at it in the dim light.
“Not quite nine.” Eamon helpfully announced from behind her.
His hand was on her mouth as she whirled around, muffling her startled scream. His gentle smile and soulful eyes calmed her. But they were also intriguing. There was something about the smile that suggested a man who was not entirely innocent. She liked that. She also liked how well dressed he was. If she could inveigle him somewhere private and distract him, she could probably walk away with a month's haul.
Centuries of experience with stalking the demimonde told Eamon her thoughts, and they never failed to amuse. The silly pickpocket, like so
many before her, did not seem to notice that it was she who was being led somewhere private.
They walked, his hand stroking the small of her back. Shivers ran down her legs. His eyes rarely left her face, and she felt herself falling into them. Nervous, she switched her gaze to his lips, whose curl enchanted her. It seemed almost certain that the strange, seductive sound that had entranced her was coming from them, and if they could make that sort of magic without even touching her, the idea of contact was so enticing as to be unbearable.
How they'd ended up in a dark, deserted corner, she neither knew nor cared. She liked the feel of him, liked the feel of herself with him. His hands, pulling her body into his. And that mouth, that mouth! It didn't meet her own hungry lips, but teased around her ears and jaw so that her knees were buckling. She felt her entire body turn liquid.
There was a sudden pressure on her neck, something that might be pain except that she wanted more, wanted the heat of his embrace to melt her even further, wanted him to take every last bit of her into that amazing mouth. His fingers were firmly, yet tenderly, massaging her spine and neck, and if she had realized that the effect was to manipulate all her blood down his throat, she still might not have minded.
Eamon carefully lay down the empty body, smoothing the girl's skirt over her knees, although not before using it to neatly dab his lips. He stood, and sighedâthe same reflexive action, as so many times before, the body's memory of how to express a twinge of regret. The waste of a life, and yet he needed it to continue his own. A conundrum. Sometimes there was something small he could do, as atonement. He liked that. He searched the girl's jacket carefully.
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Ten minutes later, the drunken young man was struggling to fit his key into the lock at his family's house. His mother opened the door with a frown. But the scold died on her lips and her eyes widened at something unexpected over her son's shoulder. The man looked behind him, apprehensive.
A good-looking fellow with a peculiar smile was casually twirling
his
pocket watch. He handed it to the astonished young man.
“I'm feeling generous tonight. You oughtn't drink so much, though. You're going to need your strength for the fight ahead.”
And, with a polite nod, he was gone. The young man exchanged a glance with his mother. Suddenly cold, he ducked inside.
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It was a pleasant, if long, walk through Camden Town and then up Malden Road on the way to Hampstead Heath. A human would grow weary before even going a quarter of the distance, but vampires liked to stroll. Besides, they could always move faster, if they needed to. It was still early, though, and Eamon wanted to take his time getting home.
On Parliament Hill, he gazed down upon the city, the way he and Brigit had for so many centuries. He still marveled at how it had grown and changed. He adored its lights. Life was there, and adventure, and promise.