Waging War (35 page)

His gaze was direct and unflinching. “When
are we enough for ourselves?”

Hunting

The sound of low voices carried on a sudden
breeze, and Ringo and I sat up warily. It was another minute before
the voices could be heard again, and then we relaxed. It was Nancy
speaking quietly in English, which meant she was walking with
Archer.

Archer must have already heard us, but our
presence startled Nancy when they came into view.

“Oh! It’s you!”

Archer strode over to us, his eyes scanning
first me, then Ringo, looking for injuries I guessed. “You’re
well?” he said quietly.

We both nodded. His voice softened to a
whisper. “Thank you.”

He meant thank you for distracting the
sniper. I smiled. “Thanks for not letting me get shot.”

I meant by Nancy, who was tucking various
things back into her bicycle basket. “You had your men set off the
explosives?” I asked her.

She grimaced. “It was early, but given the
circumstances with the snipers it couldn’t be helped.”

“Thank you. It gave us the cover we needed
to get out of there.”

Nancy’s eyes were caught by the sniper rifle
on Ringo’s back. She held her hand out for it. “Mind if I have a
look at that?” Ringo handed it over and she studied it, and then
him, with grudging admiration. “So, you got this off the big one,
then? Devereux said it was you who took him down, but I didn’t
believe him. Then again, I thought I saw a lion in the woods, so
maybe I don’t know everything.” She held the rifle out to him to
take back, but he shook his head.

“You don’t want it?” she asked,
surprised.

“I don’t much care for a weapon that’ll get
me executed just for ‘avin’ it.”

She slung it over her own shoulder. “Only if
they catch you.”

“That’s not comfortin’,” Ringo said
solemnly. “Did ye truss yer man up for questionin’?”

Nancy shook her head. “Dead.”

I looked at Ringo. His expression was grim,
but Archer caught the exchange and clarified. “Shot. The sniper
from the tree shot him before he ran.”

Relief and disgust warred for dominance in
me. Relief won.

“We thought if we waited ‘ere, we’d catch
‘im on the drive out.” Ringo said to Archer.

“Apparently, he hid his vehicle in a field
just beyond the stand of trees. We had discounted it as a hiding
place because one would have to cross a stream from there in order
to get out.” Archer sounded annoyed with himself, and I spoke up
with a realization that I could have anticipated the
stream-crossing maneuver.

“Except those kind of cars were, I mean
are
amphibious. Put the plugs in the bottom and they float.”
I knew this because a VW Thing was the slightly less ugly stepchild
of its World War II predecessor, which was what the snipers drove.
My mom had once borrowed a bright orange convertible Thing from our
surfer neighbor when we lived in Venice Beach a lifetime ago.

Ringo looked up in interest, but Archer had
already shifted gears. “You were right about them being Werwolves.
The dead one wore their insignia on his shoulder.” His tone was
serious.

Nancy sounded angry. “If there is indeed an
Englishman working with this lot, I’m going to string him up
myself.”

I had no intention of letting Nancy anywhere
near Tom Landers, not that she’d get very far with her threat if
she did find him. “Were there any clues on the body about where
they might be staying?”

She scoffed. “Nothing. But I’d bet boots to
buttons they’re quartered in Limoges waiting for the 2
^nd
Panzer Division to come in. You can be sure my men will be scouring
the city at daybreak.”

I didn’t bother to tell her that if Tom was
hiding in Limoges with the Werwolves, he’d be down during the day.
She might find his team, but he’d have made sure he was safe from
casual eyes.

At this time of night it would be foolish
for us to try to get to Limoges, mostly because Archer would have
to go down in a couple of hours, and we didn’t have any guarantee
of a safe place to bunker. I turned to Archer and Ringo and kept my
voice casual.

“Guys, I’m done for the night. Would you see
me back so I can get some rest?”

Nancy looked a little suspicious. “I’d have
thought you’d want to head the search party for your
Englishman.”

I smiled faintly. “I’m exhausted and would
probably get myself captured if I stumbled around Limoges in this
state. I guess I’m just going to have to trust that if you find
him, you’ll let me talk to him before you string him up.”

Her eyes narrowed speculatively, but she
nodded. “Do you need a place to sleep?”

I shook my head. “No thanks, I’m good.”

“Well, if you’re staying in any of the
villages around here, watch yourself. They’re full of Vichy
sympathizers without the sense to know they’re playing for the
wrong team.” Her tone was dismissive, but I could hear the warning
underneath. I wasn’t sure who I was more nervous about though, the
Vichy French or her Maquis, many of whom had struck me as armed
thugs masquerading behind a noble cause.

“Are any of the villages safe-havens for
Maquis?” I asked as innocently as I knew how to.

She shrugged. “My people are in every
village and town in Limousin. We’ve spread our resources around in
order to become malaria-carrying mosquitos, buzzing around German
ears and driving them to such distraction they don’t even realize
they’re already dying.”

Right, which meant there were definitely
Maquis around Marianne’s village.

We said our goodbyes to Nancy when her
saboteurs returned for their bikes, and as we pedaled away with a
promise to return the bicycles the next night, I realized Nancy no
longer intimidated me like she had when we first met. She was a
person who believed passionately in her cause, which wasn’t really
too different from me, and I admired her commitment to it, even
though I disagreed with some of her tactics.

I had also let go of the idea that she was a
threat to me with Archer. Whatever it was that had happened in my
Archer’s past wasn’t happening with Nancy now, and despite the
emotional tangle I’d been trying to unravel about my feelings for
him in this time, that particular thread was more like spider silk
than a thick strand of wooly yarn.

We’d been riding in silence for a while when
Ringo suddenly held up an arm to stop us. Remarkably, none of our
brakes squeaked, and we were able to halt with comparative stealth.
Ringo tipped his bike to the ground quietly, then slipped forward
into the woods. Archer and I followed right behind him without
question.

There was a small clearing just ahead, and a
young buck stood in it, remarkably oblivious to our presence. Ringo
must have spotted him from the road as he headed this way, and
whatever breeze there was came from the direction of the deer, so
he hadn’t scented us yet.

Ringo shared a silent communication with
Archer that he should be the one to go around to the back side of
the glen so we could surround the deer. “Ye might still smell o’
cat,” he whispered in response to my raised eyebrow. Archer
disappeared into the shadows while Ringo and I spread out on our
side of the deer. Using hand signals, Ringo told me we’d drive the
deer toward Archer, and since Archer had the only firearm among us,
it made sense he would be the one to make the kill.

I didn’t stop to think about what we were
doing, probably because this was food in a time when people were
starving. But I’d never actually hunted a deer before, and my heart
was pounding when Ringo motioned to me to take out my daggers. I
didn’t want to be the one to actually kill the animal, no matter
how pragmatic I was being about our need for meat.

We circled around in complete silence, with
every ounce of my focus on foot placement and controlling my
breath. I was about ten feet from the buck, close enough to see the
brown-red of his coat, when his head shot up and he stared around
him with huge, terrified eyes. His nostrils flared as he swiveled
his head in the direction Archer had gone, and I suddenly realized
I might have to be the one to take him down if he bolted in this
direction.

Ringo must have realized that too, because
he threw a rock that landed in front of me, just as he stepped
forward into view. The simultaneous sound and movement drove the
buck straight toward Archer, and a moment later the crash of
something big going down could be heard through the woods. Notably
absent, however, was a gunshot, and a sick feeling coursed through
me.

I ran toward the sound, hoping it was the
deer that had gone down and not Archer. Ringo got there first, and
I saw him turn as if to protect me. But then he stopped himself,
and in a fluid motion, he stepped aside.

The buck was down, and his legs twitched
with a final convulsion before going still. Archer was bent over
him, and it looked like he was holding the buck’s head as it died.
A hunting knife was clenched in his hand, its blade black with the
deer’s blood.

Ringo took a step back and made the nearly
silent “chhhttt” sound he used to get my attention. His eyes were
locked on mine like he was using his mental powers to make me
retreat. I thought I’d been pretty stoic about gutting and cleaning
the pheasant he’d hunted, so I didn’t understand why he was trying
to will me away.

Until I realized Archer wasn’t just holding
the buck as it died. He was drinking its blood from the gash at its
neck.

Ugh. Nausea roiled in my stomach and fear
surged through me. The instinct to run very fast and very far away
hit at the same moment as a single word pounded my brain.

Vampire.

I stumbled backwards gracelessly, and the
sound made Archer look up.

There was blood on his chin, and an intent
expression on his face.

There was hunger, and fear, and
embarrassment in his eyes.

There weren’t fangs protruding from his
mouth and his eyes weren’t glowing yellow with malevolence. He
wasn’t a creature, he was a man taking the only sustenance that
gave him nourishment.

And I was his girlfriend.

The fear began to drain out of me as I
watched him struggle with the knowledge that I had now seen him
feed. His eyes searched my face for a long moment before he finally
bent his head to continue drinking the blood that had been coursing
from the gash in the buck’s throat. It was like he didn’t want to
see my terror or my disgust. He didn’t want to watch me turn and
flee, so he turned back to do the thing that would cause me to
run.

Except I didn’t.

Ringo watched me with interest as I crouched
down and sat on my haunches to wait for Archer to finish. After a
moment, Ringo did the same, and we sat in silence, not watching
Archer eat, nor looking at anything in particular.

My Cougar rose up with interest at the scent
of the fresh kill that drifted on the breeze. I let her come up
enough to say one word to her –
Archer
– before I felt her
give the feline equivalent of a nod and then drift back down to her
resting place inside my bones. It was an odd feeling – this
acceptance – both of Archer and of my own nature, and I sort of sat
there marveling at it for a moment. I still didn’t think I’d be
letting my Cat hunt anytime soon, but at least the thought didn’t
repel me anymore.

I looked up to find Archer standing a couple
of feet away from me as if he was afraid to come any closer. His
face had been wiped of blood, though I could still see some on his
collar where it had dripped when he saw me watching him.

I got to my feet. “Should we butcher it here
or take the whole carcass back to Marianne’s?”

Archer flinched, like he expected something
much worse to come out of my mouth and had braced for it. Ringo
rose smoothly and brushed himself off. “I say we do the cuttin’
‘ere. That way we can divide the meat three ways and pack it in the
hide.”

Archer stepped forward and looked us both in
the eyes. “I’m sorry you had to see that.” His voice was so
tentative it made my heart hurt.

“How long had it been since you’d eaten?” I
held his gaze.

“Not so long that I couldn’t control myself.
But sometimes opportunity overrides will, and I knew if I ate now,
I’d need less later.”

“When does the control get ‘ard?” Ringo
asked. His tone was as straightforward as mine had been. We were
letting Archer know it was okay to talk about, and he seemed to
relax a little.

“I try to hunt every three days or so to
keep the craving under control.” Archer took a deep breath and I
thought I heard a shudder in it. “In December, 1940, I was in
London on the night of the worst air raid that city has seen. I
hadn’t eaten in four days, and in fact, had been at the train
station to leave London for Epping Wood so I could hunt.”