With Germany quietening, he and the others would probably be sent where they were useful. The Pacific, probably. If they were shot down again, he vowed to put it down hard this time. Make sure none of them walked away. He’d heard the Japs weren’t nearly as kind to POWs as the Germans.
Mark gazed out at the scenery. Maybe he should just take it all in now, this taste of freedom before he was sent to the other side of the world to die on some other man’s land. At least he’d had a chance to see Armin again.
Even if Armin’s future was uncertain at best, bleak at worst, they’d had those few stolen moments. It seemed a shame for them to have a taste of that, and then go off to their respective deaths in a war they were tired of fighting, but then again, it would have been a greater shame to go to the grave without tasting it at all.
He hoped that whatever had been gained by this war had been worth all this. As his gaze drifted from man to haunted, battle-weary man, he struggled to imagine what could have been gained. Or how it could be worth it.
He closed his eyes. The brass didn’t pay him to make decisions or weigh the outcomes, though. They paid him to follow orders. Which he’d done.
Next, leave.
After that, more orders.
And this time, he’d put that plane down hard.
Chapter 33
Four years later
Sitting in the last row of a nearly silent train carriage, Mark checked for the hundredth time that the letter was still in his breast pocket, but he couldn’t bring himself to read it again. He’d read it once, then a second time to be sure, and he’d carried it with him ever since. Days now, though it seemed like forever. And it seemed like forever that he’d been waiting for the answer that had finally come.
He couldn’t look at the words this time, though. He couldn’t handle another flood of emotion. Not until he’d seen for himself what he’d come all this way to confirm.
Circumstances notwithstanding, after the long trip via London, Dover, Dunkirk, Mark had dreaded setting foot on German soil again.
The destruction was still visible. Especially when the train rolled through the large cities, some quarters seemed nearly untouched, with German hausfraus watering the plants, and other parts of the city had been turned into mounds of rubble.
The Germans in the same train carriage didn’t seem to see it—they didn’t even seem to gaze out the windows. The way they moved in their own country reminded Mark of ghosts or sleepwalkers. But still, he also saw people clearing the rubble. The tracks seemed largely repaired, and the people seemed to busy themselves with whatever work they were doing, and kept their heads down.
What struck him most was the absence of uniforms. Every time he’d been to Germany, everybody seemed to have been in uniform—girls, boys, men. And there were no swastikas, no red flags with a white circle and a misshapen cross-form rolling across the world. Once that large cluster of half-destroyed cities lay beyond, the train then ran along the Rhine—a broad, majestic river that soothed his eyes and mind after the destruction.
Gradually, the train emptied and by the time he reached the station that was his destination, he was almost alone in the carriage, apart from a young man who’d lost a leg in the last war; but he slept peacefully, and Mark assumed the conductor would keep an eye on him.
He gathered his suitcases and stepped into the open air. This station hadn’t been turned to rubble—the small town could hardly have been a strategic target.
With his heart in his throat and the suitcase handles threatening to slip free from his damp palms, he made his way to the road.
There, a dark limousine waited. His heart beat a little higher. Two men stood beside it—a taller one, dark-haired and smoking. The other was eclipsed by shadows.
As he approached, the men turned. Mark barely noticed the taller one. His focus—his gaze, his mind, all the uncertainty that had kept him awake night after night for years—homed in on the other.
On Armin.
Alive, and free, and … Armin.
He wore a civilian suit instead of his ever-present uniform, but Mark didn’t struggle at all to recognize him. Armin looked well, too. Healthier. Even the harsh streetlights couldn’t hide the color in his face, or how all the lines had been softened by nutrition and rest.
The other man exchanged some words with Armin, who nodded, then flicked off his cigarette. “Mr. Driscoll.” He came close with both hands offered. “Welcome. I’m Oskar, Armin’s cousin.”
Mark let himself be pulled into a friendly embrace—so much for German reserve being compulsory for all of Armin’s family—and he was certainly not going to be impolite.
But it wasn’t Oskar who Mark wanted to touch. Ever since that letter had come, he’d wanted—needed—to see if Armin was real. He’d heard nothing since leaving Ahlenstieg, not a word until long after the war had ended on all fronts and the whole world was trying to adapt to this thing called peace.
Then the letter had come, and Mark had been on a train as soon as he’d been able. Had this been some kind of joke, or some kind of ploy to lure him back to Germany for God knew what reason, he’d have broken necks.
But it wasn’t a joke. And there was Armin. Alive and real.
Armin smiled. “It’s good to see you, old friend.”
Mark smiled back. “You too. I’ve … wondered about you. Constantly.”
“Likewise.” Armin squeezed Mark’s arm, probably the closest thing to affection he dared show out here. “I had heard they were sending more men to the other front. Worried you might be among them.”
Mark shook his head. “It all ended before they put me in another plane. Thank God.”
“Indeed.”
Beside them, Oskar cleared his throat. “Are you two planning to reunite here for the rest of the evening?”
Armin laughed. Really laughed, his eyes sparkling. “Margarete will be waiting whether we’re here for a minute or an hour.”
Oskar huffed, and came back with something in German.
Armin chuckled. To Mark, he murmured, “You’d think they were newlyweds.” Then he gestured at the car. “After you.”
Oskar took care of Mark’s suitcases while he and Armin climbed into the backseat.
As the car pulled away from the station, Armin found Mark’s hand in the shadows, and squeezed it, and Mark’s throat tightened. He really was here, wasn’t he? After all this time, thinking the worst had happened …
“How did you manage to …?”
Armin ran his thumb along Mark’s hand. “To survive?”
Mark nodded.
“It turns out,” Armin said, a hint of a smile in his voice, “that some of my captives put in a good word for me. I was interrogated to no end.” He clicked his tongue. “How many times a man can answer the same questions … ugh.”
Mark laughed. “But they released you.”
“Eventually, yes. I was deemed too useful to serve a lot of time as a prisoner of war. Many of my men weren’t so lucky.”
In the driver’s seat, Oskar huffed again, and said something in rapid German, sounding exasperated.
“Oskar!” Armin scowled.
Oskar laughed, shrugging.
“What did he say?” Mark asked.
Armin pursed his lips. “He said there’d be time to catch up about the infernal war later, and would I stop acting like a bashful school girl and just kiss you already.”
Mark burst out laughing. “He … does he know?”
“Unfortunately. Perhaps I should learn when to hold my tongue.”
“I don’t know.” Mark reached for Armin’s face. “I think he’s got a good point.”
He didn’t wait for a response, and pressed his lips to Armin’s.
Oskar said something, but Armin didn’t respond and Mark didn’t hear it. He could’ve said it in perfect English, and Mark wouldn’t have understood a word of it.
Every touch they’d ever shared had been clandestine, dangerous—a stolen moment with far too many
consequences dangling over them. Every time they’d kissed, it had been quite possibly the last.
This time, it felt like the first. And yet it wasn’t. It was a kiss that said “I’m all right, are you” in every conceivable way, and Mark could never have tired of hearing it. Armin’s letter had only said so much—that he was alive and that Mark would be welcome in “a different kind of castle” and that “he’d make this stay much more pleasant.” And that had been enough to cross the ocean and find this little town on the Rhine. Mark touched his forehead to Armin’s. “I still can’t quite believe it.”
“It’s real. And sorry about my impossible cousin, but I needed a driver. And he insisted.”
“And you didn’t trust yourself to drive once you’ve picked him up,” Oskar said good-naturedly over his shoulder.
“That, too. You see, Göring didn’t keep him around for his good looks.”
“Göring?”
“The gold pheasant took a liking to my cousin. Oskar is Luftwaffe—was Luftwaffe. Dined with the bastard for years. Put on almost as much weight as he did, too.”
Oskar ran a hand over his trim figure. “To be disgraced just in time, I have to admit. Göring loved nobility, he collected them. I didn’t particularly share his other tastes.”
“Ah, no. Oskar was as much a Nazi as I was, don’t worry about him.”
The car continued up a hill that grew gradually steeper, then turned sharply to the right and continued up another steep path.
At the top stood a castle. It was markedly different to Ahlenstieg—for one, it was much smaller, the walls not nearly as high or forbidding, and the stone work was rougher. The inner building, likewise, was smaller and shorter and seemed more timber-frame construction than stone.
“This is a good two-hundred years older than Ahlenstieg. Proper medieval castle, built by a very distant ancestor who made his living as a robber baron from the trade route along the Rhine.” Armin got out of the car. “It’s a millstone around the neck, financially and otherwise, but it is the actual seat of my family.”
Mark took in his surroundings with wide eyes. “Well, I’m beginning to think my family’s farm in Iowa probably won’t impress you much …”
Armin laughed. “I don’t need it to impress you.” His humor faded a little, and when Mark turned to him, the reflection of the headlights illuminated his features. Sobering, Armin took Mark’s hand. “Strange, isn’t it? The first time you set foot in a castle of mine, I intended to cage you there just as I did everyone else. Here …” He looked down at their hands, then back at Mark. “I don’t want to contain you. I just don’t want to lose you.”
Mark’s heart fluttered, and to his surprise, a lump rose in his throat. He wrapped his other arm around Armin’s waist. “It took Olympic Games for me to find you, and a war to find you again.” He let go of Armin’s hand and touched his cheek. “It would take every battalion left standing to drag me away this time.”
Armin smiled, resting his hand on Mark’s waist. “At least this time I won’t be feeding you war rations and Red Cross parcels.”
Mark laughed and touched his forehead to Armin’s. “Even that wouldn’t be enough to turn me away.”
“I should hope not. But we do have better this time. Much better.” Armin pulled back a bit and nodded toward the front door, through which Oskar was lugging his suitcases. “We should go inside. You must be hungry.”
“I am. But I can wait a few minutes for that.” He gently took Armin’s chin, turned him back to him, and kissed him.
The castle, the food, the rest of the family—hell, the future itself—could all wait. Standing out here in the headlights, the night cooling around them and a warm bed waiting for them, Mark had no desire to be anywhere but here. There was no more rivalry, no enemies and no opponents. No national honor or national defense.
Just Mark. Just Armin.
Just two men who’d finally found their way home.
The End
Also by Aleksandr Voinov
Nightingale
Skybound
Unhinge the Universe, with L.A. Witt
Witches of London – Lars
Witches of London – Eagle’s Shadow, with Jordan Taylor
Witches of London – Shadows Watching, with Jordan Taylor
Dark Soul, Volumes I-III
Burn
Gold Digger
Return on Investment (Return on Investment #1)
Risk Return (Return on Investment #2)
Deliverance, also available in audio
Incursion (Doctrine Wars), also available in audio
Exile (Doctrine Wars)
Dark Edge of Honor (Doctrine Wars), with Rhi Etzweiler
The Lion of Kent, with Kate Cotoner
For a list, go to www.aleksandrvoinov.com/bookshelf.html.
About the Authors
EPIC Award winner and Lambda Award finalist Aleksandr Voinov is an emigrant German author living near London, where he works as a financial editor. His genres range from science fiction and fantasy to thriller, historical, contemporary, and erotica. His books were/are published by Random House Germany, Samhain Publishing, and others.
If he isn’t writing, he studies sports massage, explores historical sites, and meets other writers. He single-handedly sustains three London bookstores with his ever-changing research projects. His current interests include special forces operations during World War II, the history of chess, European magical traditions, and how to destroy the world and plunge it into a nuclear winter without having the benefit of nuclear weapons.
Visit Aleksandr’s website at www.aleksandrvoinov.com, his blog at www.aleksandrvoinov.blogspot.com, follow him on Twitter, where he tweets as @aleksandrvoinov, and/or subscribe to his newsletter at: http://eepurl.com/71jNz.
L.A. Witt is an abnormal M/M romance writer who has finally been released from the purgatorial corn maze of Omaha, Nebraska, and now spends her time on the southwestern coast of Spain. In between wondering how she didn’t lose her mind in Omaha, she explores the country with her husband, several clairvoyant hamsters, and an ever-growing herd of rabid plot bunnies. She also has substantially more time on her hands these days, as she has recruited a small army of mercenaries to search South America for her nemesis, romance author Lauren Gallagher, but don’t tell Lauren. And definitely don’t tell Lori A. Witt or Ann Gallagher. Neither of those twits can keep their mouths shut …
Website: www.gallagherwitt.com
Email: [email protected]
Twitter: @GallagherWitt
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