by Ann Gimpel
The safest way across was on foot for the Rom and in shifted form for everyone else. He ticked off names of the principal players. Nivkh, Tairin, Elliott, Jamal, Ilona, Meara, and Gregor were shifters. All wolves except for Meara, Nivkh, and two other bear shifters, one of whom was their driver. That left himself, Michael, Cadr, Vreis, and Aron in their human bodies, along with three other Rom from Michael’s caravan.
He thought about his own caravan hidden behind a magical barrier a few miles outside Munich. It was hundreds of miles away, and he hoped to hell they’d be safe. He hadn’t always been a caravan leader. In truth, he’d only adopted the Romani mantle a mere century before. Or perhaps it had been two. Regardless, he’d pulled off the deception swimmingly—until a few days ago. Jamal was sharp. He’d asked pointblank what Stewart was, having intuited his magic didn’t match Romani energy patterns.
Fortunately, Jamal had the good sense not to keep picking at the topic once Stewart told him it was off-limits. He swallowed a snort. Romani magic had dwindled until only a very few had much left. But Jamal was a shifter, and an old, canny one at that. Leave it to a shifter to call him out on his long-running deception.
Before the Nazi problem had heated up, he’d toyed with the idea of translocating his entire caravan to Scotland, but he’d waited too long. He hadn’t understood how the Reich solidified its powerbase so quickly—until he realized their mass hypnotism was fueled by vampire coercion.
A squawk from Meara’s vulture was followed by a flash of light as she shifted midair and somersaulted to his side, landing lightly. Silver-gray hair fell to the ground, providing both cover and warmth. Her shrewd amber eyes still held an avian cast, and she looked more raptor than human as she regarded him.
“Mind if I join you?”
He met her gaze, not fooled by her words. She was one of the first shifters and always had a motive. “Ye’re not asking a question. Not really,” he countered. “State what’s on your mind.”
The prickly jab of magic pierced him as she surrounded them with warding. Along with it came the odor of clay baked under a sun far hotter than it ever got in Germany—or the British Isles. It was the scent of many of her castings. Whatever she had to say, she apparently wasn’t interested in being overheard.
“Everyone’s too worried to pay us much heed,” he said, keeping his tone neutral. The vulture shifter could be touchy and had a short fuse.
She shot a pointed look his way. “So you want them to listen in when I inquire whether now is the time to reveal what you are?” Without waiting for him to respond, she went on, “The shifters will take their animal forms. Crossing the border unnoticed should go smoothly for them—”
“Unless a vampire notices,” he cut in.
“Unless a vampire notices and chooses to act on the knowledge,” she corrected him. “Shifters are immune to vampire mind control. They’ve pretty much left us alone because of that, preferring to focus on more tractable prey.”
Stewart waited. Meara clearly had a plan of her own for spiriting them across the border into the Netherlands. One which she was about to promulgate. Perhaps it was less risky than his.
“You’re quiet,” she observed.
“Ye’re far from done. If I interrupt every few seconds, ye’ll never finish.”
The corners of her mouth twitched, but didn’t quite form a smile. “True enough. All right then. By my count, there are eight of you who are stuck in human bodies. Seven if we take you out of the equation, but bear with me.”
He made come along motions with one hand, not wanting to respond to her gambit about taking himself out of the equation. She sensed he was different, much as Jamal had, but he’d been evasive in the face of her earlier probing. Was she hunting for information?
“What is your true name?”
Stewart started, not expecting the question. He shook his head. “’Tisn’t important. I havena used it for centuries, and no one remembers who I was.”
Meara frowned, drawing her gray eyebrows into a single line. “Surely your gods would. Shifters don’t have such things, but the Celts had them in droves.”
“Aye, true enough. If any recall who I was, none have chosen to speak with me for a verra long time.”
He cut the flow of his words. Part of his plan hinged on those same gods, who’d discounted him for hundreds of years, still being tethered to Earth and capable of responding to a summons for aid. It was one of the biggest unknowns in his strategy, and one he hadn’t spent much time worrying about. He had to get to Scotland first, and that was far from a given.
Even if the Celtic gods had left for other worlds, the British Isles would still concentrate his power, and everyone else’s as well. But it might not be enough to subvert the Nazis and their war machine.
Meara narrowed her eyes. The gesture made her look even more like a vulture. “Skipping your name, you were a Druid high priest, correct?”
“Good guess. I was the highest-ranking Druid in Britain. ’Tis why I’m close to immortal.”
She narrowed her eyes further. “What does close to immortal mean?”
He shrugged. “I’m not exactly certain. Danu, Gwydion, Arianrhod, and a few of the others got into an argument over activities at one of the Druid temples. We had an overabundance of corrupt priests, and I had to sanction them. Not one of the proudest moments in our priesthood, but—”
“Sanction as in kill?”
“Yes.” An image of bodies smoldering atop a pyre flashed through his mind. He pushed it aside.
“Interesting. I had no idea Druids were so bloodthirsty.”
“We’re not.” Defensiveness raced through him like a hot tide. “Times might have been different then, but some transgressions deserve death no matter what the era.”
“Now it’s me who’s doing the interrupting. You brought this up to answer my question about immortality. Go on. I’ll bite my tongue.”
Stewart had a hard time imagining her sitting on her opinions, but kept that thought to himself. “Not so much more to tell. Druid priests provided a buffer between the Celtic gods and everyone else. The gods didn’t want to have to deal with anyone but me after the problem I described earlier, so they told me I’d live a long time.”
“That’s it?” Meara’s nostrils flared. “No rough estimates?”
Stewart shook his head. “After the first five hundred years or so, I stopped expecting to drop dead and just went with the flow. Modern times have made it harder to slip out of sight and reappear elsewhere. ’Twas one of the reasons I opted to masquerade as a Rom. They’re wanderers and more likely to escape notice. I’ve had to change caravans a few times, but luck—or something—has been with me. I’ve run into freshly leaderless caravans at just the right time. A dollop of coercion mixed with a dash of compulsion were enough to put me in charge.”
He stopped to consider his next words. “Other than bullying my way in, I’ve never taken advantage of the Rom in my caravans. I needed a position where people would accept my magic, and the Rom never questioned me. I couldn’t very well be a shifter. Druidry has seen a bit of a resurgence, but nothing where I could lose myself and be invisible. Not much in the way of other magic wielders left in the world.”
“You forgot vampires.” A feral expression etched into her ageless face.
“As if I could. You asked me all these things for a reason. What do you have in mind?”
“I’ve been playing with a few options. It would be safer for the Rom to be invisible, but that level of expended magic fanned out over a large area is sure to attract vampires, if any are in the region.”
“What does any of that have to do with exposing myself as a Druid?”
“I was hoping you’d have some special magical tricks at your disposal.”
“Tricks that would reveal I couldna be Romani if I employed them, eh?” Stewart cleared his throat. “Nay. Sorry. I havena any magic bullet that will transport the eight of us who aren’t shifters across the border. We’ll have to pray
our good fortune holds. I dinna expect we’d get this far without notice, yet we have.”
“You’re planning to leave the truck on this side, right?”
“Aye. Too difficult to find a route past the border that won’t entail searches and requests for papers. None of us have them except the driver, and those are stolen. The communications network turns slowly, but by now the name on his identification might be on a list that would alert a border guard.”
“I’ve cut that deck a few ways. We’ll need transport on the other side. It’s either that or a very long walk to the docks in Amsterdam where we can find a ship. Over sixty miles through settled country, places where a pack of wolves and a few bears would stick out like mismatched shoes or stockings.”
“Better if we angle north and try for a ship around Eernshaven.”
“So more than sixty miles and even more reason to hang onto the truck. Shifters can still take to their animal forms to cross the border, which would leave Rom in the truck. Not so big a challenge to make it appear no one is there when the border guard checks the back, and I can magic up the driver’s papers to make certain they’re not flagged as stolen.”
“I don’t like it. What if the guard is one of the SS who’ve parleyed with vampires and holds some of their magic? Worse, what if the guard is a vampire?”
Meara looked askance at him. “Have you seen even one vampire actually working for the Reich? Never mind in a menial, boring position where they’d be standing beside a little booth for hours checking an endless procession of vehicles?”
Stewart winced. “No. Maybe I’m overreacting, but this border idea was mine, and I’m the one who’ll have to live with it if we lose anyone during the crossing.”
Her harsh expression softened, and she stopped walking and laid a hand on his arm. “The odds of all of us making it across aren’t good. You have to know that.”
“I do, but I doona wish to add to the risks.”
“How were you thinking we’d cross the Netherlands once we put the border behind us?” Her question was soft, but her penetrating gaze never left him.
“Stealing a vehicle.” When he said it out loud, the words pinged sourly. Talk about danger. And an immediate one at that. Even if they removed the plates, most cars were easy enough to recognize.
“Stealing, eh?” She snorted. “You’ve traveled with the Rom so long, you think like one. We’d need at least two vehicles. Maybe even three to accommodate everyone, which means we’d have to split up. Nothing like three stolen cars caravanning across the country.”
Breath whistled through his clenched teeth. “You made your point. We’ll chance it with the truck. You were just overflying the area. I bet you have a suggestion about which border crossing station we should approach.”
She rolled her eyes. “I like to think I’m not quite that transparent.”
“Why go through a quarter hour of conversation? Why not just tell me what you wanted to do?”
“It’s always better if we come to agreement. No one likes being force-fed another’s ideas. Turns out we can remain on the road we left before this break. It’s as good as any other, and I didn’t sense vampires. Which isn’t to say some couldn’t show up between now and nightfall—”
She snapped her fingers, but before she could say anything, he spoke up. “No reason to wait for nightfall if we don’t need darkness to shroud ourselves. Vampires are strongest at night, so we’re better off rounding everyone up and going right now.”
“You read my thoughts. I’m off to work on the driver’s papers. See you on the other side.” Light flashed around the vulture shifter just before she vanished.
Stewart hustled back to the group and rattled off names. “Change of plans. Into the truck with you.”
Cadr jumped to his feet. Loose black trousers were tucked into a battered pair of leather boots, and a heavy navy blue sweater was tossed over a lighter woolen top. Curly dark hair fell to his shoulders, and his blue eyes crinkled with concern at their corners. “Och aye, and I thought we were waiting for the dark to better hide ourselves.”
“’Twas my original plan as well, but Meara talked me out of it. I was going to leave the truck and chance it on foot, but she helped me realize how badly we’ll need transport big enough to hold all of us once we cross the border.”
Cadr cocked his head to one side. “Are the shifters still crossing as animals?”
“Aye, ’twill be just us Rom in the truck. Ready your magic. We’ll weave a ward to render ourselves invisible.” Stewart loped toward the truck, still calling names. By the time he got to there, everyone was loaded into its cavernous bed, and he joined them.
Meara lifted the canvas and stuck her head inside. “Drape the blankets over yourselves. Rather than invisible, try a spell that makes the lot of you appear dead.”
Michael shifted his swarthy, thickset body and nodded in her direction. “Brilliant. Most people are uncomfortable enough with death, they won’t wish to examine corpses too closely.”
She cracked a rare smile. “Not just corpses. Dutch citizens returning to their native soil for burial.” She dropped the canvas side, and the truck’s beefy engine roared to life.
“Thank you.” Stewart directed his telepathic comment to the driver.
“Why thank me? It’s my truck. None of you could figure out how to drive it on short notice.”
“Because if it weren’t for us, ye could join the other shifters and cross in your bear form.”
Laughter rolled through Stewart’s head. When the shifter stopped chortling, he said, “Yeah, like a bear in the middle of winter isn’t something that would make folk sit up and take notice. We’re supposed to be asleep.”
Stewart almost thanked him again for interrupting his hibernation cycle, but didn’t. The less magic expended right now, the better.
“Do you believe we’ll be all right?” Aron asked, his gray eyes pinched with worry. At sixteen, he was the youngest of them. Ilona was his sister, but she’d very recently become a shifter because there were no other options to call her back from a borderworld inhabited by Romani spirits.
“Come here.” Stewart beckoned. “Ye can join me beneath my blanket.”
Aron scooted across the truck’s rough bed. “Thank you. I’m scared.”
“Rightfully, so, lad,” Michael said. “It’s not as if you haven’t had a rough go of it between the Nazi prison camp and vampires feeding off you.”
Aron straightened his thin shoulders and pushed long, dark hair out of his face. “Meara fixed the bad places in me. Vampires can’t find me anymore.”
Stewart heard a tremor in the lad’s voice. “Ye said the words,” he exhorted. “Now ye have to believe them.”
“Yes, sir.”
Stewart arranged a blanket, lay on it, and motioned for Aron to lie next to him before he draped another blanket over them. The truck pitched and rolled on the dirt road before getting back on asphalt. It wouldn’t be long now.
“Open your minds to me,” Stewart instructed and wove a spell with all their various magics. Death was easier than invisibility. He even added the stench of decaying flesh to make it more realistic.
The truck rumbled to a stop, and he heard a guard demanding papers. Aron edged closer, and Stewart’s heart went out to the boy. In many ways, crossing on foot would have been easier. At least movement provided an outlet for the adrenaline that had to be pouring through everyone scattered across the truck’s bed.
Heavy footsteps moved around the truck, and Stewart tightened the web he’d woven around them all. Next to him, Aron flinched and started to shake.
“They can’t see me anymore, can they?” Even his telepathy was breathless.
“Ssht. Remain still.” Stewart sent a thread of power outward. He’d been so focused on protecting everyone inside the truck, he hadn’t bothered to check who was headed their way.
Vampires.
Goddammit! He followed up the English curse with a string of Gaelic ones, but ke
pt them locked in his head.
Meara’s intervention might have moved Aron beyond vampire gunsights, but the lad was still sensitive to their presence.
Thank the goddess for small favors.
Vampires would enjoy dead cargo, but maybe not long dead. Stewart upped the ante on the rotten carcass smell until he wanted to gag.
Someone pulled back a corner of the canvas and dropped it in a hurry. “Whew! That’s terrible.”
“Are you certain?” a second voice demanded. “I’m hungry.”
“Not for those you aren’t,” the first voice responded.
The canvas was pulled back a second time, followed by the truck’s springs complaining as someone jumped into the bed. “Pick me up on the other side of the border,” the vampire who’d just entered their truck called cheerily to his companion. “Easier to find something back here than to grab any more humans. They’re touchy as scalded cats. Superstitious too.”
“Meet you in the Netherlands, but not until well past nightfall. Just jump down when you’re done. I’ll find you later,” echoed from next to the truck. Its engine whined, and the gears ground as they engaged. Tires thumped as they rolled through the gateway and into a country free from Nazi domination.
One problem at a time, Stewart told himself. Getting the crossing behind them was huge.
He’d just begun to reshape their shared magic to snare the vampire when Aron bolted upright and launched himself at the creature. His lips were drawn back from his teeth, but no sound emerged. Even terrified, he understood the necessity of not drawing undue attention to their truck.
The vampire’s eyes widened and it crooned, “Our Nosferatu goddess is smiling indeed. Look at that luscious morsel.” Red hair cascaded down broad shoulders, and eyes the shade of raw emeralds glimmered with hypnotic charm.
“I’m no one’s morsel,” Aaron snapped and wrapped his limbs around the vampire, grappling with it.
