The man blushed and tried to apologize and back away. The porter made a gesture at him over the old woman’s head, implying that bad old bats like this were not worth anyone’s time or energy.
The bat in question was not yet done with the unfortunate young man.
“Look a bit Jewish, don’t you? I thought we were clean of Jews here.”
The young man was indignant.
“Perhaps if you weren’t going blind you could see I’m Catholic.”
The small group of passengers waiting behind the old couple laughed. The woman, seeming to choose not to hear the riposte, carried on abusing the porter.
Deeply irritated, Brigit headed for the next car down. As she got on, she glanced back at the throng and saw the couple finally board. The insulted young man followed, too proud to let the porter take his case for him. Brigit let her senses wash over the man, feeling that he might be a good meal possibility. Worth further investigation, at the least. As she was contemplating this, she caught sight of a middle-aged man in a heavy silk suit carrying a shiny black doctor’s bag, who, she was sure, had his eye on her. And something about that eye, its cold and calculating assessment of her and everything about her, made all her organs shrivel. He turned and marched into the train. Two handsome young men in uniform tagged after the doctor like obedient pups, reverently bearing his books and baggage.
Brigit decided to linger in the empty lounge car before going back to her own compartment. She wasn’t in the mood to wait in the corridor while the beleaguered porter attempted to settle the cranky old couple. Neither did she feel like getting any closer to that doctor and his eye.
Maybe he wasn’t studying me. Maybe he was just staring into space. Middle-distancing.
But she knew that wasn’t it. The look was harsher than anything she’d seen in even that Sergeant Maurer’s interested, icy face. Harsher, and more triumphant. Which, if it meant what she hoped it didn’t, could spell a level of danger she wasn’t sure how to navigate. This uncertainty was more unsettling than the doctor’s look—she couldn’t get used to it. Her faculties were clouded. She would have to eat soon.
Not that it will help much. Damn it.
What would have been ideal was a meal at the station, but she was not alone enough to draw one in, and in any case, there hadn’t been any likely candidates. There was a trick to picking someone out in a public place, both the vampire and meal had to be unobtrusive. The prey must give off the sense of a person who wouldn’t immediately be missed. It wasn’t enough for them to traveling alone, they had to be unnoticeable. Anything else could rouse suspicion. And while her status as an innocent young woman was helpful in case of questions, it slowed her down when tracking food. Men engaged in the business of travel, especially during wartime, had a mind less tuned toward such lively possibilities. Furthermore, she had to be careful using allurements, because someone, like the mother with the twins, might observe the action and thus create a scene. It was all right for Mors, people would expect a silly girl to be attracted to a sexy, smiling man, and if she was later found dead and the man long gone, well, it was her own fault, wasn’t it? Her parents hadn’t taught her sense. A beautiful woman smiling encouragingly at a man, however, and drawing him away from the public eye, she was more likely to be remembered. It was best not to be spotted when looking for food. Especially given the circumstances.
The body would have to be disposed of. Even to stage a suicide was risky and might delay the train. She would have to find someone traveling alone, wheedle them away somewhere discreet before their stop, eat, and then toss the body out the window once the train was going again. The staff would assume they had disembarked. By the time anyone waiting for them alerted authorities, the train and Brigit would be long gone. As for when they found the body, well, she would just disguise the marks and hope for the best.
She smiled at the lounge attendant, gave him a perfunctory, expected order, and headed back to her compartment. There, she took off her hat, gloves, and coat and sat down to compose herself for the upcoming trial of dinner. She would prefer to remain here, with a door closed behind her, listening to the reassuringly musical breathing of her dangerous cargo. But she knew that those who thought it right she appear outnumbered those who thought it more appropriate that she remain ensconced in her compartment. For now, it was best she please the majority. Their opinion held more sway.
When she knew she could avoid it no longer, she changed her dress, smoothed her hair, and checked that her seams were still perfectly straight. She desperately hated to leave the compartment so unguarded but had little choice.
“I’ll be back soon,” she announced with determined cool, bolting the door behind her and thinking foolishly of the humanly impenetrable entrance to the castle under Hampstead Heath.
In the corridor, Brigit could smell the maligned young man in his compartment, only three doors down from hers. She smiled, fancying that he was looking for a smarter tie before going into the dining car, as a way of regaining his dignity and establishing his status. Or else waiting until he was sure the nasty old couple would be done eating. Brigit smelled the rest of the car. It was empty. Passengers were eating, or smoking, or playing cards, but no one else was in their compartments. She decided to seize the prospect.
The whisper started low in her throat. It wasn’t to seduce, only to intrigue, meant to be felt, rather than heard. A drop cast in water. A sound to start a thought. Not anything rational, or coherent, but the beginnings of a stir that would ultimately be desire.
The door was partly open and she could hear muttering. She tapped shyly. He put his head around and stared at her.
“Yes?”
“Hello. I’m sorry to bother you, but wasn’t that just awful with that woman? I thought you handled it brilliantly, I’m sure I’d have made a mess of it. I’m rotten with confrontation, just rotten. I’m Brigit, by the way, how are you?”
Dazzled and flustered, he hesitated, but seemed to grow more confident under the assurance of her bright smile.
“Um, hello. Fine. No, fine. Yes. I’m Kurt. Horrid old woman, wasn’t she? Oh well, I suppose we have to be patient with them.”
They shook hands. Her throat emitted the tiniest vibration under her hesitant look. It decided him.
“Can I offer you a drink? I have an excellent bottle of schnapps.”
“Lovely.”
Brigit was amused at how quickly he produced two glasses, as though he’d been expecting to play host sooner rather than later. Very likely, his intent had been to impress a man who might be persuaded to become some sort of patron, as Kurt did not give off the air of a fellow with any knowledge or experience of girls. Polite, yes, but reedy and pale, with too-slick hair and a rather putrid tie. A man who wanted to do well but had a little more money than taste or education.
She clinked her glass to his, her mind ticking over possibilities. She had to ask the right questions, draw out all the pertinent information, assure herself that he was easily disposed of and would arouse no inquiry.
“So, Kurt, since it isn’t the army for you, where are you going?”
“I tried for the army, but they wouldn’t take me. I’ve got an irregular heartbeat.”
“What a funny coincidence, so do I.”
“Really! Well, so I’m going to Paris. I hear they need Germans who speak French to manage businesses, or they will, once the race laws are in place.”
He didn’t notice her blanch. He nattered on about how he really wanted to be an artist, and was hoping he might open a gallery—she hardly registered any of it.
The race laws. In France. Why should I be startled? If liberté is quashed, why should not égalité follow?
Kurt had opened a sketchbook and was proudly narrating the thread of his artistic journey and boasting of his skill. Brigit oohed and aahed admiringly, glad that Eamon couldn’t see the drawings. He would have killed Kurt just for their rottenness. Eamon was, in addition to his brilliant musicianship, a very fine ar
tist. He drew likenesses of all the vampires in the tribunal and everyone said there was no need for a reflection when you had one of Eamon’s drawings.
“I’ve always loved the Paris galleries.” Brigit smiled. “I’m sure you’ll do well there. Not that I know art, I mean, but I think yours is awfully good.”
“It’s all a matter of opinion. A fine, educated young lady like yourself, of course, appreciates the better things in life. You know what’s attractive.”
“Do I?”
“You must. You see it every time you look in the mirror.”
She giggled, an embarrassed girl.
Bloody men. He knows he is no man if with his tongue he cannot win a woman, and thinks an obnoxious dollop of flattery will get the gold.
“I can see you’re refined,” he went on. “You’ve probably gone to opening nights and salons and all the best concerts. And dined and danced in some of the finest places afterward, haven’t you?”
He was wandering into jealous waters, wanting her, but wanting her wealth and privilege more, suspecting that she took it for granted. He knew the difference between an English girl and an Irish girl, and that the Irish one, for all her money and beauty, knew what prejudice was, had suffered indignities. But his well-trained arrogance trumped any innate empathy, and he was certain she didn’t know real injustice, nothing like what he and his friends and family had endured during the Weimar years.
Mortal fool.
Another tiny vibration in her throat settled him. He reverted to pure enjoyment of the charming creature smiling at him with such strange, sparkling eyes.
Brigit was reaching for him now, the demon millimeters under the skin, fangs barely starting to slip out from under her human teeth, when there was a clamor of loud voices and running feet in the corridor. A sudden shout and a tipsy young man stumbled through Kurt’s door, so that Kurt and Brigit jumped and exclaimed.
The man and his friends paused to take in the tête-à-tête and grinned lasciviously.
“Sorry,” he chortled with an uncoordinated wink. He backed out and their loud laughter echoed all the way to the next car.
Attempting to recover his aplomb, Kurt downed the last of his drink.
“Can I tempt you to dinner?”
They’d been seen together, and drunk though the young men were, she was still memorable. A new plan must be forged. Brigit forced a grin and rose, patting down the sulky demon.
“Consider me tempted.”
The dining car was crowded. They had to squeeze in next to another man, who seemed undisturbed so long as he could continue his steak in peace. But he looked up when Kurt started talking about art again.
“The trouble with the Expressionists is they have no interest in beauty. There’s no point in creating art if you’re not going to create a thing of beauty. Don’t you agree?”
Their dinner companion cut across Brigit to respond.
“It’s been a problem with art for years. We’re blessed in the Führer, he’s clearing out all that degenerate rubbish. Foul stuff. I haven’t wanted to take the wife to a museum in years. Who would?”
It transpired, much to Brigit’s annoyance, that the man (“Herr Eberhard, and a very great pleasure”) had taken over a Berlin gallery and was looking to purchase in Paris. No longer Kurt’s first object, Brigit was forced to play the part of the girl caught up in the important conversation of men. They ordered dinner and a bottle of wine, and Kurt smiled at her, a man who could hardly believe his luck.
Brigit’s mind was working feverishly. It seemed certain the two men were on the same schedule, and the more they bonded, the more the hope of this meal was dashed. She ate her goulash mechanically, casting trial sniffs throughout the car for anything else likely, and wondering how best to disentangle herself from this pretentious and insulting conversation.
That was when she saw him. The doctor, oozing a confident chill. He ate alone. Ostensibly, he was skimming a medical journal as he lingered over chops and coffee, but she felt his sharp little eyes rising to her.
He’s trouble. Just what I need. More trouble.
A sudden heat swelled up inside her—the desire to rouse the demon in full and kill every man in the car. To eat no matter how much it would choke her and then go on and on and on until …
Exactly. Until what? You’re stuck. You have a job to do. Concentrate on that. Never mind all this rubbish.
If only it were that easy. If only she weren’t so alone.
“What do you think, Brigit?”
The interested smile had never left her face, but she had absolutely no idea what Kurt was asking.
“I think it’s all simply too marvelous!”
Kurt beamed and turned to his other useful new friend with a triumphant air.
Through the corner of her eye, Brigit saw the doctor finish his coffee and exit the dining car. His eyes never left her, and hardly blinked.
Chapter 5
Berlin. December 1938.
“At least we can still space our meals, to a point. That’s something.”
Brigit nodded. Cleland was right, it was something. They had to hoard what few blessings there were and guard them carefully. Millennials could go nearly a week without food and still be perfectly sound, although ideally they fed well every four or five days. The band of five was discovering, however, that tension and pressure stoked the appetite. They were pleased to eat more Nazis, although nervous about too many disappearances being noticed. More troubling, however, was the flavor. Nazis were nearly indigestible. The taste of hate was hard to swallow.
But they could still space their meals.
Mors, of course, had the easiest time procuring a good uniform that fit him, but as Cleland pointed out, he’d had extraordinary luck.
“When a major from Freiburg decides to get stinking drunk and collapse alone in an alley on his first night in town, he’s really just begging to be eaten, isn’t he?”
So Mors was lucky, because no one had yet met the major, but the photograph on his identification card was harder to alter than expected. Thus far, he’d managed to avoid having to show it to anyone, but he wanted Swefred to hurry up and find a way to make the dead man look more like the undead man.
“You couldn’t even try growing out some hair?” Swefred grumbled.
“Easier to erase his.”
This was true, although it was cumbersome. Swefred was interested in technical arts and had developed a fascination with photography. Which, of course, was useless with vampires, so he devoted himself to tweaking pictures and the results were often interesting. He was sure he could alter all the identity cards they were able to steal to look well enough like each of their own selves, it only required more time—time they weren’t sure they had. Brigit and Meaghan had mingled their way into several parties, and from what little they could glean, determined that the Nazi machine was even more well oiled than the refugees had described.
Mors thought it was very inconsiderate of the major whom he was impersonating, this Werner, to be in such a restricted sphere as tank warfare. He didn’t understand why it limited his prospects—surely he should still be invited to the better evening parties? How else did anyone expect to conduct real business?
At meetings, that was how, and during the day. Times had changed. Plans were not discussed over brandy and cigars at evening parties. Or at least, no plans to which any of them had yet been privy. Women in particular, it seemed, were not much trusted. Women who asked questions, even less so. Confidence would have to be earned, slowly.
A wealthy general was celebrating his daughter’s engagement with a party so lavish, it was said he’d spent a Jew’s fortune. Which, Brigit suspected, was literal. From what she knew of General Pfaff, he was one of the few truly stupid men in the party. The sort who’d risen to a position of power through a bit of luck and his wife’s money. The sudden acquisition of a factory could only be due to the Jewish owner’s hasty flight from Germany. Brigit took some comfort in the assumption th
at the general’s utter lack of management skills would spell the end of that bit of fortune for him within a year.
In the meantime, he was currying favor with a choice guest list, which worked well for all the millennials. The males were going to scope out wives who looked bored and might be susceptible to delicate attentions, the females were looking for men who might be on the rise and open to the possibility of a mistress.
Brigit was glad the party was not a formal seated dinner. They could circulate with abandon and she could wear a cocktail dress, rather than a gown. That was one thing she really liked about this new century, as problematic as it had been. Fashions had changed to allow her to show off her magnificent legs. What with the curving high heels, the seamed stockings, and the silk dress that danced around her knees, she knew any man who ran his eye up one of those seams would follow it in his mind as high as it went.
The humans may be more ruthless than they were in 1914, but the clothes are better.
She carefully ran a bone comb through her silky curls and guided mascara over her lashes. As ever, she smiled to herself at the reaction a human woman would have to the prospect of grooming without a mirror. Indeed, grooming was one of the first things female, and even male, new ones fretted about, and yet it was so easy. The reassurance of beauty was all that was needed to keep one happy; liberation from the reflection was generally welcomed once accepted.
“When you can’t see yourself, you begin to see yourself,” Otonia liked to say in her enigmatic way.
Mors preferred to be more blunt.
“I know I look fantastic, what more proof do I need?”
Brigit’s human community had been tiny and rugged and no one there even knew what a mirror was. She had only ever seen herself in water before her making. It wasn’t until Eamon had drawn her that she really came to know her own face. A curious sensation, seeing herself again after so many centuries. Blond, blue-eyed, curling pink lips and strong white teeth—of course she was a natural for this mission.
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