After carefully closing Abram’s eyes, with their faint residual twinkle, Alma stood and faced the miserable man with the knife, from which her brother’s blood dripped through the cracks in the floor.
“Jacob always said if we had to die before our time, it should be on our feet. Drive it home well.”
Jacob saw Alma as though he were standing in the man’s body, saw that the little girl had suddenly become a strong, powerful woman, one who could charge through the world and set it on fire with her energy and glow. The moment hung suspended in the air, heavy with beauty and tragic waste. Slow, slow seconds passed as she threw back her shoulders and smiled proudly, ready for the strike. When it came, the light drained from her eyes, from her smile, and she collapsed onto the still-warm body of her brother, enveloping him in one last, eternal embrace.
Jacob stretched out a hand, laying it in the hot ashes, then bringing it to his face, concentrating on the feel and the smell. With both hands, he scooped up more ashes and buried his face in them, running his hands through his hair. He wanted the ashes to seep into his skin, to be as present as this moment and memory would always be.
I wonder if guilt ever washes off?
He could not envision what he might have done; how, as a vampire, he could have broken through the hold and pulled out the children—and what then? Where could they go? He could not have turned them into the animated dead, so what sort of lives could any of them have? But it didn’t matter. He wanted to have done something, and he knew it would be years before he could stand up straight again, without this heavy guilt hard upon his shoulders.
When he finally staggered out of the castle, he saw Brigantia hovering, not quite meeting his eye. He could feel her sorrow for him, even her penitence, but he knew he existed because of her desire for love, and however bonded to her he’d felt before she turned him, he could not now see her as anything but the creature who had torn him from his duty. Part of him felt this made no sense, that he was no longer human and so neither the joys nor horrors of humanity should have much weight with him, but yet there was that guilt. He had been a man with deep loving ties to a human family, and that made all the difference to the sort of vampire he now was, and would always be.
She came to him that night, stood awkwardly at the threshold to his chamber, twisting her hands and stammering before finally uttering an actual sentence.
“I didn’t want you to die. I felt who you were, what was in you, what you could be, and I didn’t want that to leave the universe. Not yet. It belongs here. You belong here. This way, you can grow, you can be so much of what you wished to be. Our world can be wonderful, can be better, in some ways. In a lot of ways. Please, believe me. I didn’t want you to die.”
“But I am dead.”
“No, not really. I know that’s how it seems, but …”
“And you’re dead. You think there’s something in me to love, and you want me to love you, but you’re dead. You’re a dead thing.” He relished the tears that welled up in her eyes, the desperate hurt seizing up her lovely features. “Just a dead thing. A cold, beautiful dead thing that thrives on the warm blood of real humans.”
He clutched at his still heart, the truth of those words gnawing at him, the realization that this was what he was as well. A dead creature who would never sit in the sun again and, if he were to remain corporeal, would eat thousands of girls like the one he’d eaten the night before. The disgust and hatred made him taste his own lukewarm blood as he closed in on Brigantia.
“A dead thing, a dead thing, a dead thing!”
He pummeled her like a child having a tantrum, fists and tears flying into her body while she stood quite still.
“Dead! Dead! Dead!”
He collapsed in sobs at her feet, helplessly pounding the floor, the word “dead” occasionally sputtering from his lips. He wished he really were dead, was a citizen of that unknown world over the precipice, was not painfully confined to this half-life. Or, if he must be here, he wanted not to care, not to feel, to be as cold and still as his organs. This place, this place of partial humanity, even with the knowledge of a demon rooted inside him, this was incomprehensible torture, with no end in sight.
He had no sense of time passing, only that, some hours later, a new scent floated into him and made him feel a touch of warmth. One eye opened and saw a twist of rosemary and lavender, bound with a vine, lying beside him. He reached for it and drew it up to his nose, inhaling deeply. Sprinkles of sweetness flowed through him. The pain was no less, but he thought he could imagine a place of its being bearable. Too tired to move to the bed, he rolled over, the bouquet tight in his fist, and slept.
Eamon drew a small cherrywood trunk from under the bed. It was inlaid with several stacked trays, all holding small treasures. He pulled out each tray until he had reached the bottom, where the ancient bouquet nestled in a bed of fine Egyptian linen. Except for being dried for preservation, it was otherwise unchanged. By rights, it should have withered centuries ago. But then again, so should they all.
Things exist if you want them to, I think. Love, too.
He smiled down at that first gift, not forgetting that this life was really the first, but preferring the herbs.
I came to you at last. And I’ve stayed. Once I got here, I never wanted to be anywhere else. I still don’t. Whatever happens, that’s true. I know you won’t forget it.
They never forgot anything. Some of them saw it as a curse, others as a blessing, but it amounted to the same thing. Eamon set the rebec on his thigh and played a curious ancient tune, the silly song he and Alma and Abram had loved so much. He hadn’t thought of it in centuries, but didn’t miss a single note.
Chapter 13
Berlin–Basel train. August 1940.
They were delayed. Passengers had disembarked, others had boarded and settled, but still the train idled at the Freiburg station. The staff and guards were surprisingly unhelpful. People complained bitterly of schedules and connections and destinations that must be reached by a particular time, and the only response was a maddening smile and the rhetorical query: “Don’t you know there is a war on?”
Brigit forced herself to save her energy and sit still, marking time. Each minute that passed with the train not moving meant it was far more likely their change would take place in broad daylight. Even if that disaster could somehow be dealt with, there was the ever-changing schedule of the Ireland-bound ferry to consider, provided, of course, that it was still sailing. The longer it took them to reach Bilbao, the more perilous the situation felt. Brigit knew they could not consider themselves really safe until they were in Britain. Britain, which was at war. Britain, which was being bombed mercilessly and fighting hard to prevent invasion. But still, it was safe, and to get there meant to be home, free.
Spain worried her. She knew Franco was inclined to favor the Axis, and would do whatever he was asked to do to help them along. It might be easier to try to sail from Portugal, but that meant more time on the Continent, and with so many eyes on them, it seemed better to stick to the original plan and hope it worked. Then there was Ireland. Bloody old Ireland. Ireland, where the art of vampire hunting had been refined to new and horrific heights. Ireland, where any hunter who wanted to be great went for training. Ireland was where Raleigh had been so viciously teased and tortured on his long, slow path to death. Brigit, Eamon, and Mors had sought some vengeance on his and Cleland’s behalf, thus assuring that the sight of any of them in Ireland would bring a swarm of the greatest hunters upon them within an hour. Vampires still ranged in Ireland out of sheer spite, and seemed to be thriving. But it was not a place Brigit wished to go anywhere near, even for the brief time they would have to be there to decamp from the ferry to the mail boat bound for Wales. She would not feel so apprehensive if she weren’t escorting the children, but there was no point in thinking about that. The children were here, and so was she, and if they wanted to get to Britain, they would have to go via Ireland.
At last the
y were off again, steaming toward the Swiss border. Brigit saw that the delay meant it would be nearly noon when they had to make their change. And she could not use her speed, because papers were being checked. It was too much to hope that she could whisper ideas out to everyone and bypass procedure. There was no forecast of rain; in fact, Alma glumly reported the sky to be an obnoxiously beautiful blue. Brigit turned the problem over and over. A millennial could endure the full force of the sun for about a minute before the skin started to smoke and crack, she knew that. Even the least bit of shade would help her. The trick was to prevent any of her skin from being exposed. It wouldn’t protect her for long, but she might buy herself a few minutes more. Which might be all she needed.
I have the gloves, the parasol, the hat with that dreadful little veil I’ve always hated. I’ll look like a Victorian invalid, but maybe it could work.
Maybe. She was heartily sick of dwelling in the world of maybe. Not so long ago, everything was governed by certainty. That was the privilege of the undead. They knew what their world was, they could thrive well within it, so long as they stuck to easily understood parameters. There was always the possibility of disaster, of course, and the human emotions that never died inside them meant they were prone to both sorrows and joys, but there yet remained that certainty of the world and their place in it. They had only to decide how to spend their evenings and then go forth to enjoy and enrich themselves. Even the knowledge of hunters did not trouble them greatly. They understood that some among them would be weeded out, such was the way of things, but a wise vampire did not let fear govern his life. Undeath freed one to be cheerfully fatalistic, and unfettered. Goals were larger. Brigit pursued books, Eamon pursued music, together they gobbled up all the culture the human world set before them and this, plus the ongoing growth of their love, formed the whole of a happy life. At no point did they find themselves plagued by doubts, or even many worries. Those things they did not have bore little thought, because all they did have made for such everlasting delight.
But now she was stuck in this cycle of guessing games and worry and a fear that had dug firmly into the nape of her neck and wouldn’t let her go. Nothing could be relied upon, each minute was wildly different.
It would be nice to breathe easy.
“Why are you smiling?”
Alma was frowning at her in disapproval.
“I thought of a small joke.”
“That doesn’t seem very appropriate.”
“Actually, it’s the only thing that is appropriate. Have you never heard of gallows humor?”
Alma shrugged, which Brigit had come to understand meant that she didn’t know the term but had no intention of admitting her ignorance.
“It means making a joke of a nasty situation, but doing so when you yourself are the victim. More than that, though, some things in life are just so absurd, you rather have to laugh. That, or die.”
“Can you not say that?” Alma jerked her head toward Lukas, who was now playing with a paper airplane Brigit had made him and humming to himself. There was something about the tune Brigit found familiar, but a knock at the door interrupted both tune and thought.
It was Maurer. There was yet more oil in his smile and his eyes were wet. He put Brigit in mind of a fairy-tale monster that grew uglier with each passing day.
“I believe you are changing for Biarritz, yes? Or was it Bordeaux?” The question could almost have passed for sincere, if not for the half wink. He didn’t wait for a response but plowed on. “I thought you would be pleased to know that my orders send me on through the south of France as well. Charming territory, I’m told, a shame the Reich is not occupying it. But no matter. In any event, our two paths will continue the same, for a while, at least.”
“Delightful.”
He studied her, trying to read her eyes and her steady smile. He knew she was full of questions, starting with why the journey was taking so much longer than it ought to, but she kept her counsel. He glanced past her at the children, his eyes running over them not unlike a vampire unschooled in subtlety. She hated him looking at them. As repellent as she found his attention, she moved so that his gaze was wholly on herself.
“Yes, we all have to keep a close eye on each other, don’t we?” He touched the tip of his tongue to his teeth and winked again.
If the children hadn’t been there, Brigit would have lost patience, sunk her fingers into his eyes, and pitched him straight through the window behind.
“Thank you, Sergeant Maurer, your eyes are on me, you’ve mentioned it, and I’ve not forgotten. I’ve got a marvelous memory. Now if you’ll excuse me …”
He yanked her into the corridor and slammed the door shut.
“Look here, my little lady, I am offering you some protection, at great risk to myself. You had better start learning some gratitude.”
She twisted her arm out of his clammy grasp, thinking he ought to be grateful for the people milling at the end of the car. Otherwise, he’d be dead for sure.
“I’ll tell you what, you start earning it and I’ll start learning it,” she snapped.
“Didn’t you hear me?”
“I heard. But I’ve got responsibilities. I can play games of riddles with the children, but I have neither time nor patience to play them with adults.”
She put her hand on the door, but he was by no means done.
“Who are those children? Why are they with you?”
There was something indefinable in his tone. He wanted to know the truth, of course, but she sensed it was almost for another reason entirely. Or anyway, something not in the usual Nazi Party line. She felt a shiver in the base of her spine, even as she looked down her nose and gave him an imperious sniff.
“What is this, rehearsal for the border crossing? Our papers are in perfect order. They’ve been stamped. Shall I show them to you as well?”
“Impertinence gets you nowhere.”
“That hasn’t actually been my experience, but I always appreciate advice.”
“You should.”
Brigit smirked and made to go back in, but he grabbed at her again. This time, she lurched away from him with more strength than she meant to show, but the flash in her eyes was only an icy blue, no telltale red. Still, he was cowed enough to back away.
“Hadn’t you ought to be getting back to your duties, Sergeant?”
He hesitated, then muttered something unintelligible and stalked off.
That one, I’m going to kill. He’s far too annoying to live.
It was not quite one when it was announced that they were at the Basel station at last. The children stood unnaturally still in their straw hats and gabardine coats that Brigit had brushed to spotlessness. They were nearly as pale as she, and watched as she fit the wide, ugly hat to her curls and made sure her gloves were drawn far into the sleeves of her own smart coat. Alma had tried to speak many times but the look on Brigit’s face stopped her. Finally, as Brigit sorted through all their papers once again, she couldn’t help herself.
“Exactly how … ?”
“Force of will.”
“But what if … ?”
A twist of Brigit’s mouth silenced her. It was enough to know they were all thinking the same thing. The ridiculous joke of it, a vampire treading in broad daylight, guiding two contraband children, all of them clutching to a tenuous disguise at which the Nazis were busily hacking away, determined to find the chink and bear them back to Berlin as examples of the Reich’s ultimate power. The dead escorting those marked for death. Brigit smiled, but checked her laugh. She wanted to cheer the children, but it was safer not to look happy about leaving marked German territory.
A young, towheaded porter came in to take their bags and Brigit tipped him handsomely. He grinned at her, liking the pretty Irish girl, about his age, who was so strangely tempting and so out of reach. He looked at her now, fussing with her handbag, the papers, a parasol, and the children and their things and thought she looked like a girl who needed som
e proper male protection. Being a governess clearly wasn’t her milieu, and he wondered how on earth a member of the idle rich had wound up with such a cumbersome task. There was no way the children were any relation, although that was the story that was whispered, and relations a wealthy family did not want to broadcast very loudly. The family was kind, however, and wanted the children well educated, as well as out of harm’s way; and so had come this expedient of arranging for the young miss, who in any case must cut short her Continental adventure and return home at once now that war had begun, to collect the children and bring them with her back to Dublin, where, presumably, they’d be shut away in some posh boarding school and essentially forgotten till adulthood. The porter found the ways of the rich amusing, if foreign, but none of it allayed his fascination with the blonde.
“Will you need some assistance getting off the train, Fräulein? I can hold the parasol for you, that you may better tend the children.”
Her dazzling smile made him feel rather faint.
“How kind! Thank you so very much, I’d be delighted. As you can see, I’m not used to getting sun. It doesn’t agree with me, I’m afraid.”
If the children weren’t there, he might have found the courage to say that the brilliantly white skin to which she alluded, against which those blue eyes and lipstick-reddened lips were so vivid, was beauty beyond all measure. His mind’s eye traced that skin down from her face and under her expensive clothes. Vast regions of marvelous white skin, all waiting to be explored. If only there were a way to change trains with her. However, he would do his bit to be gallant. At least this way, he could congratulate himself at length for his disinterest and gentlemanlike behavior.
All the passengers had to file out for an inspection of their paperwork, and this was handled with an efficiency that could hardly be surprising, considering both the Nazis and the Swiss were overseeing the activities. Brigit had wondered if the two systems might butt up against and thus repel each other, or if each party would be falling over itself in a bid to out-efficient the other, but instead there seemed to be a cold sort of cooperation about the proceedings, with all members respectful, if wary, of one another.
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