Brigit pushed the troubling thoughts away and focused instead on Mors. There was something strange, both exhilarating and disconcerting, about being alone, truly alone, with him again. It had been a long time.
His face seemed foreign under his German officer’s hat, but it was still happily familiar. Though he wasn’t beautiful, Mors was certainly attractive. The longer you looked at him, the less easy it became to take your eyes from him. And if he spoke to you, the hypnosis was complete. His was an astonishingly melodic voice, sensual, enthralling. You looked into deceptively mild green-blue eyes, and the voice ran rings around you, stroked you, pulled you closer, an embrace by a Hindu god. Tucked up in so many arms, you couldn’t want to go anywhere else, even if you had the power.
It was not only his face that was so fascinating. When he wasn’t briskly, cunningly funny, he told spellbinding stories, tearing into them with the same exuberance as a warm, fresh neck. Then, too, he could be curiously quiet, and those moments were almost more seductive in their frustration. He was thinking, he couldn’t not be thinking, but his removal from the center of things, his silence, made him more present and drew more attention than his antics. Those who knew him best, to the extent anyone really did, were sure it wasn’t calculated. Mors simply had places in his mind he needed to go, and no one could follow.
What Mors really was, more than any of the rest of them, was sexy. The other males were handsome, of course, and carried about them the aura of danger and mystique that was the mark of undeath, and the deep passion and otherworldly violence that lurked under the veneer of human flesh. But Mors was something else again. He usually adorned his bald head with silver earrings in intricate shapes, and wore several rings that might have been old in Roman times. He’d made himself massive boots out of strange black leather that looked like some magical idea of dragon skin. When asked how he’d managed it, or what it really was, he only grinned that strange, stirring grin. Lips closed, one side curling up toward an ironically cocked eyebrow. How many girls had come out of evening prayers, from pagan times on, and halted, startled at the sight of the sleek-headed man with the twinkling eyes? And he smiled at them, and they floated into the web of that smile. Though he wasn’t tall, you didn’t realize it, so well formed was his figure. Power, that’s what he exuded. It had drawn many men to him as well, and he never minded. He never seemed to mind anything. Life was too good. Brigit smiled. It must be lovely, being Mors.
The next evening, they called at General Michaud’s unbecomingly nouveau riche home as early as they dared. A late-afternoon rainstorm allowed them to step out long before they might otherwise have done, and Mors crowed over the good sign and their obvious luck. Brigit simply nodded, clinging to her umbrella and concentrating on the sound of her heels thudding on the damp pavement. The air was slightly humid and felt thick, an acrid smell swirling around the manicured trees. The fabled prettinesses of Paris held no charm for Brigit this evening, and she refused to remember nighttime strolls along the Seine or down the Champs-Elysées with Eamon. Paris had been a springtime pleasure, a place of heavy blossoms and stuffy salons full of exciting new art. The Folies and the Comédie Française and the Divine Sarah and music at once cheerful and melancholy, teasing and tickling the flesh even under heavy fabrics and boned corsets. And, of course, there was the food.
French food had a particularly storied flavor among the vampire world. There was a distinction, a peculiar sort of ferocity and bite to it. An individuality that meant no meal would ever be generic and each would be remembered, would linger like a fine wine.
A je ne sais quoi.
Brigit didn’t smile. Each young man who passed her, looking at her with smiling desire, even noting the menacing presence of Mors, smelled like hypocrisy. Or complicity. Brigit suspected she’d spent too much time in Germany to discern the difference anymore.
Or maybe my senses aren’t what they were.
Nothing was. She knew that. They all knew that. They didn’t discuss it out of some absurd combination of politeness and superstition, but it was true. The armor was melting.
Two girls huddled under a single umbrella were skipping down the path, but slowed to drink in Mors. These were girls who had just left school, were just stepping down the road toward sex, and they perceived the power in the smirking man, even with the lovely blonde on his arm. Mors gave them the merest hint of a wink, never breaking stride. Brigit turned to look at them, not bothering to paste affront and fierce possession on her face. She was simply interested. They looked back at her, curious. Finally, the older one shied from the look and drew her companion away.
“Here we are!”
Brigit blinked up at the house, and Mors’s bright smile.
“Yes, here we are.”
She hadn’t meant to speak out loud, and struggled to take command of herself. She reached up and straightened his tie, blasting him with her own most glittering smile, enjoying the glint in his eye.
“Once more into the breach, dear friend.”
He closed his hand over hers.
“Once more.”
Then, leaving off any thought of English dead, they hurried up the path and knocked.
A maid answered the door, a plain, unpolished girl, a shade too young to be in service already, and Brigit suspected she came cheap with the house, and was certainly the daughter of someone who was owed a favor. Her eyes locked on Mors, her mouth dropped open comically, and Brigit was sure she didn’t hear a single word of his greeting. Eventually, realizing Mors had stopped speaking and was waiting for her to announce them, she dropped a nervous bob and rushed down the corridor.
Unfortunately, the girl hadn’t invited them in, so they lingered on the step, affecting nonchalance. A few minutes later, General Michaud strode down the corridor and came to the door. He was small, with a thick mustache and heavy brows. He regarded his visitors with an unfriendly smile.
“Good evening, I’m afraid Berthe did not make clear to me who you are, nor your purpose in calling.”
Mors bowed.
“General, I am not at liberty to speak as freely as I like, not when I am out of doors, but be assured my business is most serious and urgent and of great import for you, and indeed, for all France.”
Mors hummed low, the throbbing hum so different from Eamon’s, but so very effective and deadly. It seemed to have little impact on the general, however, and so Brigit smiled and breathed her own beguiling whisper.
Please work, please, please, please work. Invite us in. We’re here to offer you life, not death. Please see that. Invite us in.
The general looked at the German officer and his mistress with narrowed eyes. Finally, he relented.
“Major, do come in.”
Mors did, and grinned at the general disarmingly.
“Does that invitation extend to my lovely companion?”
The general looked hard at Brigit, and she knew Mors was hoping as hard as she that this hawk-nosed man, despite being French, was only disgusted by the blatant immorality of the relationship and wasn’t weighing other possibilities. He jerked his head.
“Come in then.”
Banishing Berthe and her tray of refreshments from the fussy little parlor, General Michaud sat opposite Mors and Brigit and frowned.
“State your business, and be quick about it, if you please. I have a dinner engagement.”
Mors leaned forward and plunged deep into his tale with deadly seriousness. Brigit’s imploring eyes never once left the general’s face, even though he studiously avoided her gaze. She read him hard, desperate to discern whether he was really listening, paying heed, caring. Believing.
Believe us. You have to believe us.
The general took advantage of a pause to light a cigar. After a long moment, he offered one to Mors.
“I appreciate your coming here, Major. I understand it must be at immense risk. I confess I am surprised. We did not think there would be any among the Reich who would not be wholehearted supporters.”
“I was. But the current plans unsettle me. With the lands in Poland, and the reunification with Austria, there seems no reason to continue in warfare. I cannot but think it will ultimately bring more harm to the German people than good. I’ve always liked France. I like her spirit. I think the Continent is stronger with the nations clearly divided where they are properly so, if you see what I mean. Additionally, if I may so say, much of the current policy as regards those in the citizenry who do not toe the exact line is growing displeasing to me. It seems, perhaps, inexpedient.”
Michaud smiled, but seemed perplexed. He turned again to the papers Mors had shown him.
“These do trouble me, I admit. Of course, this would not be the first time the Germans had underestimated France. Yes, it often seems most of Europe underestimates France. The British have certainly done so, more than once. And they never seem to learn, I have noticed.”
Mors puffed on his cigar and smiled.
“I certainly do not underestimate France. I have a great respect for history. But my country is reaching beyond its grasp, perhaps like England did with Agincourt, however much it may have believed itself to be right. These things do not matter now. I am concerned with the future. I have made my views known to my superiors and they are unpopular to the point that my companion and I are, shall I say, no longer welcome in Germany. Or at least, not without some significant signs of reformation. I cannot, in good conscience, take up a fight against Germany. Not at this time. You understand. We are bound for Switzerland, at least for the foreseeable future, until this unpleasantness is settled. Sir, the papers are yours. I beg you, show them to your fellow officers. Tell them what I have told you. It is unsafe for us to stay in France much longer, else I would join you, but please, you must believe my information is sound. They mean to see swastikas soaring over Paris. The machine has grown very powerful. But it can still be stopped. You can stop it.”
The general’s eyes slid from Mors to Brigit, then back again. Brigit sensed a slight chill ripple through Mors’s skin and she bit back a gasp. She had no memory of him ever being less than wholly certain of anything, but he had no power over this little man and he knew it.
Still, Michaud continued to study the papers and the two vampires hissed their separate but equal siren calls around him, joining the sounds in a chain to encircle his head and seep into his skull, perhaps bending him, at last, to their will.
Seeming to come to a decision, he laid his cigar in a tray and smiled at Mors.
“Excuse me just a moment.”
He went into the adjoining room, leaving the door an inch ajar. Mors flicked one of the tacky little ornaments from an end table at the door, pushing it open farther. The vampires watched the general while discussing the charm of the French décor as loudly as they dared. Michaud pulled several books from a large case before extracting one that lay hidden. He skimmed through it, his eyes surreptitiously raking his guests.
“It’s a book on vampires,” Brigit murmured through closed lips, even though, of course, Mors knew. He gave her a sharp nudge.
Michaud’s hand played over a telephone, but another long look at the creatures on his sofa changed his mind. He walked back in and stood over them, hands behind his back, for all the world as if they were troops under his review.
“If you think you are playing me a little game, you are playing with the wrong man. I am nobody’s fool. If you are come to kill me, then I’d thank you not to act the cat, but to simply go straight for the target and finish it. I shall not scream, I will give no one that pleasure.”
Mors smiled at Brigit, then stood. The scuffle could barely be discerned, indeed, Mors seemed hardly to move, but two crosses and a stake had dropped from Michaud’s clasped hands and he was now pressed against the floral wallpaper, courtesy of Mors’s fingers.
“If you choose to ignore all that we have told you, General, then I am afraid you are indeed a fool,” Mors informed the quaking man in his grip. “Think what you will about us, but know that these papers are accurate. Keep them. Show them to your colleagues. I don’t know when the Germans are coming, but coming they are. You are an unusual man, General. You are one to whom my companion and I have brought the chance of life. Take it. And know this. If you choose to, shall we say, toe the Maginot Line, well, be it on your own head. You will never be able to say you weren’t warned.”
He released the general, who straightened his jacket and threw back his head.
“I think the highest echelons of military command are quite capable of making these decisions. Shall I escort you out?”
“No, thank you.”
Mors took Brigit’s arm and steered her back down the corridor. She was grateful for his guidance, because the fire in her was rising apace and it was all she could do to put one foot in front of the other. She wanted to kill and laugh at the same time. As they reached the door, Mors flung a hand behind him, snatching the wielded stake from Michaud’s fist and sending it to the floor in a dust heap. He turned to the stunned Michaud and smiled.
“My apologies to Berthe, for making a mess she will have to clean.”
The smoke was curling from Brigit’s eyes. Mors saw it just in time and shoved her outside into what was now a hard rain. She threw back her head, mouth open, and wallowed in the relief of the wetness.
Mors followed her, but couldn’t resist shouting back to the general.
“That book might need updating, Michaud. We’re too old for that weapon.”
The door slammed.
Mors put his arms around Brigit and blew cool air and thoughts around her. He caught more rain in his hands and ran it through her hair. They stood there a long time, completely unnoticed, waiting for the rain to tamp down the demons.
When Brigit was finally cool, and even cold, Mors offered her his arm and they walked back toward town.
“If we hurry, we might catch the last train.”
It was Mors’s silence on the way back that made Brigit so uneasy. It felt different from any silence she was accustomed to from him. Hostile. Knowing the hostility wasn’t directed toward her was strangely not comforting. She hated him being so upset and hated that there was nothing she could do. He had protected and soothed her, but she, what had she done?
I didn’t get hysterical. I suppose that’s something. I haven’t tried to say anything that would ultimately be meaningless.
What was there to say, anyway? The humans were veering toward madness, driving themselves into a forced descent, and whatever roadblocks the vampires tried to set up would be knocked down. Brigit wished she could shake all of them into clarity. It was bad luck that Michaud realized what they were, but surely, surely he must be aware, too, that if they came to him like people, spoke so reasonably, had such proof of the calamity in store for his nation, they must be worth heeding? He feared and despised them, but why wouldn’t he also respect them? Still, Brigit knew he would go to sleep that night believing he’d imagined them, and would never ask Berthe if they’d been real.
Plus ça change.
As they crossed the border back into Germany, Brigit thought she could already see the tanks rolling through the Ardennes, the Allied defenses crushed. The bewildered French, Belgians, and British blinking at the might of the German war machine and wondering how they had been so totally overpowered. She wondered what Michaud would say then.
If he’s any kind of man, he’ll fall on his sword.
It was late when they arrived in Berlin and Brigit was reminded of their original arrival, and how much energy and excitement they’d had, especially Mors. She hated to feel him so beaten, so grim. It was with a shock that she realized it had been months since he’d emitted any true music. Mors was full of music, like Eamon, but his was very different.
Hot. Almost angry. An exciting wail that tore through a body. It was part of what made him so completely Mors. Brigit reached for his hand and squeezed it gently, hoping it might mean something. He looked down at the hand, almost startled, and then surve
yed the quiet streets, an indefinable expression on his face.
“I ate a madman once. I wanted to see what would happen. I suppose you never have?”
Brigit shook her head.
“It was like the world turned in upon me, but I saw it all with perfect clarity. Clarity, but also that haze, that fog of waking too early, of being still asleep. You splash water on your face, you stretch and you even start to dress, but you’re not sure if it’s a dream.”
“You’re a storyteller, Mors.” Brigit smiled uncomfortably, thinking this all sounded too interesting to be true. “You string together words because you like the taste of them. No wonder you’ve always had the dogs. They just like to hear you talk, and it doesn’t matter that it means nothing.”
He continued remorselessly.
“I felt all my me slipping away, I was watching it swirl down a drain. Bits of it caught the air and I was running after it, could almost catch it and it was just out of reach. I could see it all, but through the glass darkly, I suppose. Shakespeare understood it only just a bit, with Ophelia, because he didn’t get at the fear. The abject terror of seeing the self through the looking glass, but not being able to absorb it back where it once was and ought to be. I’ve never before understood how clearly we are made, how very separate …”
He hesitated and she felt a terrible chill under his skin.
“I saw the demon.”
She didn’t dare encounter his eye.
“I saw its face. It was my face. Which I thought I didn’t remember. My face. But inverted, shattered, like a broken mirror. A child’s nightmare vision of a face. It couldn’t understand why I was there, how it was I’d turned so far inward.”
Mors’s voice dropped lower but remained strong and insistent.
“He is so whole and yet so needy, that demon we bear inside us, that friend and foe that gives us our reason. Only I had no reason. The demon, he didn’t know if it would come back, and what would he have done then? He can’t claw his way out, he dies with us when we go, so he ran desperately around inside me, searching for where I’d gone. I almost wanted to comfort him. But the part of me that could was trapped on that other side. It took hours for me to come back together. I don’t think the demon’s ever forgiven me.”
The Midnight Guardian Page 21
