by April White
When the table had been cleared, Ringo brought a chocolate bar out of his bag and slid it across the table to Marcel. The little boy’s eyes lit up with so much surprised joy I felt tears prickle. He looked to his mother for permission to open it, and after her quick, grateful smile at Ringo, she told Marcel he could. Marcel took a big bite of the chocolate. The expression of pure bliss on his face brightened the whole room.
Marianne and Archer continued their conversation, and from the bits and pieces I understood, it seemed that they discussed German soldiers in Limoges. I knew from my own reading that France had been divided in Hitler’s agreement with the Vichy government in 1940. The Vichy was to keep the middle and south of France, and German forces would control the north, including Paris. Then, in 1942, Germany invaded the south anyway, and Marshall Phillipe Petain became a puppet leader. Consequently, free France was a hotbed of Maquis - the very angry sons and brothers of men who had been sacrificed by the Vichy in their feeble attempt to keep the Germans at bay. The best that history said about the Vichy was that they’d kept France from being fully occupied. The worst was that they were collaborators, anti-Semites, and more culpable than even the Nazis in rounding up and deporting their countrymen.
Marianne wouldn’t let any of us help clean up after dinner, and she sent us away with some bread, cheese, and a jug of water. Marcel solemnly shook all our hands and said very formal goodbyes to us as we left the farm house. He gave Ringo a shy smile though, which Ringo returned with a quick rough hug.
When we were back in the barn, Archer finally spoke to us in English again.
“Marianne offered us a room in her house, which I turned down. She said her farm has not been bothered by either the Germans or the Maquis, so I told her we’d be very happy to stay in her barn. This way we can make use of the cellar room as necessary.”
Ringo shrugged. “Sounds good to me.” He looked around the big stone barn that had farm equipment housed against one side and empty animal stalls on the other. Bales of old hay stood against the back wall and he pointed at them. “Anyone mind if I make some beds?”
“I’ll help,” I said, and together we unbound a bale and pulled the straw into two of the stalls. Archer went to get water from the pump in the garden, and with the addition of a couple of blankets from the cellar room, Ringo and I had fashioned a decent double bed in one stall and a comfortable twin bed next door. We left the rest of the straw bale in the stall with the trap door, just in case we ever had to cover the traces of our occupancy there. We decided our personal bags would either be on us or in the cellar room hidden from view.
Everything about our stay at the DuLac farm had to be secret, and none of us felt very good about putting Marianne and Marcel at risk. But we needed a secure base from which to search for Tom and his Werwolves. We all agreed that the Maquis were useful for France but shouldn’t be trusted for our much smaller mission.
Ringo was shifting the last of the hay from where it had been stacked. “Well, ‘ello. What’s this?” He reached down and pulled out a bow. The wood was old and worn, but the string was still tight when he twanged it. He handed it to me and dug around under the loose hay until he found a simple cloth quiver with five arrows in it. The arrowheads were all hand-hammered metal, and the feathers in the shafts were still intact. I handed the bow back to him, and Ringo nocked an arrow and let it fly across the barn. The arrow struck the far wall with a thunk that left the shaft vibrating, and we stared at each other in surprise.
“This is fantastic,” he said a little breathlessly.
“When did you learn to shoot a bow and arrow?” My eyes narrowed at him, and he grinned.
“Ye were out learnin’ to be a Shifter. I ‘ad to find somethin’ besides electricity and chemistry to learn. Somethin’ useful.”
There were so many ways to respond to that statement, I just went with the question that struck me first. “Okay, maybe a better question is, who taught you archery?”
Ringo grinned. “Millicent, of course.”
The hinge on my jaw broke and I stared at him in shock. “You’re joking.”
He shook his head. “As if I’d joke about anythin’ ‘avin’ to do with Millicent Elian. I’d sooner drink spoiled milk from a yeasty codpiece than face ‘er wrath about anythin’ misspoken.”
“A yeasty codpiece? That’s … vivid.” I shuddered and tried to school my expression, but he could see the laughter that threatened.
Ringo looked pleased with himself as he shouldered the quiver and bow. He turned as Archer came in with two buckets of water. “Do ye know these woods?”
Archer nodded. “Deer, fox, hare, pheasant.”
“Are ye goin’ out, or can I hunt?”
Archer seemed startled that his feeding habits would be discussed so casually, and he shot me a slightly mortified look. I had forgotten how uncomfortable my modern Archer had been admitting to the sustenance needs of a Vampire. So, I shrugged to show him my lack of concern, and then bent over my satchel to dig out a linen cloth.
“I’m happy to go with you for company, but I have no need to go for myself,” Archer finally said, only a little awkwardly.
“I’ve a mind to do a little scourin’ of the woods for yer wolves. If I ‘appen upon any deer while I’m out, well, that wouldn’t be unwelcome in the ‘ouse, I reckon.” Ringo threw us a jaunty wave and left the barn.
Archer laughed quietly as the door closed behind Ringo. “God, I’ve missed him.”
I nodded at one of the full buckets. “Any chance I can use some of that for a sponge bath?”
“That’s why I brought it. I could use one too.”
I quickly stripped off my wool jacket and the cotton shirt Ringo had found for me in the bowels of Elian Manor’s 1940s closets, and dipped the cloth in the cold water. It wasn’t a bath or a shower, but it would do.
“You know, if I had a police box to Clock in, I would definitely make sure it had a shower …” My words faded away as I turned to find Archer stripped to the waist, scrubbing at himself with a wet washcloth.
He looked up and caught me staring. There was a moment of pure motionlessness from both of us. I tried to speak, and then had to clear my throat to do it properly. “I don’t often … see you,” I faltered. The words sounded lame and I tried again. “I’m pretty used to naked Shifters. They don’t really think about it, and it’s no big deal. But you don’t …” I faltered again. “You’re always dressed.”
“Does this bother you?” His voice was low, almost quiet, and his eyes never left mine as my gaze trailed over strong shoulders, lean hips with those V lines that defied explanation, and an improbable washboard in between.
Was he kidding? Is he kidding? My Cougar surged just below the surface of my skin, and I flushed with the heat of her, and maybe the heat of him.
Stop it, I snarled at my Cat. Her presence unsettled me.
“It … affects me.” I inhaled, which was a mistake because my Cat was so close to the surface and the heady warm spice scent that was Archer filled my senses.
“Really.” A statement, not a question. Spoken in quiet tones reserved for darkness and a shared bed.
“My Cat is too close. She wants me to Shift.”
Archer’s eyes dropped to the Shifter Bone that dipped into my camisole. “Show me.”
My Cat surged up, called by the heat that suddenly flushed through me. I closed my eyes and locked my skin in place. After a long moment I opened them again. Archer’s gaze was dark and direct, and I felt gripped by it. I wanted more than his eyes on me.
I stepped out of my trousers and lifted my camisole over my head. A chill in the barn was the only thing that kept me from igniting.
And then I Shifted.
I knew the air around me rippled and shimmered, and I felt my Cat become herself. Become myself. And with every languid stretch of her muscles, I knew I still had control.
Archer gasped quietly. “My God, you’re exquisite.”
I went to him then, wear
ing the confidence of my Cat like a silky heat. His fingers trailed through my fur, weaving through the tawny strands with gentle strength. His touch startled a rumble from deep in my chest, and I realized I’d purred.
Archer dropped to his knees in front of me and looked into my Cat’s eyes. “It’s still you. Your eyes are still yours.” His voice was reverent and laced with awe. I ducked my head under his hand and he stroked the length of my body, feeling muscle and sinew relax under my Cougar skin.
It was the most luxurious thing I’d ever felt, and my chest rumbled with reflexive purring. I nuzzled his neck and inhaled the scent of him as my heart pounded in my Cat’s chest.
The luxury of being petted had become something primal, and I pulled myself away from my Cat’s instincts.
I wanted him for me, not for her.
So I Shifted back.
His hands were still on me, on my naked skin when I returned to my human form. He didn’t flinch, and neither of us moved. Archer’s eyes still held mine until finally, he closed them and seemed to find his self-control. I could feel him pull back, so I removed myself from his hands and quietly pulled on my clothes.
Archer’s eyes finally opened again when I was dressed, and he seemed shaken. I waited for him to speak, but he took my hand in silence and led me to the straw bed I had made for us.
My heart was slamming against my ribs, and I tried not to let him feel my trembling. He laid us both down and then turned me away from him so that he could wrap around me like a cloak. I waited for some movement, some indication of what would happen, but Archer just held me, wrapped in his arms, as if he would never let me go.
Eventually the butterflies quieted and the trembling stopped. And when I woke up, he was gone.
Archer – Present Day
The hollowness since she’d left was crushing.
I’d felt like a shark the past few days, always moving so I didn’t have time to feel her absence.
When I woke with a vivid memory of the night in Marianne’s barn when I’d left her sleeping, I was furious at myself – at the man I’d been then. I was consumed with jealousy that she was with him – with me. It was utterly irrational and arguably insane to be jealous of myself.
Saira’s habit of running had become my own, and I’d found it was generally an effective means of avoiding the company of the well-meaning and wonderful family with which she had surrounded herself. I’d been least successful at shaking the young Shifters since coming to stay at Elian Manor, and they had been methodically eroding my will to be alone.
I returned from my rooftop prowl, having been kept company by a large Philippine Eagle, to find Adam Arman in the library with his sister, Ava. Sanda had set tea things for three, and I raised my eyebrows. “Expecting someone?”
“Hoping to find you, actually.” Arman looked me right in the eyes. There was defiance in his gaze, as if he dared me to challenge him. I permitted myself a small smile at Sanda’s observance of propriety in setting a tea cup for me despite the fact I hadn’t used one in over a century. In fact, the last cup of tea I’d ever had was from a chipped green mug in Ringo’s flat. I shook my head to clear the image of Saira, so beautiful in that flat on the last day of my life as a normal man, and focused my thoughts on the present.
“If it’s a social visit, I warn you, I’ve been better company.” I sat at my favorite library table and swiveled the captain’s chair away from the view of my own hollow-eyed gaze in a mirror over Arman’s left shoulder. Ava’s expression was entirely too sympathetic for my temper, so thankfully it was her brother who spoke.
“Our parents are playing a very political game, and their focus at the moment is the Descendant Council. Despite Lady Elian’s appeal to wait until there’s a suitable replacement for Rothchild if they remove him by force, they continue to insist that the vote be held at the next Council meeting. With Shaw and the Ladies Elian so clearly at odds with our parents’ plan, we can’t go to them for help.”
“For help with what?” I studied the young man, who always seemed so comfortable in his own skin. It was a trait that had taken me several decades to learn, and I admired him for it.
“There is a war coming between the Immortals,” said Ava, “and the mixed-blood Descendants are in the biggest danger.”
My eyes narrowed. “Don’t you mean between the Immortal Descendants?”
Ava’s gaze never left mine. “I mean what I said.”
The ramifications of her statement were staggering. The original Immortals hadn’t appeared among the Descendant Families for centuries, maybe even millennia. Whatever Ava had Seen was far bigger than Family squabbles about who the current Monger Head was.
I studied them for a long moment, until the silence in the room became deafening. Whatever the Immortals were planning had nothing to do with me, so that couldn’t be what inspired the Arman twins to visit. “Why come to me?”
Arman glared at me. “We need to find the mixed-bloods, and you’re sitting here twiddling your thumbs. I want to know what you’re waiting for.”
“What makes you think I’ve been waiting?” In fact, I’d been prowling around London museums nearly every night looking for signs of Seth Walters and his Mongers. I inhaled and deliberately changed my tone. “Information. That’s what I’m lacking. What do you have?”
That question, and perhaps my less defensive tone of voice, seemed to unlock the tension that had coursed through the twins since they had walked in the door. Arman almost sighed in relief. “We figured out who the leprechaun is that Ava’s been Seeing.”
I raised an eyebrow at Ava and she smiled. “He spelled out his name on a wall. It’s Tam.”
“Olivia’s friend?”
“The one who was with Cole and Melanie when he was taken, yeah.” Arman nodded.
“Did none of them think to mention he has green hair?” I scoffed. I was clearly still in a mood, and Arman had put himself directly in my way. “Where are they being held?” I was ignoring, for the moment, the remarkable fact that Ava and this Tam could communicate through her Sight.
“I asked him, of course.” Ava’s voice smiled as brightly as her face did, while undeniable wisdom danced in her eyes. “They’re in an Underground station. He doesn’t know which one, but I Saw the train carriage where they sleep.”
Connor spoke as he entered the library. “Must be a ghost station.” Young Logan was right behind him, excitement writ large on his face. Connor turned to him. “Upstairs in the game room is the Underground London book Saira’s always poking through. Grab that?”
Logan shot him a look of you’re not the boss of me, but then exploded into the shape of a Hummingbird and was gone. Connor rolled his eyes. “And … now he’ll be naked for the rest of the night.”
That got a laugh from the twins. I’d grown very fond of the Edwards brothers, and the young one’s ability to wind up his elder sibling reminded me of the way Ringo poked at Saira – always subtle, but right in the places that mattered.
Connor turned to me. “By the way, Uncle Bob said his Home Office contact told him about two ghost stations where they hid art from the British Museum during the bombings in World War II: Aldwych and the British Museum station.”
“There is no British Museum station. To get to the museum you get off at Holborn or Tottenham Court Road.” Arman sounded so sure of himself. “And why was he asking about that?”
I realized the twins had likely not heard about the contents of my note to Ravi, so I quickly filled them in on the details of what we knew, just before Logan entered the library swimming in a shirt and shorts I’d seen Ringo wear, and holding a book open to read as he walked. He was talented in more than just the ways of Shifting, obviously. “There is a British Museum station,” he announced, “but it’s been closed since 1933.”
“There are a lot more ghost stations than those two around London, though.” Arman said.
“But Aldwych and British Museum are closest to Russell Square, which is where Daisy was spot
ted the night she disappeared.” Connor reminded him.
“Notwithstanding the proximity to Holborn station, does it seem odd to anyone else that we’re collapsing the Werwolf mission of 1944 with the missing mixed-bloods of today?” There shouldn’t be a link, and if anyone else had suggested it, I would have thought they were indulging in fanciful coincidence. But somehow, I felt there was a connection. I’d directed the question to Connor. Aside from Ringo, with his encyclopedic knowledge of anything he’d ever read, Connor was one of the most logical people I’d ever encountered.
“Tom is the link,” he said simply.
Arman stared at Connor. “Why?”
Connor shrugged. “I don’t know why. But Tom’s the link. He’s mixed, and Walters – his biological father – was willing to trade mixed-bloods for him. And now Tom’s messing around there in 1944? The two things are definitely linked.”
Ava spoke quietly to me. “What do you See, Archer.”
I growled in frustration. “I don’t See anything. But there’s something …” I focused on Connor. “Run down everything Saira told us about Walters when he had her in his office.”
Connor recited, nearly word for word the conversation Saira had had with everyone after her ordeal. I stared at my feet as Connor spoke, my eyes tracing the pattern of the Turkish rug under them. Then something he said clicked and I looked up.
“What did Walters say about shooting Tom?”
Connor took a breath and repeated his last words. “Walters said Tom knew why he’d done it. He talked about the men in his family blooding their children – about how his grandfather had beaten his dad so badly he vomited blood for a week.”
