by April White
I scoffed at myself. He was right. “When do we believe we’re enough for the people who love us?”
His gaze was direct and unflinching. “When are we enough for ourselves?”
Hunting
The sound of low voices carried on a sudden breeze, and Ringo and I sat up warily. It was another minute before the voices could be heard again, and then we relaxed. It was Nancy speaking quietly in English, which meant she was walking with Archer.
Archer must have already heard us, but our presence startled Nancy when they came into view.
“Oh! It’s you!”
Archer strode over to us, his eyes scanning first me, then Ringo, looking for injuries I guessed. “You’re well?” he said quietly.
We both nodded. His voice softened to a whisper. “Thank you.”
He meant thank you for distracting the sniper. I smiled. “Thanks for not letting me get shot.”
I meant by Nancy, who was tucking various things back into her bicycle basket. “You had your men set off the explosives?” I asked her.
She grimaced. “It was early, but given the circumstances with the snipers it couldn’t be helped.”
“Thank you. It gave us the cover we needed to get out of there.”
Nancy’s eyes were caught by the sniper rifle on Ringo’s back. She held her hand out for it. “Mind if I have a look at that?” Ringo handed it over and she studied it, and then him, with grudging admiration. “So, you got this off the big one, then? Devereux said it was you who took him down, but I didn’t believe him. Then again, I thought I saw a lion in the woods, so maybe I don’t know everything.” She held the rifle out to him to take back, but he shook his head.
“You don’t want it?” she asked, surprised.
“I don’t much care for a weapon that’ll get me executed just for ‘avin’ it.”
She slung it over her own shoulder. “Only if they catch you.”
“That’s not comfortin’,” Ringo said solemnly. “Did ye truss yer man up for questionin’?”
Nancy shook her head. “Dead.”
I looked at Ringo. His expression was grim, but Archer caught the exchange and clarified. “Shot. The sniper from the tree shot him before he ran.”
Relief and disgust warred for dominance in me. Relief won.
“We thought if we waited ‘ere, we’d catch ‘im on the drive out.” Ringo said to Archer.
“Apparently, he hid his vehicle in a field just beyond the stand of trees. We had discounted it as a hiding place because one would have to cross a stream from there in order to get out.” Archer sounded annoyed with himself, and I spoke up with a realization that I could have anticipated the stream-crossing maneuver.
“Except those kind of cars were, I mean are amphibious. Put the plugs in the bottom and they float.” I knew this because a VW Thing was the slightly less ugly stepchild of its World War II predecessor, which was what the snipers drove. My mom had once borrowed a bright orange convertible Thing from our surfer neighbor when we lived in Venice Beach a lifetime ago.
Ringo looked up in interest, but Archer had already shifted gears. “You were right about them being Werwolves. The dead one wore their insignia on his shoulder.” His tone was serious.
Nancy sounded angry. “If there is indeed an Englishman working with this lot, I’m going to string him up myself.”
I had no intention of letting Nancy anywhere near Tom Landers, not that she’d get very far with her threat if she did find him. “Were there any clues on the body about where they might be staying?”
She scoffed. “Nothing. But I’d bet boots to buttons they’re quartered in Limoges waiting for the 2nd Panzer Division to come in. You can be sure my men will be scouring the city at daybreak.”
I didn’t bother to tell her that if Tom was hiding in Limoges with the Werwolves, he’d be down during the day. She might find his team, but he’d have made sure he was safe from casual eyes.
At this time of night it would be foolish for us to try to get to Limoges, mostly because Archer would have to go down in a couple of hours, and we didn’t have any guarantee of a safe place to bunker. I turned to Archer and Ringo and kept my voice casual.
“Guys, I’m done for the night. Would you see me back so I can get some rest?”
Nancy looked a little suspicious. “I’d have thought you’d want to head the search party for your Englishman.”
I smiled faintly. “I’m exhausted and would probably get myself captured if I stumbled around Limoges in this state. I guess I’m just going to have to trust that if you find him, you’ll let me talk to him before you string him up.”
Her eyes narrowed speculatively, but she nodded. “Do you need a place to sleep?”
I shook my head. “No thanks, I’m good.”
“Well, if you’re staying in any of the villages around here, watch yourself. They’re full of Vichy sympathizers without the sense to know they’re playing for the wrong team.” Her tone was dismissive, but I could hear the warning underneath. I wasn’t sure who I was more nervous about though, the Vichy French or her Maquis, many of whom had struck me as armed thugs masquerading behind a noble cause.
“Are any of the villages safe-havens for Maquis?” I asked as innocently as I knew how to.
She shrugged. “My people are in every village and town in Limousin. We’ve spread our resources around in order to become malaria-carrying mosquitos, buzzing around German ears and driving them to such distraction they don’t even realize they’re already dying.”
Right, which meant there were definitely Maquis around Marianne’s village.
We said our goodbyes to Nancy when her saboteurs returned for their bikes, and as we pedaled away with a promise to return the bicycles the next night, I realized Nancy no longer intimidated me like she had when we first met. She was a person who believed passionately in her cause, which wasn’t really too different from me, and I admired her commitment to it, even though I disagreed with some of her tactics.
I had also let go of the idea that she was a threat to me with Archer. Whatever it was that had happened in my Archer’s past wasn’t happening with Nancy now, and despite the emotional tangle I’d been trying to unravel about my feelings for him in this time, that particular thread was more like spider silk than a thick strand of wooly yarn.
We’d been riding in silence for a while when Ringo suddenly held up an arm to stop us. Remarkably, none of our brakes squeaked, and we were able to halt with comparative stealth. Ringo tipped his bike to the ground quietly, then slipped forward into the woods. Archer and I followed right behind him without question.
There was a small clearing just ahead, and a young buck stood in it, remarkably oblivious to our presence. Ringo must have spotted him from the road as he headed this way, and whatever breeze there was came from the direction of the deer, so he hadn’t scented us yet.
Ringo shared a silent communication with Archer that he should be the one to go around to the back side of the glen so we could surround the deer. “Ye might still smell o’ cat,” he whispered in response to my raised eyebrow. Archer disappeared into the shadows while Ringo and I spread out on our side of the deer. Using hand signals, Ringo told me we’d drive the deer toward Archer, and since Archer had the only firearm among us, it made sense he would be the one to make the kill.
I didn’t stop to think about what we were doing, probably because this was food in a time when people were starving. But I’d never actually hunted a deer before, and my heart was pounding when Ringo motioned to me to take out my daggers. I didn’t want to be the one to actually kill the animal, no matter how pragmatic I was being about our need for meat.
We circled around in complete silence, with every ounce of my focus on foot placement and controlling my breath. I was about ten feet from the buck, close enough to see the brown-red of his coat, when his head shot up and he stared around him with huge, terrified eyes. His nostrils flared as he swiveled his head in the direction Archer had gone, and I
suddenly realized I might have to be the one to take him down if he bolted in this direction.
Ringo must have realized that too, because he threw a rock that landed in front of me, just as he stepped forward into view. The simultaneous sound and movement drove the buck straight toward Archer, and a moment later the crash of something big going down could be heard through the woods. Notably absent, however, was a gunshot, and a sick feeling coursed through me.
I ran toward the sound, hoping it was the deer that had gone down and not Archer. Ringo got there first, and I saw him turn as if to protect me. But then he stopped himself, and in a fluid motion, he stepped aside.
The buck was down, and his legs twitched with a final convulsion before going still. Archer was bent over him, and it looked like he was holding the buck’s head as it died. A hunting knife was clenched in his hand, its blade black with the deer’s blood.
Ringo took a step back and made the nearly silent “chhhttt” sound he used to get my attention. His eyes were locked on mine like he was using his mental powers to make me retreat. I thought I’d been pretty stoic about gutting and cleaning the pheasant he’d hunted, so I didn’t understand why he was trying to will me away.
Until I realized Archer wasn’t just holding the buck as it died. He was drinking its blood from the gash at its neck.
Ugh. Nausea roiled in my stomach and fear surged through me. The instinct to run very fast and very far away hit at the same moment as a single word pounded my brain.
Vampire.
I stumbled backwards gracelessly, and the sound made Archer look up.
There was blood on his chin, and an intent expression on his face.
There was hunger, and fear, and embarrassment in his eyes.
There weren’t fangs protruding from his mouth and his eyes weren’t glowing yellow with malevolence. He wasn’t a creature, he was a man taking the only sustenance that gave him nourishment.
And I was his girlfriend.
The fear began to drain out of me as I watched him struggle with the knowledge that I had now seen him feed. His eyes searched my face for a long moment before he finally bent his head to continue drinking the blood that had been coursing from the gash in the buck’s throat. It was like he didn’t want to see my terror or my disgust. He didn’t want to watch me turn and flee, so he turned back to do the thing that would cause me to run.
Except I didn’t.
Ringo watched me with interest as I crouched down and sat on my haunches to wait for Archer to finish. After a moment, Ringo did the same, and we sat in silence, not watching Archer eat, nor looking at anything in particular.
My Cougar rose up with interest at the scent of the fresh kill that drifted on the breeze. I let her come up enough to say one word to her – Archer – before I felt her give the feline equivalent of a nod and then drift back down to her resting place inside my bones. It was an odd feeling – this acceptance – both of Archer and of my own nature, and I sort of sat there marveling at it for a moment. I still didn’t think I’d be letting my Cat hunt anytime soon, but at least the thought didn’t repel me anymore.
I looked up to find Archer standing a couple of feet away from me as if he was afraid to come any closer. His face had been wiped of blood, though I could still see some on his collar where it had dripped when he saw me watching him.
I got to my feet. “Should we butcher it here or take the whole carcass back to Marianne’s?”
Archer flinched, like he expected something much worse to come out of my mouth and had braced for it. Ringo rose smoothly and brushed himself off. “I say we do the cuttin’ ‘ere. That way we can divide the meat three ways and pack it in the hide.”
Archer stepped forward and looked us both in the eyes. “I’m sorry you had to see that.” His voice was so tentative it made my heart hurt.
“How long had it been since you’d eaten?” I held his gaze.
“Not so long that I couldn’t control myself. But sometimes opportunity overrides will, and I knew if I ate now, I’d need less later.”
“When does the control get ‘ard?” Ringo asked. His tone was as straightforward as mine had been. We were letting Archer know it was okay to talk about, and he seemed to relax a little.
“I try to hunt every three days or so to keep the craving under control.” Archer took a deep breath and I thought I heard a shudder in it. “In December, 1940, I was in London on the night of the worst air raid that city has seen. I hadn’t eaten in four days, and in fact, had been at the train station to leave London for Epping Wood so I could hunt.”
He paused, and I thought he must have been reliving it in his mind, because the shudder was back and there was an edge of desperation in his voice. “When the sirens blew, there was a mass exodus to the Underground station, and I couldn’t escape the tide of people without raising suspicion. So down I went, and I spent the worst night of my life, surrounded by hundreds of people filled with the blood my body craved. It was as though I were an addict in an opium den with no money to buy. An older man near me was bleeding from a cut on his hand, and I literally shook with the effort not to leap on him as I got up and moved to the far end of the tunnel.”
“Is it a craving or a compulsion?” I asked.
Archer met my eyes and then looked away. “A compulsion. No matter how much you persist in believing me harmless, this isn’t just a ‘condition,’ Saira, it is a beast that must be fed to stay dormant, otherwise it rears up and takes control.”
“Kind of like my Cougar, then?” I kept my voice carefully neutral, but his eyes snapped to mine.
“You don’t have to kill to feed the beast.”
I shrugged. “You probably don’t either.”
“Yeah, ye’re just bein’ a drama queen,” Ringo said lightly.
We both stared at him, and I burst out laughing. “Where’d you hear that?”
Ringo cocked an eyebrow with a grin. “Millicent.”
My mouth dropped open. “No you didn’t!”
He laughed and wagged his eyebrows up and down, and suddenly the mood of the conversation shifted. “Come on, ye lot. Time to get to work.”
He pulled a Bowie knife out of his boot that looked like something a hunter would wear and held it up as a dare. Archer scoffed and pulled his own knife to compare blade size. So of course, I rolled my eyes at both of them and drew my daggers out and brandished them with ninja sound effects. Because that’s how badass I was with my daggers. The laughter that erupted was the perfect antidote to the business ahead of us.
Cleaning and butchering the buck was actually far less bloody business than it would have been if Archer hadn’t fed from it. Of course, Ringo had to comment on the fact, but Archer took it in stride. He seemed more relaxed than I’d ever seen him about the whole drinking blood thing, and it made me wonder if he would remember this in his future and let go of all the shame he had about me knowing he had to eat.
Ringo was a very efficient butcher, and Archer had done a lot of field dressing of his father’s kills when he was young, so I followed their lead, and we soon had three, big, well-packed bundles of venison to bring back.
I told the guys I wanted to stop by the old winery to bring some meat for the Jewish kids who lived there. Archer looked thoughtful.
“I suppose it could be considered kosher. Deer have cloven hooves, and the animal was completely bled before being butchered,” he said wryly.
I hadn’t even thought about what might need to be done to make the meat kosher, but since I didn’t know the rules, all we could do was tell someone what we’d done – minus the part about Archer drinking the blood, of course – and let them decide.
The baskets on the front of our bicycles were useful for carrying our bundles of meat, and within about ten minutes we were walking the bikes down the long dirt drive toward the old winery.
“I didn’t know this place existed,” Archer whispered as we crested the hill. The winery spread out in the small valley in front of us, and a light
was on in the farmhouse.
“Apparently most of the village has forgotten it too,” I whispered back.
The night was actually louder than it seemed the closer we got to the farmhouse. Crickets chirped and trilled, and a pair of barn owls called back and forth to each other across the property. It made me feel slightly better about climbing the back steps to what I assumed was the kitchen door, almost as if it wasn’t unreasonable to think someone might be awake in the hours before dawn.
Rather than leaving the meat outside, I knocked quietly on the door. The crickets instantly stilled, and I could feel Archer and Ringo step in place behind me. My confidence slipped the longer it took, and I almost put the meat down and backed away, when finally the door opened.
And so did my mouth.
“Bas?”
Bas
The twelfth-century Moorish Vampire who stood in the kitchen doorway looked as shocked to see me as I was to see him. His clothing was casual, his shirt open at the neck, and his trousers were old, but well-made. He wore his hair cropped shorter than it had been in 1429, and without facial hair, he looked younger than he had then. Considering that his skin hadn’t seen the sun in more than eight hundred years, his appearance could pass for vaguely Spanish or Basque, which, given Hitler’s prejudices against blacks, among others, meant he had a better than average chance of surviving the camp round-ups.
“Saira.” His voice rolled warmly in accented English, and I remembered he had been going to spend time in Tudor England after Elizabeth brought Protestants under her protection. He clasped me in both hands and brought me forward for a three-cheek-kiss greeting. Then he saw Ringo behind me, and looked confused at first. “Ringo, was it?” He held out his hand, then when Ringo went to shake it, brought him in for the same three-cheek kiss. I had felt Archer stiffen at my greeting, and then with Ringo’s obvious familiarity, he seemed less sure.
When Bas turned the full wattage of his smile to Archer, the uncertainty became full-blown confusion. “Archer, my friend. It has been far too long.” Archer got the same greeting as we did, and graciously submitted, though Bas could instantly feel his reluctance and pulled back.
