Deal with the Devil

by J. Gunnar Grey

She slid closer. Her scent washed over him. “Ready.”

  He engaged the clutch. “Do it.”

  She shifted. The transmission jolted into first gear, he released the clutch and fed in some gas, and the engine rumbled. The lorry trundled across the last few yards of the macadam lane. Left-handed, Faust horsed the steering wheel to the right. It barely budged.

  “Where are you going?” she said. “The road’s over there.”

  As if he couldn’t see that. He needed more speed to turn the blooming wheel, but the lorry had already rolled into the intersection and the dry stone wall loomed ever closer beyond the hood. He braced his feet outside the pedals and hauled with his whole aching body, grunting with the strain. The front left tire bounced off the far edge of the road as the lorry swung in a slow cumbersome arc. They were going to hit, and adding his right arm to the effort only shot piercing agony across his side.

  Then Jennifer dived beneath his arm. She grabbed the spoke beside his grip and heaved, throwing her weight in with his. Her body pressed against his chest, her hair brushed his cheek, and her scent cut through the heavier notes of oil and warm metal, tantalizing and intoxicating. No wonder he’d run mad. But the lorry responded. Its arc tightened. Its front fender scraped along the flint blocks with a harsh metallic rasp, brilliant orange sparks spraying the night. None of the blocks shifted. Then the sound ceased, the sparks vanished, the lorry angled away from the dry stone wall, the tire jolted back onto the road, and suddenly they were slanting back toward Woodrow’s kitchen garden, a pool of greenery in the dim headlights.

  He abandoned the steering wheel to her tender mercies, engaged the clutch and accelerator, slipped his left hand beneath her body without letting himself imagine what part of her his arm brushed, and shifted up. The lorry jerked forward, the engine note dropped a level, she scooted back across the seat, and he horsed the steering wheel about. The lorry settled into the middle of the road and picked up speed.

  “Sorry. I’m not trying to get fresh.” No matter how much he wanted to.

  The last of the kitchen garden rolled past on their right side, the dry stone wall on their left. The shadows of the Dark folded over them. The dim headlights wavered across the road as the lorry growled up the slope.

  Faust chose his words with care. “I can’t let our adventure tonight change anything, you know. I can’t let your grandfather break me.”

  She didn’t pause. “I know you have your duty, just as we have ours.”

  Which wasn’t precisely the same as agreeing with him. “All I want to do is catch Norris so I can escape and go home without getting killed.”

  The lorry crested the rise and descended into ever-deeper shadows. Looming oaks reached gnarled fingers across the road. On its downward slope, the lorry ducked beneath their grasp and eluded them, but each time it seemed they’d be caught in an unbreakable grip.

  “Which of us are you trying to convince?” Her whisper was all but inaudible beneath the engine’s rumbling.

  Aggravating, infuriating, outrageous — and despite his yearning to settle the score with Norris, despite the pain that pounded against his resolve, Faust wanted her more than he’d ever wanted a woman before. He longed to stretch out with her in the Dark’s soft leafy debris, roll her over, pin her arms above her head, and love her ’til her ears rang — and it would never happen.

  “That’s not the impression I wanted to give.” He hadn’t meant to sound so petulant. But he needed distance before his yearning for her overwhelmed his control, and perhaps it was best.

  She braced against the dashboard. The road curved left and climbed, flickering in the wavering headlights, and Faust tugged on the wheel as he accelerated. The engine roughened and growled. From his deepest depths, he knew distance between them was the last thing he wanted. But wishing wouldn’t change anything.

  “I know.” She looked away.

  Ahead, the road escaped the trees’ dominion and moonlight spread over its liberated ribbon, hemmed on either side by the darker lines of dry stone walls. The rows of turnips began on the left, the chicken runs on the right. An ugly twisting began in the pit of his stomach and the pounding in his head intensified. He shouldn’t have snapped at her. But he didn’t dare apologize. Or look at her.

  “We don’t know where Norris will exit the forest,” he said. “I’m presuming he’ll run in a straight line, trying to put distance between him and pursuit, but once out of the forest he’ll look for a place to hide or a means of getting away permanently. It’s our job to intercept him before he can.” The lorry topped the last rise. Faust shifted to neutral and pressed the brake, letting the vehicle roll to the verge and stopping it short of the wall. “So we need to hide close enough to the forest to see what’s happening, but far enough away so we can run and intercept Norris wherever he comes out.”

  “The barn.” Her voice was decided. But the distance remained. “There’s a loft high enough to see over the chicken runs.”

  He set the handbrake, killing the engine and lights. “The barn it is.”

  They scrambled over the wall and she raced past the runs, leading the way. The shotgun danced beneath her arm and her feet whispered from dirt to trampled lawn. The chickens they passed squawked, flapped, then settled into an uneasy truce behind them. Faust staggered in her wake. Focusing needed too much concentration, his stomach became more unsteady by the step, and the overwhelming fowl stench smothered him like a feather pillow.

  They skirted the frame house and ran toward the looming dark mass of the barn behind. The ends of the chicken runs opened long corridors to the right, the forest’s edge beyond an imposing black boundary with empty depths beneath. Nothing seemed to stir except the sleepy birds. His eyes watered and his stomach squirmed harder.

  Jennifer vanished in the barn’s shadow. By the time he leaned against its rough wall, her face peered from the loft overhead.

  “Can you see anything?” A convulsive shudder engulfed him. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes.

  Her voice murmured, softer than the nightjar. “No, not — yes. Yes, there he is.” She sucked in a breath. “We did it.”

  Not yet, they hadn’t, and if he didn’t pull himself together, they wouldn’t. “Where?”

  In the distance, chickens squawked and flapped. The noise rippled toward them, a wave of avian panic in the night. His mind cleared and his breathing steadied through the pounding pain. Combat approached.

  “The next to last corridor between the runs.” She sounded breathless. “He’s coming fast.”

  Faust eased to the end of the corridor but stayed within the shadows. A racing figure spread the wave of feathered panic with its steps. Perhaps Norris had slowed, but if so, it wasn’t by much. His path intersected the wall of the barn; he’d have to turn, north or south, to pass it. North, away from the road, would be the quickest route to a real escape. Faust poised on the balls of his feet. The pulsing pain in his head and arm, his twisting stomach, all seemed to fade into the background, freeing him to fight. When Norris committed to a new path, so would he.

  The nearest chickens panicked, an outburst of wings and noise. The dark form erupted from the corridor, angled north, and accelerated, footsteps squelching in the grass. His breathing whooped like a bellows.

  The last of the pain faded away. Faust leapt to intercept. He cut across the barn’s shadow in three bounds and sprang into the moonlight, reaching for Norris’ pumping arm. In the distance, the chickens panicked again. Bruckmann and Tanyon were on their way.

  Norris glanced toward him. A ragged gasp hissed beneath the squawking. He spun north, twisting away.

  Faust dived after him. His right shoulder crunched into Norris’ twisting side. Agony exploded and slammed Faust like a shock wave, redoubled for the reprieve. His body convulsed. But he wrapped both arms around Norris and held on as the farmyard whirled about them.

  They slammed into the ground. His arm spasmed, retracted, folded against his side as if taking cover. His stomach h
eaved. A voice that sounded like his shouted. Beneath him, Norris thrashed. Clawing nails tore at Faust’s remaining grip and one boot crunched into his thigh. The explosion intensified. He closed his fist amidst Norris’ uniform buttons and held on. The second wave of squawking was approaching fast.

  Then Norris scrambled aside. Faust slid off and thumped into the grass, only his fingers tangled in khaki wool binding them together. Norris gathered himself like a runner at the start, twisting toward Faust and drawing back his left fist. He paused and glanced up, eyes widening.

  Jennifer dropped the shotgun beside Faust and landed on Norris’ back like a Fury. Her arm wrapped about his throat, her fist crashed down on his skull, and her knees slammed into his flanks, driving him into a floundering heap on the ground. She screamed her rage, smashed him again, then lifted his head by his hair and crunched him face-first into the barnyard. Norris cried out, writhing beneath her, but his boots skidded sideways as she slammed her knees into him again.

  Faust untangled his arm, grabbed the shotgun, and rolled aside. Another thunk resounded, echoing from the barn’s wall and from the inside of his head. The barnyard kept spinning, whirling drunkenly about him. His stomach heaved. Shoot, she didn’t need his help any more. As Bruckmann barreled into the fight, chickens screaming behind him, Faust rolled to his knees and retched himself empty.

  Chapter Eighty-Seven

  night

  at the Alcock chicken farm and outside Margeaux Hall

  The barnyard pump worked smoothly. Faust rinsed his grungy mouth, held his head beneath the spurting water, then splashed more across his aching face. The cool shock eased the pounding and braced his wobbly knees like a tonic. His interior seemed empty and light, like a balloon that would float away if he took off his boots. He leaned atop the pump, curled over it, and let the relief soak through him. Maybe he’d survive the night, after all.

  At the barnyard’s edge, Tanyon and Bruckmann hauled Norris to his feet, his arms bound behind him. The sod hadn’t quit protesting yet — he hadn’t hurt anyone, he’d been protecting Miss Stoner from the German murderer, he’d practically been caught in the act, what further proof did they want? Standing at the pump, Faust could no longer discern the words. But he could still hear that whiny voice and it grated almost as badly.

  As usual, he didn’t hear her approach. But when he opened his eyes, her brogues waited nearby, those delicious legs rising into her tweed skirt. Her soft voice cut through Norris’ incessant protests without effort. “John-Jacob?”

  At least he knew enough not to look up, into her face in the bewitching moonlight. “I’m okay.” He dug in his pocket, found the handkerchief she’d given him, and smeared away the drips.

  Fingers as feather-light as her step stroked his wet hair behind his ear and traced down his aching jaw line. “Your poor face.”

  Her touch coursed through him like another cold-water shower, leaving a hot glow in its wake. Before he could stop himself, he glanced up. The moonlight did the rest. Her eyes, fine and dark in the silver gleam, peered at the bruises he’d earned in her service with gentle concern, and her fingers whispered back up along his jaw line, infinitely slowly. Neither her tousled hair nor the darkening lump on her left cheek detracted a whit from her incandescence. Nor did they seem to concern her.

  While his injuries did. Just like Skelton’s merry Margaret. Gentle as falcon Or hawk of the tower; With solace and gladness—

  His heart swelled within him. If he tugged her close, held her against him, touched her lips with his, how would she react? If her desire steamed, too — and he’d never had to wonder about a woman before — she’d kiss him back and tangle her fingers in his hair. But if she only felt gratitude, she’d give him a good smack.

  Her gaze lifted from his jaw line and meshed with his. Her expression deepened, mysterious and piquant, leaving him unenlightened. He wasn’t certain he wanted to risk it. But his body started to lean toward her—

  —and it was just as wrong now as it had been earlier. He straightened and, with more resolve than he’d known he possessed, removed his face from her touch.

  With a jerk, she withdrew her hand and slid both behind her, like a scolded schoolgirl. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not that I don’t appreciate it.” He hesitated; she’d turned away at his first word. “Or like it.”

  “It’s inappropriate. I know. It’s just—” Her breath rasped. “I can’t help but feel some responsibility for your situation. I know it’s not truly my fault.” She faced him again. Her chin had firmed in her moment aside and her eyebrows were level. “But I’ve helped put you here.”

  So this was gratitude. Faust shoved the damp handkerchief into his pocket, unaccountably irritated. “Your loyalty should be clear.”

  In the silver moonlight, her eyes flared with something akin to anger. As usual, she didn’t hesitate. “So should yours.”

  Whatever impression he’d given her, it wasn’t the one he’d aimed at. And she took after her grandfather too much, at least during an argument. Before he could say so, Bruckmann scuffed across the grass and joined them.

  The lieutenant jerked his head toward Norris, still babbling to Tanyon. “He swears he didn’t do it. He swears we’ve caught the wrong man.” His voice wavered.

  The sergeant’s dark glance cut Faust’s way, then turned aside as if burned.

  Jennifer hauled in a sharp breath.

  “Don’t bother arguing with him. Just turn him over to Chief Inspector Hackney. His investigation will sort things out.” Faust paused. Her fists clenched and she glared across the farmyard as if taking aim. “Besides, I saw him hit Jennifer before he knew I was watching, which is hardly protective.”

  She glanced over her shoulder, one swift grateful second of eye contact. Then she too turned away.

  Bruckmann popped his eyebrows. “That’s what we’ll do.” He walked back to the others.

  After a moment, Jennifer scooped up the shotgun from beside the pump and followed him.

  Faust’s empty stomach clenched. He’d succeeded in putting distance between them. Now he wished he could take it back. More importantly, he wished he’d chanced that kiss. Then he’d know for certain whether it would be worthwhile seeking her out after the war.

  Or whether he’d just get smacked.

  Bruckmann drove and Jennifer rode in the lorry’s cab, while Faust slumped in the back with the sergeant and his prisoner. At least Norris fell silent in his presence, but the kid’s hot accusing stare, perhaps a touch calculating around the edges, never left him.

  His body rocked as the lorry swung uphill onto Margeaux Hall’s macadam lane. The orchard and the mortared stone wall rolled past the opened canvas backing, then the rocking stopped and the engine died. Before Sloane could close the gate, another car, driving without lights, swung onto the macadam and parked. Hackney scrambled out and trotted up the slope, followed more slowly by Arnussen and Constable Mercer. Even in the dim moonlight, eagerness glittered on the inspector’s jowled face.

  “We’ve been watching from the dairy and saw you drive out.” Hackney leaned over the tail ramp and swept a flashlight beam into the lorry’s back. “Norris.”

  Faust squenched his eyes shut. Time for round two.

  “It wasn’t me.” Norris leaned away from Tanyon’s restraining grip, as if closer proximity to the chief inspector would bolster his argument. He jerked his head at Faust. “It was him. We practically caught him in the act. What more d’you want?”

  Behind the cone of light, Hackney’s jaw shifted. “Well, it might help if he had the right blood type. It can’t be him, you know.”

  “It has to be.” Norris straightened, all innocent astonishment. “None of us would do a thing like that.”

  Faust froze. He’d thrown out the racial accusation to Stoner and been scoffed at. But Norris seemed to expect them to believe it.

  He climbed from the lorry, ignored the pain flashing from the movement, and slipped past Hackney into the
cool welcome of the night. The lawn opened about him, stretching down to the wall and up the slope to the looming black bulk of Margeaux Hall, and his consciousness seemed to expand to fill the space. The moon overhead, nearly full, drowned out the closest stars. Its flooding light bathed the building and the huge spreading beeches dotting the lawn, glittering off the glass vestibule and soothing his soul. It smelled clean, cleaner than he did, like a newborn world, like a new start. If all the world and love were young, And truth in every shepherd’s tongue—

  From all sides, crickets sang their monotonous chords, and from the apple orchard behind him the nightjar answered with its strange chirring sound, more like a machine than a bird. He lit one of Clarke’s cigarettes and added nicotine to the dreamy mix, standing in the moonlight and smoking without thought for long minutes. No wonder so many poets wrote of the nighttime orb and Diana’s beauty. A bomber’s moon, Erhard had called it, and laughed. If it lit the landscape this well, he could understand why.

  He wasn’t crazy. He knew that. He wasn’t crazy and his loyalty remained intact despite Stoner’s onslaught. The murderer had been caught, the local ladies were safe, he’d fulfilled his unsought responsibilities, and now he could escape and return to Germany, to the staff officer’s position he’d earned and where he was determined to excel. The rest of his life could wait. And included in that waiting list was Jennifer, with her tender ferocity, tantalizing lips, and stunningly beautiful soul camouflaged beneath a pleasantly plain face. He dragged hard. Perhaps by the end of the war he’d be over this infatuation. Perhaps not. But he’d have to wait for the world to recover its own sanity to find out.

  He hadn’t yet found an answer to Stoner’s accusation, that Faust and the German Army were accomplices to the Nazis’ crimes. The heat of that shameful moment, emphasized by the memory of Stoner’s white, enraged face, briefly ruffled his enforced tranquility. But he shook it off. It, too, could wait. And the resumption of peace and order might be enough to answer the accusation for him.