The Midnight Guardian (12 page)

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Authors: Sarah Jane Stratford

BOOK: The Midnight Guardian
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He couldn't get used to her kiss. True, he had almost nothing against which to compare, but there was something unnerving about her mouth, almost as though she were digging into him. Every time she kissed him, he had the strangest sense of her being suddenly far older than she was, and someone else altogether. Part of him wanted to pull away, even run away, and never see her again, but he knew this was a mouth he couldn't leave.
Her hands wrapped around his head and he sank to his knees. Somehow, her fingers were in his mouth and her lips teasing around his ear. She exhaled into him, and he collapsed back onto the fine wool rug, spent, the pleasures of her body continuing to course through him long after he'd enjoyed them. He drowsed pleasantly, feeling her warm weight curled on top of him.
Brigit skimmed papers quickly and meticulously while Gerhard lay in his stupor. The power of her whispered scenario seemed to ebb with each tryst. Sooner or later, she would have to go much further in truth, unless she finally got information they could use.
Most of the drawers were locked, and Gerhard hadn't let slip where he kept the key. She couldn't break the locks without giving herself away, so had to make do with what papers were accessible, and once again, they were nothing but the most tiresome orders.
Orders, orders, orders, they do love their orders.
Suddenly, Brigit came across a set of orders that made her sit down hard. She had to read them all several times before they began to make any sense, and even then, they made no sense. How had Mors not heard about this? How had none of them? How was it possible?
She glanced down at the blissful Gerhard.
“You can't be serious, can you?”
He stirred slightly, but slept on.
Brigit replaced the papers and lay back down, even though she really wanted to throw him out the window. The sooner she woke him, the sooner she could get home and they all could get to work.
 
“When?”
Brigit answered the flat inquiry with bitter sarcasm.
“Czechoslovakia next week. Poland in September. Autumn is a fine time to start a war, especially with a country with whom you have a nonaggression pact.”
“He denounced that, or don't you remember?”
“Yes, well, and they signed one with Denmark, do you think that means anything? Something will certainly be rotten in that state, you mark my words. This war is coming, the plans are well in motion, and what the hell are we going to do about it?”
“I am trying, but what can I do, really, when my man is involved in culture?” asked Meaghan, her accent fretful and petulant. She folded her arms and fixed her eyes on the teakettle. Swefred laid a hand on her shoulder and looked at Brigit and the others resignedly.
“I wondered. It's the questions the journalists haven't been asking that have been worrying me. When I pointed out to the one fellow I'm supposedly friends with that he seems to be doing nothing more than regurgitating the party line in print, he was, shall we say, surprised. As though he couldn't imagine his job entailing anything else. I think they're rather proud of what's been accomplished, and this great future. They want to keep extolling it in the papers.”
“Or they're too terrified to do anything else.” Brigit was disdainful.
“Not without reason. But what we need to do is penetrate the inner circle.”
His eyes swiveled to Mors as he spoke.
“I don't want to take all the fun from everyone.”
“Since when?” but Cleland winked at him. He turned to Brigit with a placating tone. “Masses of Germans have been saying for years that there ought to be a total German empire again, that the Danzig is
rightfully part of Germany, just like Austria. Come on, you remember von Bismarck.” Brigit mashed her lips together and glared at the ceiling. “Well, what did you expect?” Cleland continued, a bit more heated. “You've seen empires in their infancy before. Did you think they'd detail all their plans in the newspapers for the world to read? Put it to an international vote, perhaps?”
“Don't be exhausting. All I want to know is why we didn't already know this, why we didn't already stop it. It's getting a bit late to interfere.”
“This hasn't exactly been a stroll in St. James's, has it?” Cleland snapped. “These people aren't fuzzy little bunnies, either, you might have noticed.”
“We've been doing our best,” Swefred added, almost as petulant as Meaghan might be.
“Have we? Have we really? If we had good fake propaganda, confused people, we could create chaos. That was the plan, wasn't it?”
Cleland and Swefred exchanged glances, riling Brigit further.
“Well then, what the hell are we doing? What are we doing?” Brigit demanded. “We're supposed to be so clever, so capable, so powerful, what are we doing? How are we breaking their backs if they're getting ready to mow down Poland? I've hardly gotten to even eat anyone really worthwhile, we have to be so damn cautious. What? What do we do now?”
“She's right,” Mors interjected, laying a hand on Brigit's tensed forearm. “We should have made more progress by now.”
“It's hard to make progress against such determination,” Cleland protested. “They're so sure they're right, and they're so loyal to each other, and the party, and him. I think the Goddess of Discord herself would have a hard time turning this group on each other. We must be cautious, and clever.”
“But we cannot be total slaves to caution,” Mors pounded the wall for emphasis. “We cannot, lest we lose yet more and then more. Indeed, as the lady says, what is our purpose but to thwart such actions? We must be true to our very selves, and ruthless, ruthless and bold. Ambition! Ambition …”
“By that sin fell the angels.”
Even Meaghan gaped at Swefred. His face was impassive, inscrutable, and Brigit wondered if he'd gone so far as to make a joke. It seemed
so unlike him, but, she reminded herself, she had made a point all these years of not getting to know him too well.
Mors recovered from the surprise of the interruption and grinned.
“Verily, aye, but we were never angels. Nay, not even bright still. We may cling safely to our ambition.”
“So what then? What do we do?” Brigit knew it was now she who sounded petulant, but there was something unsettling creeping into her skin, and she wanted a plan to which she could cling with new passion. Mors locked eyes with her, sending a spark through the room.
“There is a great Prussian general coming to Berlin soon.” Mors spoke in a hypnotic purr. “One of the most famous heroes of the Great War, but a star long before then. He's been critical of the Reich, but apparently has changed his mind, and is now to be one of the top commanders and advisers. They think it's going to make a tremendous difference.”
Brigit interrupted.
“So you
did
know they were preparing for war!”
“No, my impatient Yorkist. I knew they were preparing for an empire, and that is not necessarily the same thing, as the Anschluss demonstrated.”
Brigit grumbled and folded her arms. Mors continued.
“They are arranging quite the fete for General von Kassell, and he will speak to a select group. It will be in all the papers.” Mors paused to wink at Swefred. “He will arrive laden with treasure. One wonders where on earth it was amassed, but never mind. Wouldn't it be a shame if he and all his honor guard were assassinated before the festivities began? And troubling, too, because who amongst them could even think of such a terrible plot, let alone carry it out? Indeed, if the sabotage is made to look as though committed by a crack team within the party, well, can a spine so bent ever again stand tall?”
Even Meaghan and Swefred looked interested.
“So when? When is he coming?” Brigit felt as impatient as a child, but didn't care.
“Late in May, is the word so far.”
“But that's ages from now!”
“Gives us time to plan it properly, as Otonia would have it.”
The others nodded, pleased, but Brigit couldn't shake her disquiet. She needed to do something, now.
“I'm hungry. I think I'll go out.”
Cleland glanced at the clock.
“Slim pickings this time of night, Brigit. It's pushing close to dawn. Are you sure you want to risk it?”
“I can't wait.”
She could feel the others looking at one another, and hear the silent questions, but she didn't care. She needed more than a meal. She needed a kill.
 
The night was chilly, and felt much more like midwinter than early spring. Brigit prowled discontentedly through the frosty, bluish haze. Spring. The days would soon be getting longer, giving them even less of an advantage. They ought to have come earlier in the autumn. But back in November, they thought they knew what they were doing and how they would carry it off. And though they hadn't admitted as much to one another, or even to themselves, they'd tacitly assumed the mission would be accomplished by now and they would be home.
She wondered about this plan of Mors's and the effect it might have. If they did it right, it could indeed be the strike they hoped for. Something definitive, something to throw the Nazis off their game, to keep them from gaining their much-sought prize. But she wished they could do it now.
No. I wish it were already done.
As she reached the business district, she began to send out inquiring sniffs. After half an hour, she started to worry. Cleland had been right, this was a foolish time to try. In London, there were always the after-hours clubs and parties and salons to enjoy, but here, despite the glorious dream of a society that they were supposedly bringing to fruition, there was nothing so fun. The happy hedonism of the Weimar days was long gone, as were the days when men like Mikhail Bakunin or Aleksandr Herzen might look to Germany as an inspiration for the democracy they hoped to cultivate in Russia. Perhaps the people were confident, and felt strong, and had an outlet for their energies and something in which to believe. All this, yes, but theirs was a dour world. Of course, she only walked by night and wasn't privy to much beyond the scope of the mission, but it
seemed to her it was only their little clique of vampires who laughed with anything like sheer pleasure in this strident city.
What a turnup for the books, if history could record it. A great new world indeed, where only the undead experience unadulterated joy. I'm embarrassed for you.
She giggled. The giggle turned into a gurgle as a sniff caught at last and she scampered happily toward her prey.
Two night watchmen outside a bank vault had purloined some good gin and were happily toasting each other's future success as they climbed up the ladder. They toasted the inner circle, the Führer, of course, the Fatherland, and all its most luscious blond daughters. It may have been the effect of all that gin, but one watchman was sure he saw the glittering head of just such a blonde winking at him from down an alleyway. A sweet whisper sounded in his ear:
“Komm her, mein Schöner. Ich hab' was für dich.”
Well, if a blonde with such an intriguing voice had something for him, who was he to keep her waiting?
His compatriot hardly noticed him get up and head down the alley, and probably just thought he was going to relieve himself. Which, in a way, he was. He chortled, almost skipping up to the blonde, who was so beautiful he nearly stopped breathing. She was like something out of a film. Yes, things were definitely turning around in his life. It must be the uniform. Women were notoriously helpless for a man in uniform.
She stroked his face. Her hand was cool, almost cold, but the touch electric. Her fingers danced through his hair, teased down his neck—how could such a young, open-faced creature, with such a delicate smile, be so experienced?
He hadn't realized they'd been walking, had no idea where he even was, but her lips brushed his ear and made his knees tremble. The whisper she spoke was unintelligible, perhaps musical, something from an old song. It was enthralling and yet unsettling. But not so much that he wasn't still melting under her light touch.
Brigit smiled, looking at him. Young, handsome, overflowing with ambition. And he was no angel, either, and was about to fall. This paragon, an Aryan ideal, a simple watchman who would be in the Gestapo soon, if he parried his connections well and curried enough favor. He was
just the sort to break down doors, beat the defenseless, and rip apart families, then go home and dandle his own children on his knee. Brigit looked further into him, and smiled even wider. Yes, and then put them to bed, make dutiful love to his wife, and sneak out to steal a few hours with his current mistress. And every Sunday, he'd enter the church with a proud, clean, self-assured heart.
The smile stretched, and she held a hand to his chest firmly, making sure he saw it all. The rising red in her eyes, the jagged cheekbones bursting from under the smooth skin, the spreading jaw that accommodated her shiny, well-kept fangs. He shook his head, too frightened to scream, sure he had simply slipped into a gin-soaked nightmare. He had a whole plan for his life, he was the shining hope of his family, and in a country cleansed of undesirables, he could go far. Could, and would. It was not, it could not be about to be quashed, snuffed out, and in such an impossible and ignominious way. No. Everyone knew the Führer had purified the land, that no vampire walked in Germany anymore and never would again. Impossible. His head continued to shake, almost of its own accord.

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