The Midnight Guardian (19 page)

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Authors: Sarah Jane Stratford

BOOK: The Midnight Guardian
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“Well, go on then, destroy me. What do you have to destroy me? Where is all your might? Aren't I just a sweet little girl?”
She pirouetted onto the stage, pausing in the spotlight, allowing her face and body to revert briefly to its human-looking self, so that they could see. A young man cowering in the wings gasped, hardly believing how beautiful she was. She grinned at him.
“Ever been kissed?”
He shook his head numbly.
She pulled him to her, popped out her fangs, and bit off his face.
A sudden shot startled her. The bullet grazed her shoulder. The man aimed again and she pulled out her pilfered gun.
“If you're going to use a gun, use it properly.”
The bullet sank between his eyes.
One of the last remaining men took out a gun and aimed for his own head, but she wouldn't have that. She leaped back into the audience, seized him, and kicked her foot through his stomach instead.
There were three left. She pulled them into an embrace, her eyes locked on the orator's. He could not see what she did, only that as she
walked toward him, fresh blood dripped down her coat. He whined, backing away upstage.
“You won't survive, you won't survive,” he squeaked. “We'll get all of your beastly kind in the end. You can't stop us. We're too powerful.”
“I wouldn't lay money on that if I were you.”
With measured, deliberate steps, she circled closer and closer to him. He clutched at the faded, worn scrim behind him, then shrieked and leaped up it, climbing all of two feet before the fabric gave way with a tired sigh and collapsed him back to the stage in a cloud of dust and thread.
“I do hate to see a theater in disrepair. Such a waste. And you certainly know about waste, don't you?”
She held out a hand to help him up, then gently drew him back to the circle of light at center stage, slowly revolving, for all the world as if it were a choreographed waltz.
“Why on earth would you leave this beautiful spotlight?”
She slid behind him, laid her hands on his cheeks, and tilted his head to look up into the flickering bulb.
“Even a student on his first day at conservatory knows that you play out the climax front, center, and in the light. The audience has earned that.”
He was nearly fainting from fear.
“Evil … evil …” he murmured feebly.
“No, no. That will not do. You're to speak the speech trippingly on the tongue, or not at all. Care to try again?”
Drenched in sweat, he slipped from her grasp to his knees.
“Then I guess the act is mine to finish.”
With that, she reached into his mouth, pulled out his tongue several inches, and snapped his jaws shut so that half his tongue flew across the stage. He howled through a mouthful of blood.
“You and your kind. Such a penchant for drama. I rather think this little show is over, don't you? Yes, I believe this was the finale. Isn't it time the lights went out?”
She punted him toward the spotlight. His head went straight through, sending a shower of sparks down onto the carnage.
Brigit dropped a beautiful curtsy and exited stage left, hearing a wave of thunderous applause play her out onto the still-quiet street.
 
It was with shock and horror that many in the neighborhood saw the charred remains of the theater the next day and mourned those who had perished so dreadfully. No one could comprehend how the gas main could have exploded so violently, how everything and everyone could be burned so very far beyond recognition. Arson would have been suspected, but the power of the destruction was far beyond human strength and capacity. The baffled local officials could do no more to comfort the hundreds of bereaved than to say that sometimes dreadful things happened and nothing could have been done to change it. This was easier to believe than any other possibility.
 
For her part, Brigit spent that day sleeping the sleep of the untroubled dead.
London. January 1940.
“Something's wrong besides the obvious.”
Eamon jumped. Otonia had sat down next to him and he hadn't even heard her approach. That was the gift of being so supremely ancient. She didn't even bother to seduce her prey anymore, just took what she needed and got on with whatever else she'd set out to do that evening.
“It's not that I don't enjoy my food,” she explained. “I just don't want to miss out on anything else.”
She dropped a hand on Eamon's shoulder and gazed out at the city.
“I hope this lasts.”
He nodded, only half paying attention. He'd been brooding for several weeks now, and he knew they'd all noticed but were diplomatic enough to keep a distance. Otonia, however, had picked up on something more, and was determined to head off any trouble before an idea could take root. It was marvelous and terrifying, the way she sensed things, but Eamon was hardly in a mood to talk. This did not seem to bother the ancient leader, as she knew he was listening.
“Funny, isn't it, our way of thinking? Time is so different for us. Quite a luxury, although I suppose we don't always appreciate it. We can spend centuries mulling a problem, and never get to the end of it. Perhaps we should be the ones to write philosophy.”
He bristled slightly at her implication. “I'm not thinking—”
“I know.”
Her smile was kind, with deep understanding creased into every fold of her skin. Otonia was not pretty; her face was too strong-featured for prettiness. But there was something in her that made you want to look at her again. Her deep voice and intelligent eyes could hold you rapt for hours, or centuries. The others all surmised that these were the qualities that had led to her making, that she had perhaps seduced her maker, rather than the other way around. Hers was also the only face among them, besides Mors's, that betrayed time. To give her just a passing glance, she was frozen in her early twenties, but on closer inspection, the millennia were written on her skin. The breadth of knowledge and experience in her mien was what commanded all their respect, trust, and, it could not be denied, love. Even now, when she knew that Eamon and Padraic, and the millennials in Berlin, all thought she'd made a grave error in judgment and was only compounding it, she made no apology and asked no forgiveness. Should it be needed, it would probably come. Otonia was not one to worry.
She pulled her ever-present distaff from inside the folds of her cloak and concentrated on winding wool so Eamon did not have to feel any eyes on him.
“There is a lot they can do. We still have hope.”
Eamon's head hardly moved, but she saw it.
“You like Mors, of course, but perhaps you don't trust him? Not that it matters, since you trust Brigit so completely. And the fact that there were two centuries wherein they might have become more than friends, than brother and sister, but never did, that is perhaps not the same thing as being lonely and frightened and under terrible duress in enemy territory. So you think that when she comes back to you, she'll no longer be your girl. Or not in quite the same way.”
Of all the things he was so terrified of losing in Brigit, this was one that had only recently begun to plague him, and he suspected it did so because it was so tangible. He hated it, though, and he hated himself for it even more.
“Worried that disaster might provoke infidelity … I honestly don't
know if she'd fall down laughing or never forgive me. It's absurd. I feel so … human.”
“You look human.”
He grinned.
“Well, that's something. But we're supposed to be bigger than that. I don't know what's wrong with me.”
“There's nothing wrong with you. You just miss the girl who keeps your heart safe.”
She rose and dropped a quick kiss on top of his head.
“No one ever said it was easy to keep the home fires burning.”
When she had gone, he fell back on the grass and blinked up at the stars.
Home fires. It's more than that, though, isn't it? You've always had so much more in you than that.
He didn't know what possessed him to relive their past in his head—it was as though writing the history in his mind was a talisman and kept her present, even when she wasn't.
You were so angry and so unhappy. Like me, but for such different reasons.
But for all they had later become, he could not trawl through history without remembering how they had started, and what he had lost.
 
The Jewish community of twelfth-century York was not large, but it was happy and thriving. To be sure, there were some incidents, and people had heard tell of some unpleasantness throughout England, but they had their faith in God, in the king, and in their overall good relations with their Gentile neighbors. They minded their business, obeyed all strictures, and took care not to give anyone much reason to notice them. Most of them worked at the dull and distasteful, if necessary, job of moneylending, having little other recourse. And they were not all wealthy, no matter what some of their neighbors might suspect.
Jacob of Emmanuel and his little family were certainly not wealthy, although things were improving, thanks to Jacob's talent at baking. The family had always baked the bread for their community, but even as a small boy, Jacob showed a deftness and feel for dough that made a bread
so delicious, he could never make enough for everyone. It was noticed that even a few Gentile girls ventured into the Jewish quarter to buy bread from Jacob. In very quiet corners it was whispered that this might have less to do with the goodness of the bread than with the remarkable handsomeness of Jacob, and the shocking bravery of the girls' admiration of a Jew was given due respect.
Jacob's looks were a startling thing to the entire community. He was taller than any other man, for a start, and broad-shouldered, muscular from swinging sacks of flour since he was ten years old. His fingers were long and nimble and never seemed to tire, even after shaping a hundred loaves. He had silky brown hair that tumbled around his head and magnetic, twinkling eyes that were sometimes brown, sometimes green, depending on the light. His ready smile was mischievous, and made those eyes snap in a manner that was highly unsettling to every marriageable girl in the community. Then, too, he had a way with words that made him seem far more learned than he was. Those men whose business kept them from household errands like buying bread found reasons to call at the bakery anyway, simply to exchange a few words with the fascinating baker.
Now nearly eighteen, it was expected that he should marry soon. He knew this, and was prepared to do his duty, but he was hesitant. Perhaps he could solicit a girl with some money, but whatever anyone else thought of him, he did not think so well of himself that to reach above his station seemed appropriate. But how could he take proper care of a wife and children when there was his uncle and small brother and sister to care for already, and the money he earned only just kept them?
He would never have dared express his other reason for hesitating. He knew what it would sound like. It was not as though there weren't pretty, spirited girls around, but that he had an idea of something he wanted that he couldn't articulate even when he lay awake and stared out at the stars. More education, that was part of his dream. He was clever, he knew it, and the rabbi was prepared to help him, but the early deaths of his parents made him feel his position as man of the family. His uncle tried hard, but was ailing and found standing for long hours too grueling. So who but Jacob could manage the business and care for them? Still, he would like to learn more. More even than what the rabbi could teach, but he quashed that thought. It sounded disrespectful.
Then there was music. The unspoken obsession. His dreams were always in melody. His thoughts had a singsong rhythm. Music flowed through him when he made bread. Every sound he heard, wherever he went, he wanted to capture and re-create as a song. It was everywhere but tantalizingly out of reach. He often sang out loud, but there was a strength, passion, and uniquely enticing beauty in his clear tenor that others found disconcerting, so he tried not to sing unless he was alone, or in the synagogue. The singing at Sabbath was never enough. He had to sneak outside the nearest church on Sundays and hide, so he could hear more music. It shamed him, this furtive enjoyment of Gentile music, but there was no helping it. He needed the sound more than liquid. He was a man driven, and didn't know what else he could do.
Once, some traveling players had come to town. The Jews were not allowed to attend performances, but when he knew they would be giving an evening concert for a magistrate, he crept to the house, climbed a tree, and listened. Bliss. This was life. He could just see the musicians and feel the pleasure on their faces. The joy in making music. One of them played a rebec. Jacob stared at it. All his life, he'd known things … sensed them. He'd known with horrible certainty at the beginnings of their illnesses that his parents would die. He'd known from the day she could toddle that Alma, his sister, would be the sort of child to play pranks and laugh easily and be a beloved friend. He knew now, with absolute certainty, that were he to hold a rebec, set it on his thigh, and touch the bow to the strings, it would obey him. It would spill out every song that had ever spun around in his tireless brain. Longing choked him. The complete impossibility mocking his dreams. The man played, and Jacob wept.
Perhaps there was a woman who could understand all this, perhaps there was a way to have something else, perhaps … but these were not good days for contemplating happiness. News was bad. Jews were being persecuted in England, burned out of homes, or sometimes inside them. Or they were put to the sword. Jacob wanted them to be ready. He knew there was a fight coming, and he wished he had a weapon. Fight back, that's what he wanted to do. Die on his feet fighting, if he was going to die. He knew he was strong, but with only bread knives, he had no chance. Still, he was ready to show those who would hound them what real honor was, if it was the last thing he ever did.
But the children, God in heaven, what about the children?
As it happened, on the evening the trouble closed in, York's Jews decided to flee to the castle for protection. There was little choice—houses had been burned and some were killed. But the king's men were coming; they would settle the growing mob and reestablish order. Their lives would go on. So the logic went. Jacob did not really believe that, but what choice was there? There was his uncle and the children, and no way to escape. He hated the idea of running, but these three souls were entrusted to his care. He was outnumbered, and as good as unarmed. There was nothing else to do.
They walked quickly, quietly, eyes firmly on the path and the parapet. A sweet, coaxing voice hissed in Jacob's ear and his head jerked around, but no one was there. Alma and Abram were quiet, Uncle was breathing too hard with the labor of walking to speak. And this was a voice—perhaps he was going mad, along with the rest of the world—but this voice sounded like some of the songs he'd conjured in his head. Music that came from a dream, but nothing human. There it was again. He shook his head to clear it, and to concentrate on prayer.
Shma Yisrael, adonai eloheinu
… where was God, anyway?
As they climbed the steps to the tower's great door, it was Jacob, not his uncle, who found each step more arduous, as though a great force were pushing him back. He had the strongest sensation of trying to walk into an ice-brick wall. He paused, only to feel bonds encircling him, pulling him down, away. He pushed his fists into his suddenly hot, throbbing eyes. The world and he were certainly going mad.
“Jacob? Are you all right?” Alma's hand plucked worriedly at his elbow.
“Come away. Come. Come, let me help you.”
This time he saw it. Her. But she couldn't be real. It was a ghost, a mirage, standing there on the hill opposite the tower, long, loose hair billowing around her, a hand extended, a promise in her deep blue eyes. Why could he see her eyes? She was too far away. But he could. And he had to go to her.
“Where are you going?”
Oh, God. He looked at them, the two tiny, trusting faces, the older, bewildered one. What was he doing? He shook his head violently, fighting
against the rising nausea and bursting veins in his temples. They had to get inside. But the closer he got to the door, the more his feet burned. He felt shot through with freezing needles. He stopped again, desperate to catch a breath.
“You must, you must come. There is no other chance,” the voice was urgent, even frightened.
“There is no other chance.”
“What?” His uncle and Alma stared, perplexed and concerned. Abram was too sleepy to notice that Jacob was swaying and his voice was rough and strange.
The musical voice had wrapped itself around Jacob and he found he didn't want to break its hold. He knew, too, that he couldn't enter the castle. The ice was impenetrable. He wished he could breathe properly, could think, could determine what they all should do. He swayed precipitously and his uncle put a steadying hand on his arm.

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