The Midnight Guardian (5 page)

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Authors: Sarah Jane Stratford

BOOK: The Midnight Guardian
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The lights in Berlin cannot possibly be this warm.
There were some among the younger vampires who saw the mission as an adventure. Even Mors probably felt that way, Eamon mused. Mors still had a tremendous appetite for danger. It was presumed that creatures of the night fed on danger as readily as they did jugulars, but this was really only true the first hundred years. After that, a vampire made the distinction between danger and risk. Unless that vampire was Mors, in which case it was all wonderfully intoxicating.
Eamon adored risk, too, but over the centuries he and Brigit had become less inclined for it. There was too much else to do. Eternal life opened one to a wealth of possibilities. As a human, Eamon's natural aptitude for music was something he and his family could never dream of affording to indulge, but as a vampire, he'd learned to play the rebec, then the violin, and a small host of other instruments, although his passion was for those two. He liked the feel of them in his hands, and the way the bows danced across their strings. When music hall began to be popular, he had to expand to the piano.
“You just can't play George Formby on the violin, not if you want to get the right expression.”
“Or hit the right note.” Brigit smirked.
And while George Gershwin lent no end of entertainment to violin experimentation, that wasn't quite the same, either. Piano it was. For
some things. Music and Brigit. So long as he had them, he had the whole world in his still heart.
The tribunal made its home in a castle deep below Hampstead Heath. Otonia liked the view, and the fresh air. The current millennials often marveled at how well she had chosen the location, which had been pure wilderness at the time—Kenwood House came later. She had sensed that London would become the center of the civilized world, and she'd spent too many years in the center of things, or waiting for there to be things again, never mind a center, to let events overtake her. So southward from Yorkshire they went, and hadn't had much cause for regret.
Eamon slipped through the hollow tree that marked the castle's entrance. Not that a human passerby would see it was hollow—the vampires had built a cunning sliding door once the Heath became popular for roaming. Even if a human did manage to get in, they would never find the other door at the base of the trunk, or work out how to open it.
The apartment he and Brigit had shared for so many centuries was warm and cozy. Eamon stirred the fire in their book and music room and sank into his own squashy armchair. If he squinted, he could just make out a depression in the cushion of Brigit's chair, still there after a week of emptiness. He hoped it wasn't an illusion.
He opened his latest book, then realized he couldn't remember anything from the last chapter. He didn't want to read anyway. His sketching things were in the corner, but that didn't bear thinking about. There were his instruments.
The only real comforts now, that's what they were. They were his friends, the pretty little piano, the Amati violin, and the rebec, that odd little curio, the precursor to the violin, played while propped awkwardly on the thigh. The instrument that had started it all for him, and for Brigit. They all missed Brigit, too. They were the only ones who really understood.
That wasn't fair, of course. That was selfish. He was restless, so restless. He needed more distraction.
Eamon knew Padraic was probably in the castle library—a library any book-loving human, especially the collectors, would give a ransom just to see. Otonia had stolen books back in her early days, and acquired more as she went along, and others joined her. So works that humans
thought lost, or didn't know even existed, could be found in that cool, enormous room. To say nothing of first editions. Also the complete works of Shakespeare. Some folios were even signed by the author.
I don't want conversation, I want …
Well, a host of things. None of which he was going to get, not now. He practically snatched the Amati from its rest and cradled it under his chin. The bow purred under his palm.
Where will we go tonight, my friend?
The bow touched the strings, and spun out a memory in melody.
 
Brigit. Brigit, and the sound of her laugh, the sound of a sudden rain on a midwinter's night. The two of them, skipping and splashing through the Thames, jumping from boat to boat, until many of them cracked. Leaping up to catch onto bridges and daring the lightning to come closer. Mocking it with their own energy and light. Chasing the storm all the way up to the top of the heath. Collapsing on the grass, sides aching, but still laughing. Rolling down the hill. Catching her as they rolled, turning her over so she would land on him and not the muddy ground. Tangling her wet hair hard between his fingers …
The Amati played on, a sweet, erotic melody that ran rings around him, chased its way through the castle, lightly touching here and there on open ears, promising the happiest of dreams as the notes flew up and out into the pale air until they hit the faint sun rays just tickling the earth. There, like eddies, they swirled up, up, up … and out into nowhere.
Berlin–Basel train. August 1940.
Brigit took advantage of the prolonged evening train stop to stretch her legs in a brisk stroll around the small, well-shaded platform. She bought two bars of chocolate and a newspaper from the tired-looking newsagent, who did not return her smile, and tucked them into her hard leather Her-mès bag. The warmth of the evening was not unpleasant, and she made a point of taking several deep breaths, as though relishing the fresh air. But the only person who noticed her was a harassed young mother shepherding two squabbling little boys—twins, by the looks of them—in crisp sailor suits. The woman seemed to take Brigit's beauty and calm as a personal insult and sneered as she passed her, muttering something unintelligible under her breath.
Fighting back a giggle, Brigit continued her energetic walk. After all, a healthy young fräulein needs her exercise. Get a bit of circulation going. Again, Brigit felt a laugh rising. She wished the demon could swallow it.
It was being out in the air that was making her giddy. It gave the illusion of freedom. She forced herself to concentrate on the soot and grime, the smell of too many cigarettes and sweat under summer tweeds. This was no atmosphere for exhilaration. In as much as she knew she should look at ease, a young woman on a great adventure, she must also look capable and self-contained. A woman with responsibilities, who took those
responsibilities seriously. Balance. And balance was something she had worked at her whole life, so she was hardly in new territory.
But I am. Oh, Eamon, I am.
At least this line of thinking squelched all the smile right out of her. The whistle sounded, and, in no mood to wait for the next call, she decided to board at once. The sooner she was out of the air, the better.
At the door to her car, the porter was assisting an elderly, slightly deaf couple with their luggage, and they kept shouting at him to be careful. Another new passenger, a bony young man in dark-rimmed glasses, smiled pleasantly at the old woman and held out his arm.
“May I give you a hand getting on the train, madam?”
The woman recoiled from his arm as though it were toxic.
“Don't you be thinking you can get my handbag, you little rat! Army too good for you, is it? Off on a pleasure jaunt instead of fighting for the glory of the Fatherland? Army knows what to do with rotten thieves like you, mark my words!”
The man blushed and tried to apologize and back away. The porter made a gesture at him over the old woman's head, implying that bad old bats like this were not worth anyone's time or energy.
The bat in question was not yet done with the unfortunate young man.
“Look a bit Jewish, don't you? I thought we were clean of Jews here.”
The young man was indignant.
“Perhaps if you weren't going blind you could see I'm Catholic.”
The small group of passengers waiting behind the old couple laughed. The woman, seeming to choose not to hear the riposte, carried on abusing the porter.
Deeply irritated, Brigit headed for the next car down. As she got on, she glanced back at the throng and saw the couple finally board. The insulted young man followed, too proud to let the porter take his case for him. Brigit let her senses wash over the man, feeling that he might be a good meal possibility. Worth further investigation, at the least. As she was contemplating this, she caught sight of a middle-aged man in a heavy silk suit carrying a shiny black doctor's bag, who, she was sure, had his eye on her. And something about that eye, its cold and calculating assessment
of her and everything about her, made all her organs shrivel. He turned and marched into the train. Two handsome young men in uniform tagged after the doctor like obedient pups, reverently bearing his books and baggage.
Brigit decided to linger in the empty lounge car before going back to her own compartment. She wasn't in the mood to wait in the corridor while the beleaguered porter attempted to settle the cranky old couple. Neither did she feel like getting any closer to that doctor and his eye.
Maybe he wasn't studying me. Maybe he was just staring into space. Middle-distancing.
But she knew that wasn't it. The look was harsher than anything she'd seen in even that Sergeant Maurer's interested, icy face. Harsher, and more triumphant. Which, if it meant what she hoped it didn't, could spell a level of danger she wasn't sure how to navigate. This uncertainty was more unsettling than the doctor's look—she couldn't get used to it. Her faculties were clouded. She would have to eat soon.
Not that it will help much. Damn it.
What would have been ideal was a meal at the station, but she was not alone enough to draw one in, and in any case, there hadn't been any likely candidates. There was a trick to picking someone out in a public place, both the vampire and meal had to be unobtrusive. The prey must give off the sense of a person who wouldn't immediately be missed. It wasn't enough for them to traveling alone, they had to be unnoticeable. Anything else could rouse suspicion. And while her status as an innocent young woman was helpful in case of questions, it slowed her down when tracking food. Men engaged in the business of travel, especially during wartime, had a mind less tuned toward such lively possibilities. Furthermore, she had to be careful using allurements, because someone, like the mother with the twins, might observe the action and thus create a scene. It was all right for Mors, people would expect a silly girl to be attracted to a sexy, smiling man, and if she was later found dead and the man long gone, well, it was her own fault, wasn't it? Her parents hadn't taught her sense. A beautiful woman smiling encouragingly at a man, however, and drawing him away from the public eye, she was more likely to be remembered. It was best not to be spotted when looking for food. Especially given the circumstances.
The body would have to be disposed of. Even to stage a suicide was risky and might delay the train. She would have to find someone traveling alone, wheedle them away somewhere discreet before their stop, eat, and then toss the body out the window once the train was going again. The staff would assume they had disembarked. By the time anyone waiting for them alerted authorities, the train and Brigit would be long gone. As for when they found the body, well, she would just disguise the marks and hope for the best.
She smiled at the lounge attendant, gave him a perfunctory, expected order, and headed back to her compartment. There, she took off her hat, gloves, and coat and sat down to compose herself for the upcoming trial of dinner. She would prefer to remain here, with a door closed behind her, listening to the reassuringly musical breathing of her dangerous cargo. But she knew that those who thought it right she appear outnumbered those who thought it more appropriate that she remain ensconced in her compartment. For now, it was best she please the majority. Their opinion held more sway.
When she knew she could avoid it no longer, she changed her dress, smoothed her hair, and checked that her seams were still perfectly straight. She desperately hated to leave the compartment so unguarded but had little choice.
“I'll be back soon,” she announced with determined cool, bolting the door behind her and thinking foolishly of the humanly impenetrable entrance to the castle under Hampstead Heath.
In the corridor, Brigit could smell the maligned young man in his compartment, only three doors down from hers. She smiled, fancying that he was looking for a smarter tie before going into the dining car, as a way of regaining his dignity and establishing his status. Or else waiting until he was sure the nasty old couple would be done eating. Brigit smelled the rest of the car. It was empty. Passengers were eating, or smoking, or playing cards, but no one else was in their compartments. She decided to seize the prospect.
The whisper started low in her throat. It wasn't to seduce, only to intrigue, meant to be felt, rather than heard. A drop cast in water. A sound to start a thought. Not anything rational, or coherent, but the beginnings of a stir that would ultimately be desire.
The door was partly open and she could hear muttering. She tapped shyly. He put his head around and stared at her.
“Yes?”
“Hello. I'm sorry to bother you, but wasn't that just awful with that woman? I thought you handled it brilliantly, I'm sure I'd have made a mess of it. I'm rotten with confrontation, just rotten. I'm Brigit, by the way, how are you?”
Dazzled and flustered, he hesitated, but seemed to grow more confident under the assurance of her bright smile.
“Um, hello. Fine. No, fine. Yes. I'm Kurt. Horrid old woman, wasn't she? Oh well, I suppose we have to be patient with them.”
They shook hands. Her throat emitted the tiniest vibration under her hesitant look. It decided him.
“Can I offer you a drink? I have an excellent bottle of schnapps.”
“Lovely.”
Brigit was amused at how quickly he produced two glasses, as though he'd been expecting to play host sooner rather than later. Very likely, his intent had been to impress a man who might be persuaded to become some sort of patron, as Kurt did not give off the air of a fellow with any knowledge or experience of girls. Polite, yes, but reedy and pale, with too-slick hair and a rather putrid tie. A man who wanted to do well but had a little more money than taste or education.
She clinked her glass to his, her mind ticking over possibilities. She had to ask the right questions, draw out all the pertinent information, assure herself that he was easily disposed of and would arouse no inquiry.
“So, Kurt, since it isn't the army for you, where are you going?”
“I tried for the army, but they wouldn't take me. I've got an irregular heartbeat.”
“What a funny coincidence, so do I.”
“Really! Well, so I'm going to Paris. I hear they need Germans who speak French to manage businesses, or they will, once the race laws are in place.”
He didn't notice her blanch. He nattered on about how he really wanted to be an artist, and was hoping he might open a gallery—she hardly registered any of it.
The race laws. In France. Why should I be startled? If
liberté
is quashed, why should not
égalité
follow?
Kurt had opened a sketchbook and was proudly narrating the thread of his artistic journey and boasting of his skill. Brigit oohed and aahed admiringly, glad that Eamon couldn't see the drawings. He would have killed Kurt just for their rottenness. Eamon was, in addition to his brilliant musicianship, a very fine artist. He drew likenesses of all the vampires in the tribunal and everyone said there was no need for a reflection when you had one of Eamon's drawings.
“I've always loved the Paris galleries.” Brigit smiled. “I'm sure you'll do well there. Not that I know art, I mean, but I think yours is awfully good.”
“It's all a matter of opinion. A fine, educated young lady like yourself, of course, appreciates the better things in life. You know what's attractive.”
“Do I?”
“You must. You see it every time you look in the mirror.”
She giggled, an embarrassed girl.
Bloody men. He knows he is no man if with his tongue he cannot win a woman, and thinks an obnoxious dollop of flattery will get the gold.
“I can see you're refined,” he went on. “You've probably gone to opening nights and salons and all the best concerts. And dined and danced in some of the finest places afterward, haven't you?”
He was wandering into jealous waters, wanting her, but wanting her wealth and privilege more, suspecting that she took it for granted. He knew the difference between an English girl and an Irish girl, and that the Irish one, for all her money and beauty, knew what prejudice was, had suffered indignities. But his well-trained arrogance trumped any innate empathy, and he was certain she didn't know real injustice, nothing like what he and his friends and family had endured during the Weimar years.
Mortal fool.
Another tiny vibration in her throat settled him. He reverted to pure enjoyment of the charming creature smiling at him with such strange, sparkling eyes.
Brigit was reaching for him now, the demon millimeters under the
skin, fangs barely starting to slip out from under her human teeth, when there was a clamor of loud voices and running feet in the corridor. A sudden shout and a tipsy young man stumbled through Kurt's door, so that Kurt and Brigit jumped and exclaimed.
The man and his friends paused to take in the tête-à-tête and grinned lasciviously.
“Sorry,” he chortled with an uncoordinated wink. He backed out and their loud laughter echoed all the way to the next car.
Attempting to recover his aplomb, Kurt downed the last of his drink.
“Can I tempt you to dinner?”
They'd been seen together, and drunk though the young men were, she was still memorable. A new plan must be forged. Brigit forced a grin and rose, patting down the sulky demon.

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