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Authors: Sarah Jane Stratford

BOOK: The Midnight Guardian
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The door was left carelessly ajar, as though certain that no one who was not invited to this far more private party would ever dream of crashing. There were twenty-four men gathered, with cocktails, and they seemed to hew to the old idea that the business of domination was to be discussed at parties.
“If the Führer says Poland rightfully belongs to Germany, I shan't argue. The countryside is marvelous. Shame about the people, though. Rotten workers.”
“Exactly what the Führer says. So we shall remind them that they are in fact German, and they'll start working again. They'll work as if their lives depended on it.”
“Which they will.”
Good-natured laughter greeted that smiling comment, and drinks were refilled.
“How we ever could have lost Poland in the first place is beyond me.”
“Having so many Jews in Germany made us weak. We won't make that mistake again. It will be good to have more breathing room.”
“We'll need it for all the children the Führer wants us to have.”
A florid middle-aged officer popped open a champagne bottle and sent the cork sailing across the room. It landed at Brigit's feet as surely as
if it had been a guided missile. She glared at it, but when she looked up to meet the commingled hostility and curiosity facing her, she was the sweetest, loveliest, most artless young fräulein any of them had ever encountered. Her girlish blush and giggle was charming, musical even, and softened nearly every hard eye.
“You must forgive me, gentlemen, I did not mean to intrude, I was only wondering where all the handsome men had disappeared to.”
Deeply embarrassed, she blushed again and laid her hands over her pink cheeks, not daring to meet any of the pleased, laughing eyes. Some smiles were indulgent, others, taking note of her curls and curves, were something different. But the diversion, delightful though it was, still needed to be removed. An officer nodded to a younger man, assigning him to the duty. The man gave one brief, courteous nod in response and turned to Brigit.
“Permit me to guide you back and get you a fresh champagne.”
She giggled and took the proffered arm, allowing her thumb to brush his wrist so quickly, it was surely an accident. She sensed the shiver deep inside him, and was pleased.
His name was Gerhard, and he smelled of ambition, which in itself was nothing unusual for young men in Berlin, but there was a particular air of determination in him, something that might be described as fangs. He was certainly looking at her as though he'd like to eat her. She suspected it was less because of her perceived tastiness than his push for greatness. A woman like her, such a visible prize, would be a boon to parade. Ambitious, unattractive men always gravitated toward the most beautiful women. And Gerhard was unattractive. Brigit wondered how much even his mother loved his sharp-boned face. He held his shoulders back in an unnatural stance that was probably meant to convey authority and a soldier's power, but it was clear his main hope was for no one to see how scrawny and concave his chest was. His blond hair was dull and lank. His almost-white eyebrows rendered his face nearly featureless. They were thickest around his nose, and here they tilted up most unfortunately, giving him the look of a perplexed peach. His eyes were small, and there was so much eager acquisitiveness in them, no room was left for cheer or warmth. Gerhard bore the look of an efficient paper pusher, not a candidate for the inner circle, but his mind was quick and his manner ingratiating
without being oily. His success with women was nil, but he knew exactly how to work a man to curry favor and had set himself well on the path to greatness, regretting only that it must be so tediously slow.
Brigit could hardly believe her luck. He was in the Ministry for Weapons, Munitions, and Armament and must be privy to the sort of documents that could prove useful. Gerhard would be easy to work, she could tell. She would hardly have to expend any strength at all. He handed her a glass of champagne and she let her fingers touch his as she accepted it, with what could only be interpreted as greater intent.
He left her at the threshold to the ballroom, where she was tickled to see Swefred, Cleland, and Meaghan all dancing with what looked like sure bets. Even better, Mors was talking to a captain, who had arrived late and was greeted by Gerhard. Gerhard smiled at Brigit.
“I shall see you soon, then, Brigitte?”
“I look forward to it.”
There was no question of Mors accompanying the two men back to the circle of power. Brigit was proud that he looked smarter in his uniform than any other uniformed man there—and no one could miss it.
It's called panache, you fools. And you'll never have it, even if you live two thousand years. You have to be born with it.
Mors turned his head just enough to meet Brigit's eye, and winked. Her grin was broad and she couldn't resist whispering something only he could hear:
“Knock them dead.”
 
They compared their various successes back at the lair. Mors, of course, had gained acceptance and respect, and the men he'd talked to had laughed so hard at his jokes, they hadn't noticed his evasion of their questions. Cleland had enchanted the restless wife of a junior propagandist. Swefred had befriended several important journalists. And Meaghan was being hotly pursued by a rising star in the Reich Chamber of Culture. Brigit laughed scornfully when she heard that.
“Culture! They've chased out all their best artists and musicians, how much work could there be to justify an entire Chamber?”
“He says they are very busy.” Meaghan sniffed defensively.
“Probably hunting down more artists to send into exile.”
“No, trying to factory-grow new ones to suit the enforced tastes,” Mors countered. “They probably keep a cauldron in the cellar—throw in some spices and
phoom
, instant artist. The ultimate alchemy: the creation of creativity. Ah, clever, clever Nazis. Give a stir, and marvelous: a musician! Dip the ladle and out comes a playwright! Dip again and there's an actor, prepared to declaim in a stirring baritone whilst turning out his leg to its finest angle. He finishes with a flourish and oompah, oompah, oompah, the orchestra strikes up a rousing march. Ooh, they do like a good march, don't they? What a delicious concoction. But there's a catch, there's always a catch. These avatars of efficiency forgot a crucial ingredient! Playwright! Actor! Musician! Painter! Curse the luck but don't they need hearts? And souls, yes, in the last analysis, they need souls. This soufflé is doomed to collapse. And that, that is their great failing, isn't it? Ooooh, yes, whatever that Speer fellow may have in mind, the greatest empires are remembered for their culture, and this piddling would-be empire is sadly bereft. Poor deluded things. I'd put them out of their misery now, if I were a kindhearted sort, but it's such fun to watch. And we do need our entertainment in these strange times, don't we?”
Swefred stood, and put an arm around Meaghan.
“Some more than others. The sun's coming up. We're going to bed. Carry on if you like, I'm sure you can go on in this vein for quite some time.”
“Oh yes, I can play with myself for hours on end.”
Swefred and Meaghan left the other three to their laughter.
Brigit's warm smile lingered in her eyes, even as she shook her head at Mors.
“It's not true, though. You know it isn't. The Roman Empire was perhaps the most powerful the world has ever seen. And they had buildings and sculpture, yes, but nothing like the Greeks. Their plays, their poetry, it was all derivative. No one cares.”
“They had fine music.”
“No one remembers it.”
“I do.”
“But that means nothing. You don't count. It's history's count that matters, and by history's count, what made the Romans great was their ability to reach a hand far around the globe … and squeeze.”
Mors was silent for half a moment.
“I do like you when you're figurative.”
She turned away from him and he reached out and took her wrist.
“They won't get the chance. Even if we weren't here, think of how powerful our blessed England is.”
A swell of pride rallied Brigit and she grinned at him.
“But we
are
here. England may save her strength.”
Cleland spoke then.
“We did well tonight. We made good ground, for them to lie in.”
Before Brigit tucked herself up in bed, she pressed her hand tight to the drawing of herself and Eamon, willing it to vibrate warm under her fingers.
Oh, my Eamon. I will play this game like a champion. And I will be home with you. Very soon.
For the first time since Otonia had announced the plan, Brigit went to sleep with a smile on her face.
London. December 1938.
Even after a third reading, the letter still trembled in his hand. Eamon didn't know why he was so upset. This was the plan, after all, and it was all going forward exactly as expected, so what difference did it make? This Gerhard certainly sounded like a live one, the perfect dupe for Brigit's abilities, and with such excellent connections, the path to success looked golden. And, of course, Brigit would have many ways of working with such a man, ways of making him sure he'd touched her when he hadn't. So there was no reason for Eamon to feel jealous. But he couldn't help it. She would be smiling at Gerhard, talking to him, listening. For purposes of destruction, but still, he would get her attention. And he, Eamon, was not there to be the arms she came home to every day before dawn. If he were at least there, he could be a receptacle for all her frustrated energy. He could bathe her clean with his eyes and his tongue. He could pull her into him so that she would melt. He could keep her safe, and cool.
He tucked the letter into his breast pocket, hoping to stow his vexation as well. Otonia had reminded him that Brigit's control was excellent, that she would manage it all beautifully and he would do well to focus his worry and attention where it could do more good. “Besides, Mors is there. He saved her the first time and could do so again, if it came to it. But I do not believe it will.”
Yes, Mors was there. But despite his longer association with Brigit, he did not have that level of connection to her. Eamon, more than two centuries her junior, had been tied to her even before his making. In all these centuries, they'd grown wholly attuned to each other, and he could sense what she was feeling from miles away. If there was trouble, he could be there faster than Mors ever could, despite that vampire's legendary speed. Mors and Brigit were friends, close in a way a human brother and sister could be close, but when Eamon, still as his human self, had looked into Brigit's eyes, he'd seen life there. Hers, and his. Their lives were in each other's guardianship, as surely as was their happiness. And here he was, safe and comfortable and useless in London.
Too moody to think about eating, he resumed wandering the streets. The night was raw and wet, and people scurried from cabs and buses to doors as quickly as they could, struggling to keep umbrellas and spirits intact. Two men were having a heated debate over who had gotten to a cab first, and the disgruntled driver was just waiting for the way to be clear so he could speed off and leave them to their argument.
Eamon watched the men for a moment, then couldn't resist interfering.
“Why don't you see if you're going the same route? You could share the cab.”
The driver, interested, turned to gauge the men's reaction.
“Fair enough, just to save trouble. Are you heading Chelsea way?” The more polite of the two waited for a response from his adversary.
The man studied Eamon with a distinctly nasty smile. Eamon realized he'd had a little too much to drink after work, and needed more outlets for his contentiousness.
“Which are you, a Jew or a queer?” asked the man. “You must be one of them, they're the only ones who suggest strange men getting together and saving money.”
Both the driver and the Chelsea-bound man were disgusted and took advantage of the other's new showdown to shut the door and drive off. Before there could be any shout of protest, Eamon was in front of him, his gentle smile intimidating. The man hadn't realized how tall Eamon was, how much power was in his shoulders and arms. He wanted to step back, or yell for help, but was frozen to the spot. No one noticed them.
“As it happens, you can't really call me either,” Eamon informed him helpfully, His voice singsonged in a cadence that sent a sudden warmth and buzz through the bustling passersby, but left the man feeling as though he'd been clouted round the skull.
“But you shouldn't insult anyone in such a way. You know that, don't you? It's just not polite.”
And he pressed his hand on the man's shoulder, nodded, and strolled away through the gathering fog.
Later, though, in the hospital, when the doctors were struggling to repair the man's shattered clavicle, he couldn't remember how he had been injured.
 
Waste, waste, waste. Eamon clutched the back of his head and swayed precipitously in the winding stairwell leading to the library storage room.
I should not have done that. I should not. He's young enough still, and able-bodied. I'm too upset, it's clouding my judgment. I'm lonely. I'm not good when I'm alone.
Anyone would comfort him, if he asked, would remind him that they were only creatures, that no matter how old and circumspect they grew, this was still the sort of behavior to which they were prone, and besides, it wasn't too terrible an injury and the fool deserved it. Perhaps. But it really wasn't for them to police the human world, to overly interact—it upset the balance.
Except where we have to, of course. That's different.
He hoped.
His insides were roiling. He thought he was going to be sick and pressed his cheek against the cool stone, closing his eyes. A peculiar sort of guilt was coursing through him and he couldn't stop it. It wasn't about the man he'd injured, or his inability to assist on the mission, or the familiar ancient ache, the one that had plagued him with varying degrees of intensity for centuries. It was something new and disgusting to him. Outwardly, everyone knew he was frightened of that strange fire inside Brigit, the one only he seemed to know how to control. But there was another fear inside him. She might change. She might come back and not be his same darling beloved. He was being unfair, he knew it, hence the guilt. But how long, how long could they all eat people so full of hate and fear
and anger? With no other variance to the diet, or to the air surrounding them, even if they didn't have to breathe, what might happen? The refugees might never be the same again. Could his Brigit be marked in the same way?
Please, Brigit. We are so right together. We've worked so hard to get to this place. Don't be different. Don't grow from me.
The age difference between them rarely touched him. What was 274 years when they had lived nearly three times that together? It only mattered now, because age gave her a strength he didn't yet have. But he knew where she was weak, too, weaker than he, and who else could protect that?
Then again, what if she doesn't really need me?
Hating himself for that thought, he reached down his shirt and pulled out the ancient locket he always wore. A lock of her hair lay coiled inside.
I know you. I know you so well. Your hair was long and anarchic then and your eyes were wild and you were a lonely, hungry thing. You were buried in darkness and lost in air, as though you were Caliban and Ariel together. You were Brigantia and before that, you were human, and all those years you were searching, searching, and your search ended at my eyes.
He knew. He knew it all. She had opened up her history to him as if from a treasure chest, and he'd absorbed it as readily as though it had been his own. And the parts she couldn't see, he knew through his own powerful inner eye. To replay her from the beginning, to feel the whole of the story, to remember yet again what he knew so intimately, to keep her present, even when far away …
He pressed the locket to his lips, and concentrated.
 
One thousand and twenty-three years before, a tiny Brigante community continued to live in the manner of the ancient Britons, curiously untouched by either Roman or Viking, though the latter was now thriving in the city they called Jorvik, only a half-day's walk away. Whether because their hillside welter of shallow caves and farmlets was too unworthy to settle and tame, or because they were wholly unnoticed, no one knew or cared or discussed. Only some of the names that had blown through with the various invaders stuck in the minds of these people,
which is how the prettiest of the younger maidens among them had come to be called Hilda.
No one could have known when she was born how apt the name might be, for there was a hot, warring spirit inside her. Her temper was frightening, particularly because it was so unpredictable. Some wondered if it might be an ill omen, and there had been a few attempts to sacrifice her, if that was perhaps what the gods wanted, but she had outwitted every endeavor. Or, as the elders put it, the gods had intervened. They couldn't understand where such anger had come from, and concluded that her mother must have been too near a fire when Hilda was conceived. The women took care ever since to keep their distance from the flames during such delicate moments.
Adulthood had not improved her temper, although it was noticed that she was as quick with a sharp laugh as a nasty word. At seventeen, her parents were several years' dead and there had been no siblings. People were less afraid of her than they had been—she was just part of the scenery, the prettiest and most interesting part. No man was intrepid enough to disrupt her solitude. Even if she could be chased, she was not one to be caught—she could run faster than even the strongest youth. They admired her, though. She liked to climb trees and stare out over the land. The sun glinted in her golden hair and her eyes were the color of the sky she studied so much. She sometimes seemed not entirely real.
Only the healing woman, Ceana, who had taken some care of her, knew of Hilda's passion for herbs, and especially the things that could grow in the night. Had anyone else known of her creeping about in all that fearsome dark, she would have been banished for sure. But Hilda saw nothing to be afraid of in the dark. Things happened then. There were creatures, some that could never be seen but were wonderful to hear. During storms, there was lightning, which thrilled her to the core. And there were things that grew. Herbs had power. They could chase sickness out of you. Some could even blow away despair with their scent. There was no anger in her when she was among the herbs, coaxing them gently out of the earth.
On hot summer days, she liked to walk to the mouth of the spring that fed their river. She filled a flask with water, to which she then added some sprinklings of rosemary, having discovered it made for a pleasant
drink. Then she climbed a tree and looked out at the faint rising smoke that indicated Jorvik. Hilda had little patience for Vikings or, anyway, the stories thereof. For all her temper, she saw no reason for violence until provoked, so men who used violence to plow through the world were automatically distasteful. Still, the idea of the Vikings intrigued her. They had come from somewhere else. They could make things happen. They thrived in a place that the smoke suggested was active, and perhaps even interesting. No, it
must
be interesting. Lively. To step into the city would be to step into a world where perhaps the days were not guided by invariable sameness. If she did not suspect that a lone girl wandering into a city would be instant prey for men of action, she would go directly, without a single regret.
She also wondered what lay beyond the world of the Vikings. There was that other thing she yearned for, that which seemed wholly unattainable. She didn't know the word for love, but knew there was something she needed that was bigger than the city, the river, or the forest. She might have been comforted knowing that poets had written about such desires, even if she was certain she couldn't achieve them. As it was, she only knew that there were moments of joy and longing that she wanted to share with someone who could understand, who could speak a language that went beyond words, and knowing such a person would never be there for her sometimes constricted her heart so much she thought it would burst, and she had to bury herself in foliage, lest her sobs be heard.
This day, however, she only sighed. Tears and wishes made no difference. She walked home slowly, by the river, enjoying the squish of the mud between her toes and the play of sunlight on the water's surface. There were pleasures in her world, and she was not the sort of girl to discount them.
 
Six months later, a band of Vikings was traveling far too late for a dark winter's day. They stumbled down into the hills, but would not have found the community had it not been the winter feast day and a large ceremonial fire blazing. Perhaps, if no one had screamed, it might not have gone quite as it did. There was food enough to feed the community and a horde of hungry Vikings. But there were screams, there were invocations. A fiery log was thrown. So it went.
Hilda found the sound of screaming repulsive. Why scream when you could fight? What good did screaming ever do anyone? And she swung a log, and the sound of it making contact at the back of the man's head through his matted hair—the thick crunch—was intoxicating. He fell at her feet and she snatched the sword from his fist.
But in the space of a moment, two things happened that changed her course. The blast of fury within her, useful at last, seemed to make sense and almost calmed her with the realization that it was this, this that she wanted. Action. The tininess of this life was what fueled such frustrated passion. She wanted to be out, to be running through the world, doing things. Learning. Living. Actively hunting for something that might be called bliss. There was nothing here for which she wanted to stay and fight. She was meant to fly.

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