Читать книгу Bloody Good - Georgia Evans - Страница 10

Paul Schmidt ran through the evening. He was kilometers away from his contact and his safe house, but he was alive. Thanks to the good Samaritan of a doctor and her dog. It hadn’t been enough blood to repair all his loss, but killing the doctor seemed rather churlish after she’d saved him, and anyway, it would bring unwanted attention to the area. Orders were to sit tight, take up his job, and mingle unobtrusively with the pathetic inhabitants until he got the signal to move. Once he reached his rendezvous point that was.

At a guess, he was a good twenty-five or thirty kilometers away. Maybe more. It would help if he knew where he was, but painted-out signposts weren’t much use, even to vampire sight.

On the off chance, he slipped into the unlighted and unlocked church at the edge of the village. The obscured name board gave no hint, but a stamp on the inside of a tattered hymnal clearly stated PROPERTY OF THE CHURCH OF ST. MICHAEL AND ALL ANGELS, BRYTEWOOD.

It was all he needed.

Back outside, in the shadow of the church wall, he pulled the emergency maps from the inside of his jacket lining. He’d been right, twenty, perhaps twenty-five kilometers, and he’d be in Guildford. A day late but his contact would be waiting. Had to be waiting.

The best way was across country, and, with a little bit of luck, he’d find a handy farm with convenient livestock along the way.

Dead cows wouldn’t attract the same attention as a dead doctor.

Paul Schmidt set off across the churchyard, leaping over a couple of gravestones and a crumbling memorial before deciding conserving strength was a better idea. He did vault the gray flint wall and stepped into the middle of the narrow lane, looking up at the canopy of stars to gauge north.

And sensed a brother vampire nearby.

Who?

This was not, he was convinced, some foppish, effete English vampire. This was one of his Aryan brothers. The brain rhythm was strong and reassuringly familiar. He’d sensed the same in his homeland in the Hartz Mountains. Only one other vampire hailed from that part of Germany. Could it truly be Gerhardt Eiche, or as he no doubt posed himself: Gabriel Oak? What a foolish affectation, taking his name from a nineteenth-century English novel. Far more sensible to take a clearly anonymous name. A name matching countless numbers of the enemy.

But foolishness or not. If Eiche were nearby…

Paul stood and cast his vampires senses around. Just down the lane on the left was a pair of flint cottages, up on the right a large house, perhaps the vicarage? He sensed mortal life in all of them. The large house was pretty much teeming with it. Children, he suspected from the heartbeats.

What he was searching for was brain activity with a slow, voluntary heartbeat.

He found it behind the green painted door of the first cottage. The sort of bucolic residence featured on calendars and penny postcards and no doubt once inhabited by the sort of yokel represented by Eiche’s namesake. Not a trace of light showed through the tightly drawn curtains, but as Paul raised his hand to the brass knocker, a voice asked, “Who’s there?”

Female, mortal, old, and nervous. What had Oak been up to? “A friend of Mr. Oak. I need your help.”

Eiche opened the door enough to peer out. A slash of light shot into the dark, highlighting the path and the bushes by the door. “What the hell?” he muttered, grabbing Schmidt’s arm and yanking him inside, shutting the door behind him. “You’ve no business here. This is not your contact.”

“I was injured on landing and went off course. I was on my way to my contact when I sensed you nearby.”

“You’re hurt! And your clothes! What happened?”

Glimpsing himself in the mirror over the mantelpiece, Schmidt understood the shock in the mortal’s voice. He looked frightful; his shirt and jacket dark with blood, and his arm bare where the doctor had cut off his sleeve. “I was. We heal.”

She was tall for a woman and slender. Her hair gray and her face lined. Her eyes bright with the zeal of a mortal on a world-altering mission. “You are a second one?” she asked.

Paul Schmidt nodded and held out his hand. “I am.”

“Well, I never! Welcome. I am Jane Waite and honored to aid you and play my part in the victory.” Her hand was thin, the skin papery with age, but her clasp was firmer than expected for a mortal of her advanced age.

“Paul Smith, at least in these islands. I apologize if I presume, but I need to rest and stay out of sight. Too many mortals have seen me already.”

“You can’t hole up here,” Eiche said as the old biddy opened her mouth to speak. “This is my safe house.”

And he was not about to share. Bastard! “I only need a rest. A few hours. And blood. I can make it across country if I get blood.”

The old biddy stepped back. Seemed her commitment to the Third Reich didn’t include her blood. “We certainly don’t want you caught out in the open. I’ll put the kettle on and find you a replacement shirt and jacket. Mr. Oak will explain about the blood.”

She nipped out of the room at a speed impressive, given her age. Paul turned to Eiche. “Well then, Mr. Oak, would you kindly explain about the food supply.”

Gerhardt grinned, showing his half-descended fangs, and let out a sharp harsh laugh. “My friend, there is a pig farm just outside the village. I had the benefit of it yesterday, be my guest tonight.”

“I will. Should be fully dark soon. You’ll direct me?”

Oak nodded. “By all means. And once you have rested, I will open the door for you.”

Couldn’t be more pointed. “I’ll be gone before morning.” High time he make his own contact after all.

Eiche inclined his head. Not a muscle in his face moved. So much for brotherly concern and native connection. Even for a vampire, his movements were slow and his mien threatening. How he planned on blending in with these yokels was beyond Paul. Not that that was any worry of his.

“Everything settled then?” Miss Waite bustled back, a dark shirt and knitted jacket over her left arm. “All sorted out? The kettle’s on. I’ll have us a nice cup of tea as soon as it boils and here”—she held out the clothes—“you can change in the downstairs cloakroom. I hope they fit. I knitted the cardigan myself. Try not to get any blood on the floor. I just polished it.” She was like a damned caricature of an English spinster.

As he discarded his torn garments and washed in the minuscule hand basin, he couldn’t help wonder how she came to be so committed to their side. Not that he really cared. She was good for a few hours’ refuge and that was all that concerned him. That and how many cups of her infernal brew she expected him to digest. It was blood he craved. The dog had brought him back from semicomatose but he needed more. If Eiche hadn’t been watching him like a hunter, he’d have had his teeth in her stringy neck. As it was…

Two weak cups of tea later, after full darkness fell, Miss Waite washed up the cups and pulled on a knitted jacket the color of sludge. “I’ll leave you gentlemen to see to yourselves. There’s a village whist drive to raise money for the French refugees.”

Would be better to let them starve, but he supposed she had to blend in, as he would.

Once she was down the path, Eiche grudgingly led Schmidt over to Morgan’s pig farm.

“Don’t take more than you have to,” the self-styled Gabriel Oak said. “I’ll need to come here regularly. Better preserve the food supply.”

Paul set his eyes on a fat sow. “Plenty of possible two-legged fodder in this village. I’ve seen a few myself.”

“Yes,” Eiche replied. “And weaken them too soon and some fool doctor will notice and start to investigate.”

Since he already knew the local doctor’s propensity to intervene and aid, and thanked Abel for it, Paul just grunted and laid a calming hand on the sow’s neck, holding her upright as she leaned to one side, preparing to lie down. Getting his feet murky was quite enough; he was not about to kneel down in the mud and muck. He fastened his fangs into her ample neck and drew the warm blood. The old sow bled easily and amply. She wobbled a little on her fat little legs after he released her but otherwise seemed none the worst.

He hoped his contact had as ready and as convenient a supply laid on for him.

When he got there.

“I thank you,” he said to Eiche as they returned to Miss Waite’s abode. “Permit me a few hours and I will be gone.”

He settled on the narrow bed in the little room overlooking the church. Already he felt restored. In a few hours he’d be himself again and ready for the long battle. What chance did these puny mortals have against a band of vampires?

“Eh! I forgot the dratted knave!” Howell Pendragon reluctantly played his last trump and lost the trick to Mother Longhurst. “Not bespelling those cards are you, Maggie?”

Margaret Longhurst shook her head, met his eyes, and shrugged. Her mouth was open to reply, and no doubt deny it, when her partner snapped. “Of course she isn’t! Really! You’ll be accusing her of cheating next. Men!”

Helen Burrows, Howell’s partner, let out an exasperated hiss. “Honestly, Jane, he was just funning. It’s your lead, get on with it.”

Jane Waite led a low spade which Helen right away took with the king, and then took control of the game. Now Howell knew where all the spades were. His partner held them, and in five tricks won the game for them.

“No mention of bespelling now!” Jane said in a quiet, spiteful voice. Really, women could wear you down.

“That’s because Helen can’t do magic,” Margaret replied in an obvious effort to dispel the tension with a bit of lightheartedness.

It didn’t work. “Well, I’m off home! Need to see to my visitor. My nephew’s come to recuperate,” Jane said, standing and pushing the folding chair under the card table. Leaving it to be put away by someone else.

“Staying long is he?” Howell asked.

“Wounded?” Maggie added.

Jane nodded. “At Dunkirk. Come to visit and rest up for a few weeks.”

“Bad injuries?” Howell asked.

She paused. “Exposure and pneumonia.”

“Dear me, how dreadful for him,” Maggie said, shaking head. “He’ll need building up. You be sure to take his Army cards into Worleigh’s store and you can register him for workman’s rations.”

Miss Waite gave a “humph.” “I’ll see about it later. I can’t stand around here playing cards all evening. There’s a war on, you know.”

As if they hadn’t noticed! Howell Pendragon shook his head. “Sharp and sour like acid drops,” he muttered half to himself.

All three watched her go. “Proper misery guts if you ask me,” Margaret Longhurst muttered. “Trust us to get stuck with Jane Waite. Why she picked Brytewood for her retirement, I’ll never know.”

“She’s won’t be going anywhere any time soon,” he replied. More’s the pity. It wasn’t just because the woman was an outsider. He was one himself, so, come to that, was Helen but Jane Waite was a sour-tempered old biddy who spread ill will like dripping on toast.

“Her aura’s gone even darker than usual,” Helen said as she gathered up the discarded cards and shuffled them before sliding them back into the box.

“I noticed that, too,” Mother Longhurst replied.

He shook his head. He often wondered about these two women. Maybe it was their oddness, the trace of Otherness that brought him back every fortnight to play whist with them. Maybe he imagined it. After all, who was he to talk? He longed to go up on Box Hill, race under the night sky, shift, and breathe a few gusts of dragonfire. But he didn’t dare, not with the blackout. Hell, if the war went on much longer, he’d forget how to shift.

No point is worrying about that right now. “Well, ladies, may I get you each another cup of tea?”

“Yes, please, Howell,” Helen replied. “Every cup we drink here saves the tea ration.”

Jane Waite frowned as she strode home. Sometimes it was hard to put up with the insufferable English. So smug, so confident, and so ridiculously optimistic and cheerful. She let out a sharp dry laugh. Those inane smiles were due to fade and those stupid jokes shrivel on their lips under the might of the German Armed Forces. It wouldn’t be long now, a few weeks or months at most. Her visitors were just a forerunner of the invasion.

But how different they were: Gordon Oak and that Smith creature. He was not what she’d call a chosen son of the Master Race. Arriving bedraggled, his clothes torn and blood-soaked. She’d done her bit for him. She just hoped he was gone and never coming back.

Her hopes were fulfilled. Eiche waited in the easy chair by the empty fireplace. Alone. Listening to Vera Lynn on the wireless.

“Our unexpected visitor is resting?” she asked. Just to be sure.

“Has rested and fed,” he replied. “Mr. Paul Smith is off to make his own contact. He will not interfere with my plans for Brytewood.”

She swore she saw fangs as he smiled. A cold tremor slid down her spine. She’d been trained to support a spy; having a vampire arrive had rather bowled her over. At least it was only one and he had no need of ration books. Workman’s rations indeed! “I’ll be making a cup of cocoa before bedtime—would you like one?”

He shook his head. “Thank you, but no. I will need to go out tonight.”

“You have the spare key I gave you. And there’s always the hidden one. Remember?”

“Under the pot of geraniums. Of course.”

Leaving him to the wireless, she bustled in the kitchen. Setting out the tray with cups for the morning, she tried to decide whether to have the egg she had left boiled or poached for breakfast, or whether to settle for toast. There was no shortage of bread after all.

As the cocoa came to the boil, she poured it into a mug and checked the back door was locked. She’d leave it unbolted. Gabriel could see to that when he got in.

Mug in hand, she poked her head round the sitting room door. He was engrossed in a Stanley Holloway monologue but he was gentleman enough to stand for her. “Mr. Oak, please be sure you shoot both bolts home when you get back in.”

He gave her a little bow. So much nicer manners than these sloppy English. “I will. Good night, Miss Waite. Pleasant dreams.”

He followed her to the bottom of the narrow stairs, and she felt him watch her as she climbed, mug in hand.

As she reached the top step, her foot slipped, her other leg wobbled, and she fell, head over heels backward to land in a crumpled heap. As she blinked and shook her head to clear it, she was vaguely aware of pain in the leg twisted impossibly under her and a burning in her arm. She must have spilled the cocoa. And she’d made it with real milk, too. Not the powdered sort. What a waste.

Eiche stepped close and bent over her. Her dazed eyes met his. Perfect. He’d been half afraid he’d killed her and that would have put a crimp in things but…“My Dear Miss Waite. You are injured. I must call the doctor.”

If Jane Waite had been less dazed, she’d have noticed he knew the number, reciting it precisely to the operator.

“Doctor,” he said after a few minutes. “I’m calling from Pear Tree Cottage. Miss Waite’s house. I’m afraid Miss Waite has met with an accident.”

Leaving Brytewood behind, and hoping he never had to return, Paul Schmidt ran through the night. He could have flown but decided to conserve his strength. The past twenty-four hours had taught him the wisdom of thrift and prudence. The image of his map in mind, he set off cross country on a roughly western direction. He took care leaping fences and gates—another injury was not part of his plans—and in twenty minutes of fast running reached the outskirts of Guildford.

Without vampire sight he’d never have found his way in the blackout. But since he wasn’t hampered like puny mortals, it only took him ten minutes or so of running through near-deserted streets to find his contact.

In a narrow terrace house in a street just two steps up from a slum. Eiche ended up in rustic comfort with a view of a Saxon church while he, Paul Schmidt, ended up in a shabby back street. Just his luck.

Still, he was here. He made his way up the cracked path and rapped on the painted door.

“Who is it?” a male voice asked.

“Paul. Uncle Bob wrote to say I was coming.”

The door opened a chink. “How’s Auntie Violet?”

“Her rheumatism is getting worse but otherwise she’s in good spirits.” Whoever thought up these codes needed their brains examined, but it worked. The door opened halfway and a face peered at him in the dark.

“I was expecting you to arrive last night.”

“So was I. Circumstances delayed me.”

“Come on in then.”

The door opened wide. Schmidt stepped in just as a voice down the street called, “Douse that light! Douse that light!”

“Crikey!” his contact muttered, pulling Paul inside and slamming the door shut. “Bloody air raid wardens. Think they run the flipping country. Come into the lounge and have a seat.” He held out his hand. “I’m Stephen Thomas and honored to be part of the fight.”

In the light of the room Paul got a good look at his contact and current host. He was as different from spinsterly Miss Waite as was possible given they were both mortals. Stephen Thomas was in his mid-twenties, tall, blonde with deep blue eyes and pale lashes and with an air about him that suggested back in Germany he’d be confined in a camp wearing a pink triangle. Not exactly the assistant Paul expected but…

“What delayed you?” Stephen asked.

Paul gave an expurgated version. No mention of the good samaritan doctor. Just his injury, hiding from daylight, finding Eiche and his contact, and then making his way across country.

“Rotten bad luck,” Simon said. “Still, you’re here now and they’re expecting you to show up for work at the ambulance post the day after tomorrow. Will that be alright?”

“As a driver?”

“Night shift. Was easier than I thought. No one wants the night shifts and since one of the drivers was considerate enough to fall into the river and drown on his way back from the pub a couple of nights back, your arrival will be welcomed. Doubt anyone will question the dicey paperwork.”

If they did they could meet an unfortunate end. Shocking things happened in wartime. “You live here alone?”

He shook his head. “No, my granny is upstairs. It’s her house. She had a stroke last year and is bedridden. They were muttering about billeting evacuees here a while back, but your arrival should put paid to that.”

And if it hadn’t, regrettable things might happen to them. Still, seemed a snug enough base to operate from. He had a roof over his head, a good cover, and a job that would put him deep in the heart of the hurts and injuries and any time he hungered for fresh blood, there was a helpless old woman upstairs. “Does your grandmother know who you’re working for?”

“Good God, no! She’d have a fit! She and my dear, departed grandfather were lifelong members of the Communist party.”

High time the invasion got underway and these degenerates were disposed of. “Interesting,” Paul replied with a smile. “Now, if you would be so good as to show me my resting quarters.”