The Midnight Front--A Dark Arts Novel

by David Mack

  There was no mirth in Vaughn’s demeanor, only the pragmatism of a man tasked to build living weapons out of the crooked timber of humanity. As the battalion’s companies each were directed to their campsites, Cade had no doubt that Vaughn was serious about putting the Rangers through hell. The only part of the British commando officer’s speech Cade found hard to believe was his claim that the Rangers would thank him.

  * * *

  He must know I’ve gone by now. Soon he’ll come looking for me.

  Trust never came freely to Briet. With her it was hard to earn and easily broken. She had convinced herself Kein had a plan. But the longer she had borne witness to Kein’s singular preoccupation with seeing the world burn, the more she realized she had let herself become swept up in his cult of personality, in a quest as grandiose as it was misbegotten.

  A full moon inched above the horizon, its silver light casting a path across the Baltic Sea. Briet lurked in the forest that bordered the rocky beach. She had traveled lightly, with only the clothes on her back; a coat with her rat familiar Trixim tucked in one of its pockets; a ruck that held her grimoire, cash, and a few personal effects; and her tools of the Art. Now she awaited the boat whose owner she had hired, through an intermediary, for passage out of Germany.

  If he cheated me, I’ll be in great danger.

  Thanks to her NSDAP credentials, Briet had been able to travel throughout Germany at will. No one had questioned her when she had withdrawn tens of thousands of reichsmarks, or when she had converted them, at a loss, into gold coins. But the last thing she had wanted was to be recognized during the last leg of her journey—or to be tracked down by Kein, either in person or by one of his demonic agents sent abroad to corral her into compliance.

  She had taken pains to foil her pursuers by effecting her disappearance in Hamburg, far from her planned point of exodus. There, a goodly sum of her gold had been spent on two sets of new identity papers—one identifying her as a German, the other as a citizen of neutral Sweden. Letters she had sent to her lovers Victor and Sandrine had implied she was bound for India.

  Her least costly preparation, but the dearest blow to her pride, had been her hair. Briet had worn her coppery tresses long most of her life. But they made her stand out in crowds, and that was something she could no longer afford.

  Briet still winced when she recalled the chirps of the shears slicing through her locks, or the sight of them falling to the floor of her hotel room in Hamburg. After she had given herself a sloppy crew cut, she had collected her cut hair into a braid, bound it with threads of white silk, sprinkled it with holy water and magpie’s blood, then doused it with brandy and camphor before setting it aflame in her brazier while dedicating the sacrifice to her patron, ASTAROTH.

  Even more than the ward permanently scribed between her shoulder blades, her burnt offering would shield her from Kein’s scrying gaze for the next several months. After that, she would, if all went according to plan, be sequestered somewhere far from the war, far from the affairs of the rabble, far from every other living soul on earth.

  She shivered in the ocean breeze, then adjusted her black wig. At least this thing is warm. Submerged into her new persona, she had traveled incognito from Hamburg to Stralsund, and from there to Sassnitz on the Jasmund Peninsula. She had booked a room for a month in Sassnitz, an unassuming seaside village, knowing full well she would be leaving it all behind in a matter of hours. Just before sundown, she had walked four kilometers up the beach, to its easternmost point. Then she selected a spot in which to wait, one partially sheltered from the wind, with a view of the waves shredding themselves across the boulders just offshore.

  Every precaution she could have taken, she had. She had created false trails and used magick to plant false memories in people traveling west from Hamburg. There were more than enough decoys to lead any hunter astray. Yet paranoia nagged at her.

  He’ll know. He’ll find you.

  The last thing she had abandoned to effect her escape had been her yoked spirits. Without their strengths, she felt vulnerable and alone. But with them, she would be a beacon to Kein’s allies from Below. Worse, because of the Atlantic Wall defenses she herself had helped create to guard the Reich’s borders, she couldn’t approach the coastline while holding spirits in thrall.

  I built my own prison. But then, doesn’t everyone?

  From the sparkling darkness of the sea appeared a silhouette. A small boat piloted by a lone figure cut through the waves, its outboard motor a low purr beneath the wind. The pilot carried no lantern, no light of his own. Only the lunar glow set him apart from the night.

  Briet remained under cover until the boat was almost ashore. She emerged from the trees and walked to the beach as she heard the craft’s keel scrape against the stony sand. The pilot climbed out and dragged the boat aground from the shallows. He was dressed for a cold night at sea: a long hooded jacket, heavy boots, rugged trousers. His hood was cinched so tightly she didn’t see his face—only fleeting glimmers of reflected moonlight in his eyes.

  Under her coat, she gripped the handle of her athamé, ever alert to the risk of betrayal. “You’re here to take me across?”

  The pilot nodded and held out an open, gloved hand. Briet counted out five gold coins and pressed them into the stranger’s palm. He pocketed the fee, then beckoned her to follow him aboard. He steadied the boat with both hands on its port gunwale as she stepped over it and found a seat on the middle bench. After she settled, he pushed the boat into open water, then climbed aboard. He settled into the rear of the boat, fired up the motor, and steered them into the night. They picked up speed and cut through the waves. Seawater crested the bow and doused Briet in icy sprays. She winced in the face of her saltwater baptism.

  By the time she looked back, Germany had sunk beyond the horizon. The pilot showed no interest in talking, so Briet kept silent. Around her yawned the mystery of the sea at night, one darkness upon another. She hoped that in Sweden she could slip into obscurity, fade away, and be forgotten—as if the Baltic Sea were her Lethe, one in which she could drown all memory of her former life, and from it be born again unknown.

  It was a beautiful dream, but a foolish one. If Kein won his war, he would not forget Briet’s desertion, nor would he forgive it. If his foes proved the victors, she had no doubt they, too, would someday seek her out on a mission of vengeance.

  I can hide until the war ends. After that, I will need sanctuary. But who has the power to shield me from Kein? Or from Adair? The Covenant says the Synod has the right to keep them at bay, but why would the Vatican help an unrepentant karcist like me?

  She found no answers in the darkness, or in the pitching and rolling of the sea. Only the emptiness of a future unwritten, and the promise of escape.

  For now, that was enough. The rest would have to wait.

  * * *

  Cade set aside his manual and sat up. He was awake, but he felt as if his brain would pop like a balloon if he tried to stuff one more fact into it before he slept. Gotta clear my head or I’ll never sleep tonight. He dug his Zippo and a pack of Luckies from his ruck, pulled on his boots and jacket, and crawled out of his tent.

  The night greeted him with cold air and a sky peppered with stars. He lit a smoke and headed for the perimeter of the campsite. Few others were out and about, except for a circle of NCOs gathered around the embers of a cooking fire in the middle of camp. Cade drifted away from the tents, hoping for a moment of solitude.

  He followed the dirt road toward Achnacarry Castle. Nearby woods resonated with the hoots of owls, and the highland hilltops were limned with moonglow. Taking in the serenity of the location, Cade found his thoughts harkening to his first days at Eilean Donan Castle. The loneliness. The confusion. The anger. How lost he’d been, in the depths of his grief; how empty he’d felt, unable to slake his thirst for revenge. He watched reflected moonlight stretch across the black water of the River Arkaig and remembered LEVIATHAN’s tentacles rising from the sea and dr
agging his parents to their deaths.

  All I’ve learned … all I’ve done … what difference has it made? He quashed his doubts as quickly as he’d summoned them. Don’t be stupid. Taking down the Thule Society mattered. And that bastard Siegmar deserved what he got. Don’t go second-guessing your—

  A pistol’s hammer cocked behind his ear and silenced his thoughts. “Halt,” said a man with a Mancusian accent. “The main building’s off-limits. What’s your business here?”

  Fuck.

  Cade’s opened his hands and raised them slowly in surrender. “Just stretching my legs.”

  Another voice, this one Glaswegian: “Turn around.” Cade turned to see he had been intercepted by a pair of British commandos in camouflage and night-ops blackface. The Scot toted a STEN submachine gun, whose distinctive long magazine jutted from its left side. His partner kept his large-caliber revolver trained on Cade’s face.

  The Scot shook his head. “Bloody Rangers. Think they own the place.”

  A grim nod from Pistol Man. “Drinkin’ all the beer, takin’ all the birds. Fuckin’ Yanks. Overpaid, oversexed, and over here.” His index finger curled around the trigger. “Too bad we’re on the same side, or I’d teach this one a—”

  “What’s all this?” said a baritone from the dark.

  Cade knew that voice, though he’d never thought to hear it again. Ignoring the weapons aimed at his face, he turned to face his old Oxford cohort, who aside from being leaner, more weathered, and decked out in camouflage, looked just as he had four years earlier. “Miles!”

  Miles Franklin paused, squinted, then beamed. “Cade?”

  The Scot sounded disappointed. “You know this man, Sergeant?”

  “What do you think, you stupid sod? This man and I were at Oxford together!” He took Cade by the shoulders. “I’d never thought to see you here!” To the sentries he added, “He’s with me, gents. Back to your posts.” He tilted his head and confided to Cade, “This way.”

  They passed the main building of Achnacarry Castle, then descended a slope to the riverside. Once they were away from eavesdroppers, Cade nudged his old friend. “Sergeant? I thought you wanted to be an officer.”

  “Not all it’s cracked up to be. But never mind me! I thought you were going home to your life of Connecticut luxury.”

  Cade shook his head. “Never got the chance.” He met Miles’s questioning gaze. “We were on the Athenia.”

  Shock and sympathy. “Oh, no. Mate—your mum and dad?”

  “Lost at sea. And officially? So was I.”

  “What are you telling me? You’re legally dead? Then how are you here?”

  He wondered how much he could tell Miles without sounding insane. “I’ve spent the last four years with a top-secret warfare program.”

  The taller man’s proud brow creased in amazement. “Secret? You’re with the SOE?”

  “Something like that.” Hoping to shift the subject, he asked, “What are you doing here? And why the hell haven’t I seen you until now?”

  “The brass keeps my unit out of sight, for the most part. Technically, we’re not even supposed to be here. We’re not regular commandos, you see. We’re the auxiliary.”

  “Meaning…?”

  “We’re not being trained for Europe. Our mission is a bit more pessimistic. If you lot bungle the French invasion and the Jerries wind up on English soil, the commando auxiliary has orders to shed its uniforms and go underground in the cities, to organize an armed insurgency.”

  “Sounds like a hoot.”

  “I assure you, it’s anything but.” Miles looked across the river. Cade tried to find what his friend was staring at, only to realize there was nothing to see but the curtain of night. Dejection crept into Miles’s deep voice. “Vaughn and the others say they need men like me in the auxiliary, men who can blend into ‘urban communities’ undetected. But I think the real reason I’m not going to Europe is your Yank pals.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are you blind? Because of my skin, old boy.”

  “I know the American forces are segregated, but—”

  “And that doesn’t strike you as ironic? That the world is counting on a racist country like yours to save it from a racist lunatic like Hitler?” Dim moonlight traced the edges of his frown. “You know what a Ranger once said to me? I was a trainer when some of your lot came through last year. During a live-fire exercise, I stopped some young chap from Alabama from dropping a mortar round on his command company. He turned and told me to shut my ‘nigger mouth.’ When I informed that buck private he was addressing a sergeant, he replied, ‘Stripes on a zebra mean more than stripes on a nigger.’ Had he been a British commando, I could’ve put him in the stockade for a month. But we’ve been asked to ‘tolerate’ the Americans’ … special needs with regard to separating white and colored personnel. And so … I find myself in the auxiliary.”

  All Cade could feel was deep, abiding shame. For his country, for his fellow Rangers, for himself for not having spoken up against it. An awkward silence freighted with guilt and quiet resentment stretched out between them while Cade searched for anything to say that didn’t threaten to add insult to injury. At last he sighed and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I’m sorry, Miles, for all of it. But it could’ve been worse. Imagine if they found out you’re a poof.”

  Miles almost laughed. “You really are an ass.”

  “As advertised.” A brisk wind whistled through the trees. Cade tilted his head southward. “I hear there’s a pub in Spean Bridge. Want to pop down for a pint?”

  Miles threw an arm across Cade’s shoulders. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  47

  APRIL

  There seemed to be no limit to Hell’s ignorance. For over a month, Kein had petitioned his patron for any clue to the fate of his last remaining apprentice. He had sent half a dozen demons abroad with the simplest of missions: Locate Briet and report her condition and whereabouts to me.

  All had returned, none the wiser.

  Even a Lull Engine, despite being notoriously difficult to deceive, had yielded inconclusive results. Fearing she might have been captured by his rival, Kein once again resorted to the simplest and most direct method available.

  He stood in the operator’s circle of his conjuring room, beneath his Wolfsschanze bunker. Red flames hugged the coals in his brazier. From his pocket he pulled a wad of Mercurial incense wrapped in virgin gauze. Crystals of rock salt crunched in his fist. The pressure of his hand released the floral scent of powdered black dianthus.

  He dropped the incense into the brazier.

  Orange sparks shot up from the coals, scorching the ceiling and raining phosphors onto the floor, where they skittered off to fade away and die. Kein extended his hand into the geyser of fiery motes and intoned, “Exaudi. Exaudi. Exaudi.”

  In his imagination he held an image of Briet. If she was alive, even if behind a magickal barrier, she would hear his summons and be able to conjure a flame of discourse in her palm.

  Kein repeated his incantation. No answer came, nor any vision of his lost adept. The jet of sparks from the brazier petered out, and the flames licking the coals shrank to nothing.

  He withdrew his hand.

  He snuffed the brazier’s coals and opened the circle. The last time he had seen Briet had been in Normandy, months earlier. They had spoken briefly in January, but not since then. None of her bodyguards had seen her leave; all they knew was that one morning in February they had gone to fetch her—at Kein’s telegraphed request—only to find her Berlin apartment abandoned. All her possessions had been left behind, with the notable exception of her tools of the Art.

  Some reports suggested she had been seen in Hamburg, and that she had purchased a ticket for a midnight train to Düsseldorf—a ticket that was never redeemed, and a passage that, as far as Kein could tell, she never made.

  Beyond that, all attempts to track her movements had failed.

  The uncertai
nty of the matter vexed Kein. Had Briet been killed? Captured? Could she have deserted him? Or, worse, defected to the enemy?

  There was nothing left to be done. He had to let it go for now. As far as Kein was concerned, Briet was dead.

  But when this war is over, if I find her alive, she will not remain so for long.

  * * *

  Between the road and the river, the Fifth Ranger Battalion fell into formation for the eight-mile march to Spean Bridge, where, they had been told, a train stood waiting to take them to their next training site.

  Cade was checking his pack’s straps and accounting for every last bit of his gear when a firm hand closed on his shoulder. He turned to see Miles smiling at him.

  “Thought you could break camp without a good-bye, did you?”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He and Miles clasped each other’s forearms in an aggressive parody of a handshake. “They say we’re off to Braunton, then Swanage.”

  “Assault training. Keep your head down and your eyes open. You’ll do fine.”

  Cade nodded toward the castle. “How about you? Staying here?”

  “Someone has to train your next batch of wankers.” Somewhere down the line, sergeants started shouting men into motion. “You’d best get going, old boy.”

  The month at Achnacarry had gone by so quickly, and Cade had had less than two weeks to catch up with Miles. His whole life seemed to be racing past before he had time to breathe. Now, saying farewell to Miles once again, he remembered feeling as if he’d failed him in the recruiting office by leaving him to crack on alone. Now he was the one being asked to march into Hell while Miles stayed behind to keep the home fires burning.