The Midnight Guardian

by Sarah-Jane Stratford

  There was no time to enjoy the sight of him lumbering back to the train, slightly drunk and dazed with wondering if the nurse tending to the unruly boys might really be hoping to meet him in the observation car once the children were safely in bed. The telegraph machine was whirring busily in the tiny office and the slim, stooped man tending it whistled as he prepared messages. He looked up sharply at Brigit’s ringing “Excuse me?”

  “Well?”

  “I’m expecting a telegram. Miss H. Morris.”

  The man appraised her briefly, then skimmed the neatly sorted file of recent telegrams. His fingers rested on one near the front. He paused, and ran his eyes up toward Brigit again.

  “From Berlin?”

  “That’s right.”

  He looked at her, then the telegram.

  “From a Mr. Jakes. That’s an English name, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose it could be, but he’s Irish, like me. My cousin, actually. He’s there on business.”

  A slightly raised eyebrow told him that this girl’s cousin was a member of the IRA and working with the Reich, trying to give them useful information in the fight against the British. He smiled, and slid the telegram across to her.

  Brigit almost skipped back to the train, tucking the precious telegram deep in her jacket pocket. The message had gone through! She had words that came from Eamon pressed against her side! She lay a hand on her pocket, as though the telegram might fly back out and into the office. She fancied she could feel it purring under her fingers.

  As she entered her corridor, however, Maurer was there. He was doubled over, rubbing his temples, but still there. A porter brought him a glass of water and glared at Brigit, as though certain the sergeant’s sudden illness was all her fault and hoping for an immediate and harsh rebuking of the Irish girl.

  “Is something the matter, Sergeant?”

  Maurer straightened up and jerked his head at the porter, who slouched his shoulders in disappointment and trudged away.

  “A momentary headache, a bit of dizziness. Nothing to alarm yourself with.”

  “There is a very charming doctor on board—Doctor Schultze. Shall I help you find him?”

  He studied her face, which she kept absolutely motionless.

  “No, thank you. That seems unnecessary.” He smiled suddenly, and much too brightly. “Is he concerned for your health, this doctor?”

  Brigit cursed herself for having mentioned him.

  “He said something to that effect, but as anyone can see, I am quite the vision of health.”

  “That’s good luck for you, isn’t it?”

  There was a sneer playing around his upper lip that she desperately wanted to scratch right off.

  “I am not a girl to trust in luck. That’s why I never wish it on anyone.”

  He leaned in with a shadow of a wink.

  “Don’t get too comfortable … Fräulein.”

  “No. I do not expect to soon reap the harvest of perpetual peace. If you’ll excuse me …”

  A couple anxious to get home to Barcelona approached Maurer and peppered him with questions in a mix of Catalan and broken German. With a delighted smile at his predicament, Brigit slipped into her compartment, determined not to lose another second before reading Eamon’s words. She bolted the door behind her, slid down to the floor, and unfolded the telegram.

  Dear Coz. Have received note of travel change. Have informed Auntie. Will make all arrangements. Contact from Bilbao with boat info. Flat good enough don’t fret. Safe travel. Love. Jakes.

  She pored over it again and again, hating its necessary brevity, loving its proof that Eamon knew where she was, what was happening, and that he and Otonia were hatching a new plan to somehow smooth the arrival in Ireland. Of course, they couldn’t do much, but knowing, knowing, that was something. It had to be.

  “Flat good enough don’t fret,” well, she knew what he meant, but wished he could remember that, despite all his patient explaining, she could never summon musical notes into her head the way he or Mors could. F G E D F. The beginning of one of his many songs about her. Which one, though? But it didn’t matter. Having committed the contents of the telegram to memory, she soaked it, along with Elsie’s papers, in the lavatory’s tin cup, ground the wads into grimy crumbs, and sent them snowing out the window. F G E D F. Maybe it would come to her in a dream.

  Chapter 8

  Berlin. March 1939.

  The suppers with Gerhard had become mind-numbingly routine, with conversation nearly as bland as the meal. He was unsurprisingly stolid in his choice of food and so scrupulous about cleansing all the plates of every crumb that Brigit suspected he’d been severely punished as a child whenever he didn’t finish a meal. Despite his hearty appetite, Brigit didn’t get the sense that he enjoyed food. Rather, he saw eating as a necessity and a duty, the way he viewed much of his life. His only passion was for power and, increasingly, Brigit.

  Yet he, like all the other party members the vampires were so carefully cultivating, was circumspect and cautious in the extreme. Even Mors, moderately ensconced as he was, found it difficult to get the full access and information he wanted, never mind the opportunity to wield some influence and forge a clear path to destruction. Something was wrong, but the vampires couldn’t seem to discuss it. Talk would confirm their concerns. Brigit was sure that Swefred and Meaghan had been convinced of this possibility all along and were taking some grim satisfaction in the lack of success, as it validated beliefs only they had held. Yet they seemed to be working as hard as the other three, and so Brigit made an effort to be charitable, assuming that her bitter thoughts were just an offshoot of her general dislike of the couple, her frustration with Gerhard, and her gnawing desire for Eamon.

  Some mornings, as she was struggling to fall asleep, she thought she could hear the soft rumble of Swefred and Meaghan making love. Their room wasn’t really close enough to hers for that to be possible, but she sensed it anyway and hated herself for it. This business of getting into an empty bed, alone, and knowing that she would wake up alone, often as not with tear-stained cheeks and damp thighs, was as draining to her as the minuet in which she was discreetly attempting to guide Gerhard. Perhaps if that dance found its rhythm, she might feel less despairing.

  Increasingly, she and Cleland were finding excuses not to be alone in the same room. Whatever empathy they might offer each other was nothing to the fear of falling into the discussion of the men they were missing. Brigit knew the only way she was getting through the days was without hearing the magical name “Eamon” being spoken by anyone. Even Mors, whose tact could rival Attila the Hun’s and whose subtlety was often compared to an anvil landing on the head, moved delicately around the subject of the missing. Whether it was out of his affection and respect for her, or because the whole of him was engaged in the mission, Brigit neither knew nor cared. She fairly wallowed in gratitude.

  Reports from home were sketchy at best. They couldn’t set up a post office box in Berlin, as the Germans asked far too many questions. Even retrieving telegrams too regularly was eyebrow-raising. Worse, it seemed every telegraph office was perversely located in a spot not accessible by sewer and with no shade, so as the afternoons grew longer, options shut down. At least they could send letters home once a week. Brigit loved to think of Eamon entering the bright central post office in London, so easily reached from sewers even in summer, and finding a letter from her in the little brass box. But she did wish she, or any of them, had more encouraging tidings to tell. This total lack of progress made no sense.

  The demon would like to rise fast and strike hard and then sprint back to London posthaste. Organize an invasion into a major meeting and kill them all: Hess, Speer, Göring, Himmler, Eichmann, Goebbels, and leave Hitler for the last. Eat none, of course, because that would be poison, but execute swift, violent slashes that, one might hope, would bring about a decisive end to this Reich. It seemed so tantalizingly possible, and perhaps, back in 1934 or so, it would have been.
But there were too many pitfalls. Meetings took place during the day, in so far as they all were privileged to know, and under heavy guard. The Nazis were confident, with a power Napoleon would envy, and yet left nothing to chance. Brigit saw them all as nothing but horrid little schoolboys, still entranced with the idea of gangs and secret hideaways … only they had the muscle and arms to back them up, and the imposing Reichstag was none too secret. Yet there was something infuriatingly childlike about the boundless cruelty of their ways; the enjoyment those in power took in being huddled up in an opulent room planning an empire built on blood and intimidation and the bullying pleasure those who guarded that room took in their supposed power. The millennials all knew that the weak, given some privilege and proximity to greatness, would always be the more dangerous in their way, having so much more to prove.

  The millennials had even more to disconcert them when Mors reported that some Nachtspeere were among those who guarded the corridors of power. He could not be sure, because even the gentle, subtle probing he’d done had been risky, but just the idea was enough to give them pause. The Nazis were enamored of their certainty. It drove them. And if there was one thing of which they were certain, it was that Germany, Berlin in particular, was thoroughly cleansed of vampires. Possibly the Nachtspeere were kept at duty because of lingering superstition, but it seemed more likely the Nazis wanted to make sure the crack squadron they’d trained so carefully still felt indispensable. The demon prodded Brigit anyway, reminding her that the Nachtspeere, as far as they knew, had neither weapon nor skill that would dispatch a millennial, but this hardly mattered. They couldn’t be sure, that was one consideration, and they didn’t know how many true hunters remained in the Nazi sway and might be ready to pursue them, should they have a hint of the millennial presence. They could overpower everyone in the building, but what then? How on earth could they guarantee themselves a safe escape? The U-Bahn tunnels and the sewers did not allow them to travel during the day as freely and widely as they would prefer. Even getting to the Reich headquarters would be fraught, and then there was the matter of getting inside. Only Mors would be allowed to enter with anything like ease. The picture made Brigit bristle, imagining how much he would welcome the challenge, how well he would rise to the occasion, how recklessly he would court death and danger. It didn’t matter that the Nazis were clever, that they might go so far as to blast holes through windows and walls to let in pure sunlight. He’d go out with a roar and take as many with him as he could snatch.

  But are you ready to die, my dear friend? Are you really ready to die?

  She knew the answer, and she knew, too, that it wasn’t the right question. Was she ready for him to die, that was more apt, and she knew the answer to that as well. Not here, not now, not for this.

  So there they were. Possibly they could find a faster way in, but it seemed only too likely that they wouldn’t get out, and that wasn’t the point of this venture. They were meant to survive. Their power was immense, but they weren’t wholly invincible, and so they must still be careful. Infinite care, always infinite care. They were here to strike back, and what was more, to make Europe safe for vampires again and maintain the health and safety of vampires in the world. They had to remember this. Too many millennials had already died in the aftermath of the human war. Not one more could be spared. Not if they intended to thrive.

  Brigit stabbed an overboiled potato with more venom than she intended, and Gerhard interrupted his droning monologue to stare, surprised.

  “I’m so sorry, my dear, am I boring you?”

  “Oh! Oh, no, no, I just … it’s just so frustrating, waiting for things to happen.”

  True enough.

  Gerhard beamed, clearly thinking she was referring to his career path. He gave her hand an approving pat, full of affectionate condescension.

  “I understand your frustration, dear, but we must be patient. Look at our beloved Führer, and imagine if he were not patient, all those years ago. You see what patience has gained him? Wait and watch, it won’t be long now, and you and I will be going to all the best events and I will be able to do marvelous things for you.”

  She squeezed his hand.

  “I don’t need any of that, but thank you. You are so very sweet.”

  “As are you, my dear, as are you.”

  A leer crept over his face.

  “Perhaps, my little Brigitte, there are some things for which there is no need for patience?”

  His thumb rubbed her palm meaningfully. She giggled, blushed, and made to pull away.

  “Gerhard, please, not here.” She looked around, worried lest anyone observe this vaguely inappropriate behavior of a rising young officer. Silly of her, of course, and betraying her small-town roots, but no man could help be charmed.

  “Are you worried someone will report your dalliance to your auntie?” he teased, grinning. He rarely made mention of her home life because it was of so little interest to him, excepting that its laxity freed her up in the evenings to see him. An orphan, she’d left Heidelberg to tend a reclusive aunt on the outskirts of Berlin and learn nursing, but soon found her aunt was a full-time job. Fortunately, the old woman retired early and didn’t care where Brigit went in the evenings, so long as she was home to make breakfast. There was a housekeeper who could manage things if there was any trouble. Of course, the arrangement wasn’t quite as simple as he might have liked. The old woman held on to her money with a fist worthy of Jews and steadfastly refused to get a telephone. She was also strict about visitors and so paranoid about burglars she forbade Brigit to so much as give out her address. Brigit was given no opportunity to make friends and there was no other family, so it was not expected she would receive any letters. Strange woman, but Gerhard understood. She’d come up in a hard time and mistrusted everyone on principle. More than likely, she was not even going to leave Brigit any money. He didn’t care. Brigit seemed to like him a lot and want to see him as much as possible, and since it seemed no trouble to her to trot down to the corner shop and phone him, he was content. He had enough work to do without fussing about courting a woman. Not that he considered himself to be courting. They both knew he was in no position to do that, not yet. No, he was cultivating a mistress, although he was a bit frustrated with the amount of effort it required. These dinners were all very nice, she looked well on his arm, and her kisses and body were divine, but she would only allow him to take her to his office, not his flat, and she asked more questions about his work than he was comfortable answering. It was exhausting.

  “I don’t want anyone to think I’m that sort of girl, is what it is, and if your landlady saw us, well, she wouldn’t think too highly of you, either, would she? And you can’t afford that.”

  “You are too sweet, my Brigitte, and clever, too. You know that the guard at my office will only think better of me, if he ever sees me bringing you inside.”

  “You mustn’t joke! It would be awful to get caught!”

  This wasn’t true. Many of the men were married and carried on their peccadilloes in their offices. Gerhard was a bit low on the rung for it, but no one would give it much thought. She seemed to enjoy the idea of subterfuge, however, and he liked indulging her.

  Her eyes were wide and reproachful. It touched his heart and fired his loins.

  “Let’s go.”

  He paid hastily and seized her hand, almost dragging her out of the restaurant.

  Ten minutes later, they’d slipped past the night watch, hurried upstairs, and locked the door to Gerhard’s little office behind them. Brigit lit up as she always did and Gerhard wondered why she never tired of her eager exploration of his desk and files.

  “Oh, Gerhard, I do love how, well, official your office is! Of course, it should be much larger, and more grand, but they do seem to be appreciating you, I think. What are the chances they would allow you a personal secretary?”

  “None as yet, not while I’m just a lowly assistant.” He laughed.

  She wagged a di
sapproving finger at him.

  “You mustn’t even joke about being lowly, not when we both know it’s quite, quite untrue. Perhaps you aren’t yet where you ought to be, but you know how important you are.”

  He smiled, reveling in her sweet ignorance and simple pride. If she continued to please him like this, he might, someday, reward her with marriage, although it was hard to imagine, not unless the impossible aunt decided to endow her, and that would have to be substantial enough to overcome the stigma of a poor education and shadowy background. However, there was no point in considering that aspect of the future. The only future in which he was truly engrossed was that of his career, and the only present that intrigued him tonight was Brigit’s curvy body.

  Although her blood was obviously hot for him, she couldn’t resist carrying on with silly games. She snatched up a notepad and pencil and, her back straight and legs crossed, made ready to take dictation.

  “Now, let’s see … Dear Doctor Todt, I have noticed a lack of new rifles being designed in favor of those that were used in the war. I believe this is a woeful oversight and one that could be easily amended were the right man put in charge … .”

  He was standing over her, his knees nearly touching hers, his face smiling but insistent. Gently, he took the pad and paper from her hands and made to pull her to her feet. Instead, to his delight, she reached up and wound his tie between her fingers, tugging until his face was level with hers.

  He couldn’t get used to her kiss. True, he had almost nothing against which to compare, but there was something unnerving about her mouth, almost as though she were digging into him. Every time she kissed him, he had the strangest sense of her being suddenly far older than she was, and someone else altogether. Part of him wanted to pull away, even run away, and never see her again, but he knew this was a mouth he couldn’t leave.

  Her hands wrapped around his head and he sank to his knees. Somehow, her fingers were in his mouth and her lips teasing around his ear. She exhaled into him, and he collapsed back onto the fine wool rug, spent, the pleasures of her body continuing to course through him long after he’d enjoyed them. He drowsed pleasantly, feeling her warm weight curled on top of him.