Bloody Good. Georgia Evans
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