Bloody Good. Georgia Evans
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.