Bloody Good. Georgia Evans

      Gerhardt Eiche swore slowly and thoroughly. No one, not a single person among his trainers and controllers, had ever mentioned the incessant traffic and activity in an English village. No fewer than six women of varying ages had trooped up the garden path and rung the bell to inquire after Jane Waite’s health and, he suspected, to get an eyeful of yours truly. It had started with the damn servant. He’d put her off fast enough, but the baskets of apples and bowls of nuts, to say nothing of a knitted bed jacket, were impossible to reject without causing unwelcome gossip and comment.

      If these damn thoughtful bitches came around like this after Miss Waite got home he had no idea how he was going to cope.

      Remote and rural were definitely not the same as quiet and undisturbed. He was just thankful the gardener had been called up or he’d be wanting access to the potting shed where Gerhardt had set up his radio until he found a safer place to hide it.

      In the end, he left the house and decided to survey the village in daylight. It was going to be his little empire after the invasion. Might as well stake out his chosen abode and his possible servants: the favored few he would elect for transformation.

      Did those foolish mortals tucked in their hideaway in the Black Forest really believe that vampires would work for them, whatever the threats and blusterings?

      This was going to be an interesting few months.

      He didn’t take long to select his future residence: The large, Georgian rectory across from the church. It was shabby, but he’d soon have his minions take care of that. After he’d disposed of the current inhabitants, of course. The old Saxon church with its tower and muffled bells he’d leave for the peasants if they desired. He had no use for it, and they’d need some consolation in their short lives.

      Strolling down toward the center of the village he had to admit he’d been given a very pleasant center of operations. A narrow stream ran beside the lane, a tributary of the Mole, the river that formed a gap in the Downs, as if designed to facilitate the coming invasion. To the east, the Downs rolled toward Box Hill—a place he had every intention of exploring as soon as it suited him. Might as well report to his petty masters about the supposed, and no doubt pathetic, defenses. To the west, and out of sight beyond the woods where Schmidt claimed to have been injured, was a broad heath and woods and the establishment that supposedly merited his investigation.

      All in good time.

      For now, he stood a few meters from the crossroads in the village center and surveyed.

      Until a car had the effrontery to hoot at him to get out of the road. His error, yes, standing astride the white line, but how in heaven did anyone run a motor car if petrol was rationed?

      Black market, he assumed.

      Something else he need to investigate.

      After jumping out of the way, in a manner he hoped was a reasonable imitation of a scared mortal, Gerhard turned and all but tripped over a baby pushchair.

      He just managed to rein in the snarl as he met the mother’s eyes. It was the servant who’d thumped on his door earlier.

      She had short, curly dark hair, bright brown eyes, and skin that resembled rich cream. Just imagining the blood coursing through her veins had his gums tingling. He smiled, careful to keep his lips together. No point in terrifying mortals until it suited his purpose. “Sorry, wasn’t looking where I was going.”

      “Good thing I was,” she replied.

      Eiche reminded himself she was no doubt disgruntled at being sacked and probably saw him as a human equal. He was going to have to get used to this. At least for now. “Yes, excuse me.”

      She had a child. He intended to keep all the children safe. They were his future servants after all. “The car coming so fast surprised me.”

      “That was Dr. Doyle. She’s always in a hurry. She’s probably been up to the Watsons’ farm to check on the new twins.”

      Of course. The woman who’d arrived last night to attend to Miss Waite. There couldn’t be two in a village this size. “You know the doctor well?”

      “Of course! Everyone does. I clean for her.”

      “As you do for my aunt. I was perhaps curt this morning.”

      She gave a little shrug. “Never mind. I just wanted to check and see what Miss Waite needed.”

      “We might need your services later.” Taking a little blood wouldn’t do her permanent harm and young blood was so much richer than old.

      “I don’t know if I can now. I just promised the vicarage an extra day.” Without a word of apology or regret she marched on, pushing the carriage ahead of her.

      Impudent peasant! If there were many more around like her, it was going to take some getting used to. He looked about him. A knot of women stood in front of the post office and an elderly but upright man walked out of the bank across the street. Between Miss Waite and the servant Doris, he’d had enough of mortal women for a while. He crossed the road toward the bank.

      The man watched Eiche approach.

      Eiche met his eyes and offered a slight smile.

      “Afternoon,” the man said. “You’re new to Brytewood. Working up at the plant, are you?”

      No, but any information about that establishment would keep his so-called masters happy. “Actually no. I’m visiting my aunt, Miss Waite.”

      “On leave are you?”

      Impudent but not unexpected. “I was badly injured after Dunkirk. Took them a while to put me back together. I need a few more weeks before I have to report back.” Long enough to serve his purposes anyway.

      “Rotten luck.” The man nodded as he offered his hand. “I’m Sergeant Pendragon. With the Home Guard. Any time you want to get back in the traces, we’d be honored to have you drill with us.”

      Might come in handy if he knew the exact extent of the local toy soldiers. “I’d be the one honored.” His hand closed around Pendragon’s and was met with almost equal strength. Odd. Impossible.

      “What regiment were you with?”

      Good thing he’d been well schooled. “The Hampshires.” Nice losses they’d taken, too.

      The old man let go of his hand and was eyeing him keenly. “Welcome to Brytewood. Things here aren’t as they were before the war but we do our best for our visitors. You missed the whist drive yesterday afternoon. We have one every second Wednesday. But you might like to come along to the ARP planning meetings. We’re always looking for more volunteers.”

      Any effort he put into