Chapter One
Berlin. April 20, 1941.
The Nazis prided themselves on being boisterous singers,
and the show they made of gathering around tables set with
the bounty of a Christmas feast, all to sing songs praising
their Führer on his birthday, was laughable to anyone who
dared to laugh.
The figure of a man lounging outside the house, just out
of range of the candlelight, did not laugh, but rather
yawned. Every well-appointed house in Berlin was hosting an
eerily similar party. The candles in a wooden ring, as if
they were at a child’s party, the table as heavily laden as
rationing would permit, with rabbit, bratwurst, rice
porridge, and a plum cake that must have used up a month’s
sugar ration—it all transcended ridiculous and was
instead boring. The toasts, the songs, even the jokes were
the same, as though everyone were acting in the same play.
"One that could not be more dull if it were called
Puritans on Parade," the figure muttered, nudging his
brushed wool fedora farther up his forehead to study the
faces inside. To a casual passerby, it might be assumed he
was a vagrant—until one noticed that his fine tweed
overcoat was of a quality rarely seen, even in peacetime.
Under the coat, he exuded a strength and swagger that most
found intimidating, and others, intriguing. Of the latter,
these often ended up finding out more than they wanted to
know—and always too late.
Another song honoring Hitler commenced. The unseen
watcher rolled his eyes and turned from the window,
focusing on his hand. He curled and uncurled his fingers
several times, then held them straight and outspread,
popping out long, sharp talons from under the nails. They
snapped back in place, then shot out again. Several more
times they sang out and back, lethal cuckoos in a clock,
and their owner smiled down at them with fondness. He might
have been a young boy playing with a switchblade, but of
course, Mors was no boy. Nor was he young, except at heart.
Rather, he was older than anything in Berlin except the
dirt. And what he could do with these talons was something
few wanted to see.
The song finished, and Mors yawned again, the
unnecessary action one of his few sources of amusement. If
anything, Germany under the Nazis was even more egotistical
and vicious than he had found it when he first arrived in
1938. He and four other British millennial vampires had
hoped to bring down the Nazis and thus prevent the war that
was now devastating so much of Europe. Berlin, a chilly
place in 1938, was now downright icy, even in spring.
The Nazis confounded him, which was a rare feat. He had
thought he had seen the basest of humanity before. He’d
romped happily through the reigns of Caligula and Nero,
after all, and had seized the opportunity to have a drink
with Attila the Hun.
Brutal warrior. Wonderful drinking songs, though. Very
clever rhymes.
The British vampires had seen ghastly things all
throughout their own land, and in their travels had seen
even more. Chaos fed the demon inside, but most
vampires—especially as they grew
older—preferred humans when they were at peace and
harmony, pursuing art and invention. Such things fed the
human soul and thus sweetened the blood of even the lowest
criminal. So it was a blow, after such a lively interval as
the 1920s and much of the 1930s, to see the world descend
into hell again. And what a hell! The Jews had known plenty
of grief, but having survived in Europe through the Middle
Ages and to be so seemingly integrated now, well, it was no
wonder they little expected such disaster in the age of
radio, telephone, film, and short skirts.
"And it’s only getting worse. For all except those who
deserve it," Mors grumbled, his eyes tinged with red as he
glared at the celebrants.
He knew it only too well. He had spent several months
scouring Europe, searching for his missing friend Cleland
and engaging in any military conflict he could in the hopes
of turning the tide. His own successes had been
disturbingly few, thanks to the persistence of battles
being waged mostly during the day. The Allies’ low success
rate upset him far more.
Convinced at least that Cleland had not gone back to
England or anywhere else on the Continent, Mors had
returned to Berlin, full of horrible certainty. He would
prefer the novelty of uncertainty. Since he could not allow
himself even to contemplate the idea that Cleland was dead,
Mors was now almost sure that his friend had been captured
and was still being held. He would have to be found. Soon.
Certainty. They had been so full of certainty. When the
British vampires arrived soon after Kristallnacht, they
were sure they’d be home in a few months at most. After
all, they were millennials, more than one thousand years
old and thus possessed of immense power. It took special
skill and weaponry to kill a millennial. The five of
them—Brigit, Cleland, Swefred, Meaghan, and
Mors—had the strongest confidence in their
intelligence and abilities. Which hadn’t been enough
against the strength of human will. But time quickly became
a gushing wound, spilling out and out and out, and their
accomplishments were absorbed in the pool and as good as
unnoticed, undone.
Until the end.
They had disabled a hangar of planes and destroyed a
bomb-making factory, along with, it was hoped, most of the
Nachtspeere, Hitler’s special team of vampire hunters. But
it did not go as planned. Swefred and Meaghan had
sacrificed themselves in an explosion that decimated the
Nachtspeere. But that explosion had also separated Cleland
from the others. Mors had assured Brigit that Cleland was
not dead. Brigit. He had held her, stroked her hair, wiped
her eyes. And knew she needed to leave him. Or rather, he
needed her to leave him. They were best friends, as close
as brother and sister, but his real love for her had burned
inside him for centuries. If they were alone together,
really alone, it would be too unbearable. Something would
break. She needed to go back to England to her partner,
Eamon, and Mors needed to search for Cleland alone. He had
spent plenty of time alone and had no fear of it.
He feared for Brigit, though, however irrational that
was. He was a double millennial, far more powerful even
than she. Otonia, older yet and the leader of the British
vampire tribunal, had once told him she thought vampires
could gift each other some strength under extraordinary
circumstances. With nothing else to give Brigit, Mors had
kissed her and felt a measure of himself slip out of his
body and into hers. It was a little thing, he assured her,
and he as good as ordered her to go home, where she would
be safe while he carried on the war effort in his own way,
heading to Russia. He wondered if she’d believed him, any
of it. She knew he was a storyteller, after all.
It had taken more than he could have imagined to leave
her sobbing behind him in that dark tunnel while he walked
off whistling. Whistling! He wondered if she hated him in
that moment.
She might have forgiven him if she’d known the pain he
was in, far beyond the love he’d finally confessed. That
gift was more costly than anything in Harrods. He’d
struggled his way to neutral Sweden to recover himself,
which took much, much too long by his standards.
Since he was already bathing in the novelty of guilt, he
decided to compound it by confirming her safety, as well as
asking if Cleland had come home. He had sent a telegram to
Eamon, feeling sure of the moment when Eamon was near the
machine Otonia had stolen. He had not been surprised to
feel that certainty. Brigit had a powerful connection to
Eamon that extended over the waters. Mors had given her
something of himself. It was only right that there be some
small part of her inside him.
Eamon, he knew, valued his honor. If Mors swore him to
secrecy about his true business, he would keep that secret,
even if it troubled him. The telegram Mors soon received
was terse indeed, the younger vampire’s rage showing
through the purple lettering. But it told Mors what he
needed to know: Brigit was safe, there was no word of
Cleland, and Eamon would say nothing to anyone, not even
Cleland’s beloved partner, Padraic. So there it was.
And here he was, back in the palm of the iron fist that
was strangling so much of Europe. The war was going well
for Germany, despite not having subdued Britain. The few
snatches of Goebbels’s birthday speech Mors had managed to
hear the night before only confirmed the worst. A revolting
speech, adulating Hitler as though he were a god. Mors had
seen many Roman emperors proclaimed gods in their day. It
rarely went well.
The one piece of grim luck Mors had been allotted since
returning to comb Berlin for Cleland was the sight of
Nachtspeere. Despite the millennials having incinerated so
many of their numbers that August dawn, they were gradually
being replenished. Which meant someone, somewhere, thought
that vampire hunters were still needed. That was all to the
good, even as the thought made his eyes glow that much more
red.
Evening parties were still a place where guard was let
down, faculties distorted by drink, and hearts swollen with
warmth and good feeling. The opportunity was offered to
interrogate someone on their way home. So Mors waited, and
watched. And at this, the seventh party spied upon this
evening, there was a member of the Nachtspeere present.
The Nachtspeere had white-blond hair and the sort of
square chin that would shoo him straight into matinee-idol
status were his nose not so small. That didn’t dissuade one
of the young girls from showering him with familiar smiles
and overly tinkling laughs and all manner of flirtations so
as to make herself look foolish. At last, the hosts, weary
of the diversion, suggested to the Nachtspeere that he
ought to see the girl home, as she was looking peaked.
"And we’re open for business." Mors gloated, cracking
his knuckles.
The hosts found the Nachtspeere and girl’s coats and
hats and wrapped the pair up with a studied efficiency.
Mors shook his head. One would have thought every man and
woman in Germany had endured efficiency training.
The average wheel cog is not so well oiled.
The tipsy Nachtspeere didn’t seem sorry to be leaving
and tossed an arm over his sudden companion’s shoulder,
allowing his hand to brush her breast. The girl giggled
nervously.
"Dieter, you embarrass me."
"Shame on you, Dieter, stop embarrassing the young
lady," Mors scolded, dropping heavy arms around the couple,
who jumped and shrieked. Mors laughed his booming, singsong
laugh that kept them from realizing they were being
propelled into shadows.
"Were … were you at the party?" the girl ventured
timorously, although of course she would have noticed him.
Although he appeared to be in his early forties, his
effortless magnetism—to say nothing of his obvious
wealth—would have rendered him the object of all that
glad-eyeing, not Dieter.
"Oh, my dear, I have been to all the parties," Mors
informed her. "But here’s the bastard of the matter.
There’s one particular guest I’m always trying to find, and
he always eludes me, slippery little devil. Then I saw you,
Dieter, and I knew you were a fellow who might be able to
help. You seem the sort who has access to classified
information, if you get me."
A wave of gratification washed over Dieter. The man’s
voice was so warm, melodious, his accent so educated. It,
more than his elegant clothes, bespoke him as the very
finest in German society, perhaps the descendant of a
titled family. Dieter would be more than happy to tell this
man anything, and he desperately hoped he had some useful
information. The parade of rewards he would receive in
return goose-stepped across his mind.
"I believe you are in the truly secret police, am I
right? The branch so special one dares not speak its name?"
Mors asked, eyebrow raised.
"Gestapo?" the girl piped up, not wholly willing to be
ignored. "That’s rather exciting! Have you arrested any Jew
dogs?"
Dieter didn’t hear a word of her prattle, he was staring
at Mors.
"How … how did you know?"
Mors raised an eyebrow, then darted his eyes to the all-
but-invisible insignia on Dieter’s shoulder, nearly buried
in the seam. The sign of a fang, with a red slash run
through.
"What do you know of him, Dieter? I promise there is
much reward for information."
"Which ‘him,’ sir? There is more than one animal we
seek."
The delighted astonishment that rushed through Mors
stayed well under the surface of his skin. "Seek!" Then
Cleland was indeed at liberty, and he and Mors must have
gone in circles searching for each other. The
other "animal" could only be Mors himself. He pressed his
advantage. The silly lad obviously thought he was a rich
man on a private enterprise—the sort who pays
bounties for vampires and displays relics of them like
bearskins. Mors played it up.
"I am interested in all animals; you must see that."
Dieter grinned and leaned in confidentially.
"There is a Dutch rat, hoarding more rats, attempting to
shuffle them out."
Mors kept his eyebrows firmly in place.
"Dutch? You’re quite certain?"
"Oh, yes," Dieter gloated. "Thanks to our good work,
he’s heard of the August Incident—"
Oh, now, really—"the August Incident"? Must they
be so prosaic?
"—and we think he’s coming to Berlin. If more rats
follow, then straight into the cage they go."
Mors was bewildered. A Dutch vampire? Could that perhaps
be Cleland in disguise? It was a touch bizarre, but
delectable. Cleland must have some plan.
The girl giggled, intruding inappropriately on the
important talk of men.
"‘Cage’—you mean Dachau? Why don’t you just say
so? Serves the stupid Jews right, if they think they can
come back in here."
Dieter glared at the girl.
"I think it’s time you went home, Maria," he announced
in glacial tones.
Maria began to argue, and Mors, irritated, stepped in to
silence them. But Maria, having drunk far too much, lashed
out at Dieter and knocked Mors’s hat off, revealing the
whole of his memorable face, including his famously bald
head. Dieter exhaled long and low, and Mors could feel the
man’s skin tingle with chilly anticipation. The new
Nachtspeere were taught by the Irish hunters whose skill
was renown through the vampire world, and had been made to
study history. Few vampires were bigger history than Mors.
Dieter’s thought process was far too slow. Mors took
hold of the man’s right hand as it reached inside his
jacket, and instead lifted the stake from its holder
himself.
"There is no need for such action, and besides, you must
know this little stick is ineffective against the likes of
me," Mors scolded, rubbing the stake to dust in his hand.
His eyes still on Dieter, he stuck out a foot to trip Maria
as she started to run away. She smacked the ground hard;
even Dieter could hear her nose break as it hit the stone
alley.
"Stop your yowling, you horrid girl," Mors told her,
pressing his foot into the back of her neck. She was
promptly silent. "Women do tend to overreact, haven’t you
noticed?" Mors inquired.
"Help, Hegarty!" Dieter screamed. "Nachtspeere, someone,
it’s—!"
Mors clamped a hand over Dieter’s mouth and sat him
down, nearly folding the man under him.
"This doesn’t have to hurt. I might even let you
go—I’m a sweetie like that. Just tell me what I want
to know."
Dieter tried to lunge at Mors, growling, "Blutsauger!"
"Yes, technically, I am a bloodsucker," Mors
agreed. "Although there’s rather more to it than that. Oh
well, if you won’t help…"
Dieter squealed and clutched at Mors.
"Wait, wait, no! I can tell you he’s nearly here, the
Dutch one. We think he’ll be searching the tunnels, perhaps
near the Stammstrecke route of the U-Bahn. Hegarty and
Malone are setting the trap even now. They’ll be expecting
me!"
That last was a lie, of course, but Mors thought the
rest of it well worth investigating. He very much wanted to
know who this "Dutch one" was. Mors patted Dieter on the
shoulder and stood, knowing full well the Nachtspeere was
going to lunge at his neck with a dagger.
"Oh, Dieter, really!" Mors sighed. "Not the quickest
study, are you?"
He forced Dieter’s hand to drop the dagger and then
reach for his pistol, putting a bullet into the prone Maria.
"Very ungentlemanly of you," Mors said, turning the
pistol back on Dieter’s own head and pulling the
trigger. "Some men simply can’t take rejection."
Wiping his hands on Dieter’s handkerchief, he cataloged
the information, his mind already ticking toward the next
port of call. A mysterious Dutch vampire, who he hoped was
not in fact so mysterious, possibly walking into a trap
tonight. A gift for the Führer, indeed.
He had to hurry without appearing to hurry. If a hunter
called Hegarty was nearby, caution must be used. Mors was
exceedingly fond of the element of surprise.
Mors tossed the handkerchief into a rubbish bin and made
his way toward the Stammstrecke line. His fingers were
tingling. The smell of impending death was already in the
air.