The Midnight Guardian Read Free

true, suddenly dear, British accent was a tiny comfort. It was just about the only thing around her that was still familiar. And it made her feel less alone. She almost marveled at the speed with which her world had been upended and shattered. Two days. An absurd little speck. Or two days, nine months, and one year, to be more exact. Either way, the enormity of the upheaval was easier to bear when tempered with fear.
    No, not shattered, that’s not fair.
    Her real world, her whole world, was waiting for her, and she could feel him.

    Eamon .
    The cherished name echoed in her brain, and she didn’t dare even whisper it. She had to retain her control.
    Her eyes studiously avoided the upper bunk, where the precious, volatile cargo she was toting was stored. She checked the door again to make sure it was locked. Not that it was any sort of real fortification, but even illusions were welcome now.
    Brigit sat by the window and slipped off her shoes. Rubbing her feet, she cracked the blind just enough to peep outside. She concentrated on emptying her mind and enjoying the dark countryside. Her well-trained eyes could discern beauty in all that blackness.
    Funny, how much light there can be in darkness, if you know where, and how, to look.
    Funny, too, how surprised she was at her own surprise. If there was one thing she knew, it was how quickly one community of men could destroy another. It was one of the easiest acts a human could commit. She and all her kind often thrived on that destruction. Besides, she’d done her own personal share of havoc-wreaking, there was no denying it.
    It wasn’t even the first time she’d had her own little rug yanked out from under her, but this was very different.
    It’s not just me, now.
    Nor was it over. At no time in her long life had she ever been in such protracted potential danger, a situation in which so much of her strength and abilities would have to be channeled in a manner unsatisfying, to say the least. And if ineffective, well …
    I can’t fail. I will imitate the action of the tiger, stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood. There is no other option.
    She repeated it out loud, attempting to assure herself. She would throw herself into it, and hope for the best.
    Berlin to Basel, at the Swiss border; through Switzerland and across Vichy France to Bilbao; a boat to Ireland; a boat to Wales; a train home. She laid out the steps of the journey in her mind like dominoes. It was easier to apply cold logic to the proceedings than to dwell on details like the length of the journey, the long hours of daylight that comprised a European summer, the delays that must characterize wartime travel, however determined these new rulers were to keep things
normal and briskly efficient, and the presence of armed guards throughout the train.
    If only she could tell if he knew. What would give her away? She seemed to breathe, to blush, her hair shone and her eyes sparkled. And he wasn’t a hunter; he wasn’t trained in the finer arts of detection. He wouldn’t discern the skin, the touch, the whisper.
    And you have to be one of us to read the history in our eyes.
    History. Confounding, exasperating history. Lessons learned over and over, and never learned at all.
    Still. It’s not over yet. None of it.
    From two cars away, she could hear the rhythmic click-click of the striding boots. She fought down the hot surge of impatience, the rising bile at the Nazi gall. How dare they patrol up and down the corridors all night long, as though the train were a prison? She supposed they fancied they were providing comfort and security for the slightly uneasy passengers. Who, at this stage in the journey, were almost all Germans, bathed in the warm certainty of their nation’s power and absolute justification for the violence and despair they were wreaking on their weak, insolent neighbors. Still, however untouched they yet were by the war, one could not exercise too