The Midnight Guardian Read Free Page A

much care. Besides, this steady marching gave the soldiers a feeling of importance. Their brethren were holding sway in Poland, had broken down France, and were now battering England. Soon, they, too, might have more impressive dominion than this sleek, sumptuous train. But until that time, they would assert themselves however they could, and so they patrolled.
    Irritants. Brigit shook her head, almost amused at this reduction. Her marvelous strength, so close to useless. The powerful demon she had to soothe and lull into slumber. She caught the scent of Maurer returning, his steps slowing, but not stopping, outside her compartment. So recently, so very recently, a man like this would already have been a memory. Now he was a man to be feared.
    A man. To be feared. Oh, Eamon, where am I?
    Quickly, silently, she put on her silk pajamas and tucked herself into the narrow bed. Who knew but that they might find some excuse to knock, even enter? At no point could she be seen as doing anything unusual. Her situation was already absurdly delicate. She was in no position to take chances.

Chapter 2
    Calais–Cologne train. November 1938.
    Otonia always insisted that there was no such thing as a sudden crisis. As ever, she was right. The vampires had seen this possibility coming over six years, but had hoped the circumstances wouldn’t get so dire. Still, it was a wrench. Barely two weeks ago, they were going about their nightly business, enjoying their lives. Now, this select group was on a train heading for Berlin via Cologne. No matter what Otonia said, it felt sudden.
    Easy for her to talk, anyway. She’s still in England.
    The five of them were certainly quiet enough. Except for Mors, who steadily hummed in a manner that Brigit was beginning to find grating. He was excited. Mors thrived on action. It was he who’d insisted they take some sort of action late in 1916, when things were starting to look particularly bad, and he maintained for years afterward that if they’d done more, and sooner, it would have made a difference. Brigit suspected he was right. Mors was an ancient warrior. He liked a fight, and having something to fight for.
    He winked at Brigit. She smiled quickly and looked away, feeling his eyes still on her. Mors was her best friend, except for Eamon, and her oldest. My first real friend. He was exasperating, but undeniably powerful, and she was glad of his company on this mission. Not that there was any question of his participation; indeed, he was their de facto leader, although a few in the tribunal had wondered at the wisdom of that, fearing
he might be recognized. He was one of the most legendary among them, more than two thousand years old, and with his shaved head and earrings (which, at least, he’d temporarily removed), he was distinctive. But strong. Very, very strong. He could move like lightning. His cunning and seductiveness were the very foundation of vampire lore. He was a master of controlled chaos. They could do this thing, because they had Mors.
    Not that the rest of them were slouches. Their little group was only five in number, but their combined strength could overcome an army.
    Except that’s not how we’re playing this game.
    Brigit shook the thought from her head as though it were a gnat. It wasn’t just their physical strength that was in play, it was the accumulation of their intelligence and skills. Received knowledge. That would win the day.
    It had to be millennials, of course it did. Brigit knew that, as did Eamon, as did they all. The mission needed that level of power. There was a new skin a vampire stepped into as he crossed the threshold into the thousandth year of undead life. An extra layer of immortality encased him like paraffin wax. All those hundreds of thousands of nights consolidated into a burnished shield under the skin, coating all the still organs and every idle vein, through to the bones. It would take a specially forged stake to kill a