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“I wanted to get hold of her. Know where she might be?”

  “She left a note saying she was spending the evening with Andrew.”

  “He doesn’t have a phone in that billet of his, does he?”

  She squashed the instinct to offer to ride down and carry the message. Especially as she realized Gryffyth stood nearby.

  “My dad?” he mouthed.

  Mary nodded. Covering the mouthpiece with her hand, she mouthed back, “Wants Gloria.”

  “Never mind,” Pendragon went on. “If you see her, would you give her a message? Tell her I called and Mrs. Burrows needs to talk to her.”

  “Not ill, is she?” Silly question—if she were sick, she had Alice right there in the house.

  “Oh, no. Nothing of that sort. Just needed her help. Please tell her.”

  “I’ll be sure to. Good evening.” As she hung up, Gryffyth cocked his head to one side. “Checking up on me, was he?”

  “No, looking for Gloria.”

  “That’s a mercy. I was afraid he’d had reports you’d lured me here and were keeping me prisoner.”

  She had to smile. “Yes, I’m such a rapacious female. These schoolteachers have to be watched.”

  “I intend to watch you, Mary LaPrioux. Watch you very closely. Will you come out to the flicks with me tomorrow night?”

  “Alright. What’s on?”

  “Who cares. I want to be with you.”

  She felt the same. It was insane, against all good judgment and reason, but just saying goodnight to him hurt. She did not want him to leave.

  He didn’t either, but they both knew if he didn’t go now, he’d be there until morning, and that would set village tongues wagging.

  She came to the gate with him and kissed him goodnight, after lending him a spare torch.

  The night was pitch dark, no moon and few stars. Just as well. She didn’t want anyone but her noticing the erection he walked home with.

  Chapter Eight

  Hans Weiss got off the bus a mile or so outside Brytewood and ran the rest of the way across disgustingly muddy fields. But a surreptitious entry was called for. He was not about to announce his arrival until the occasion arose. A prosperous village under his thrall held definite appeal. Unfortunately, with the invasion postponed until spring, that had to wait. There was, however, the bothersome and annoying fact that somewhere in the village, lurked an entity that was lethal to Vampires.

  Whoever, or whatever, it had to be eliminated first.

  Weiss paused as he reached the churchyard. Using what he’d learned from Eiche and Bloch’s reports and the mostly accurate maps he’d studied back in the German headquarters in Adlerroost, he took his bearings. Vampire sight being a distinct advantage in the blackout the puny mortals affected.

  To the west, beyond the curve in the lane and the flint walls, lay the commercial heart of the village, and Bloch’s ill-fated bakery establishment. Across the lane, twenty meters or so from the ruins of a bombed-out building, sat the one-time residence of Miss Jane Waite, nee Claudia Heitz, from the city of Aachen and loyal spy of the Third Reich. She’d died unexpectedly, shortly after her arrest. Whatever their masters might insist, there was no way in creation that Weiss would have risked her revealing his presence to her interrogators.

  A pity about that. She would have been a handy contact in the village and a useful source of sustenance. But humans were in good supply.

  He set off toward the village at an almost mortal pace. Listening, watching, alert to the sounds behind blacked-out windows. He paused a few meters from the pub. Stupid names these Inselaffen gave their hostelries: The Pig and Whistle indeed. There was even a painted replica of a pig standing on hind legs and playing a tin whistle on the board swinging from the eaves. For the benefit of illiterate peasants perhaps.

  Keeping to the shadows, Weiss made his way into the village center—a green with a duckpond—and a little further on, several cottages and shops clustered around a crossroads, a post office, a grocer and butcher, and the newsagent that appeared to sell vegetables and knitting wool as well. Intriguing combination, not that he was really interested.

  Across the road and a few meters further on, was Bloch’s shuttered and abandoned bakery. Finding out what had happened to his fellow spy and brother Vampire was a matter of supreme interest. He could, of course, venture into the pub and ask around, but he’d always found women easier to tap for information. How best to approach? As a worried cousin or relative of the sadly departed Bloch? A casual friend who’d heard he was living in Brytewood? The more tenuous the connection the safer.

  Who knew what malignant force lurked between the hedgerows?

  A noise caught his attention. A lone mortal stepped into the road from a side lane and walked on ahead of Weiss. Some peasant trundling on home to his hovel no doubt. How opportune. Might be worth a little entertainment and it had been a good two days since he’d enjoyed warm blood.

  Weiss followed the mortal until he turned off the main street and headed up a lane bordered by hedges on both sides. Nicely private from any wandering villagers. The creature limped, favoring his right leg. Some sort of cripple, no doubt, but his blood was as good as anyone’s.

  Weiss closed the distance between them. When he was two or three meters away, the human turned and had the effrontery to glare and mutter, “What the hell?”

  Hell, indeed. Weiss stepped forward, his hands gripping the mortal’s shoulders.

  The man dared to struggle. For that he’d break his neck. Later. Living blood tasted richer. Living blood from a terrified human was the finest. Weiss flared his eyes and drew back his lips to reveal descended fangs, a sight destined to make strong men quail and wet themselves.

  The mortal wrenched himself from Weiss’s grip. An impossibility. Weiss grabbed him again; there was a clatter as the mortal’s stick fell to the ground. Now, he had him! With a roar that stunned Weiss momentarily, the creature reared back, breaking Weiss’s hold a second time. With a sound like rending cloth, claws raked across Weiss’s face.

  Claws! What creature was this?

  Fast as only a Vampire could move, Weiss attacked, fangs at the ready, leaping forward into a burst of flame.

  His scream echoed in his ears as pain tore through him.

  This had to be the destroyer! Whatever infernal creature it was, he’d discover later—for now, with a screech of agony, Weiss fled, knowing he had to find shelter, and fast.

  He buried himself in the first patch of turned ground he found. As the healing earth and dark soothed his pain, he swore vengeance.

  Once he had enough strength to restore himself and identify his attacker.

  Once the adrenaline rush from the part change faded, Gryffyth Pendragon found himself sitting in a heap in the lane. Fumbling around, he touched broken glass. So much for a torch to help him get home. And where the hell was his stick? To say nothing of what in hades had attacked him? What now? Could he stand without his stick? He couldn’t walk without it. Unless he had Mary to support him. Thinking of her brought a smile to his lips, but didn’t help his current predicament. And on top of it, the sleeves of his shirt and new jacket were in tatters.

  Shit! Should he hope someone would come by on their way back from the Pig? It was hours until closing time.

  The narrow beam of a shaded bicycle lamp appeared in the distance.

  Help, thank the heavens, but how to explain his condition? Convince them he was drunk this early?

  “Hello,” he called.

  “Son?”

  Crikey, if wasn’t his father! “Dad?”

  The bicycle stopped just a couple of feet away as his father leaped off, letting it fall, and crouched over him. “What the flaming hell happened to you, son? You tripped? You shouldn’t be walking home in the dark.”

  “Dad! There’s a thing loose in the village.” He’d probably think he’d been drinking, but…“It grabbed me and had fangs.”

  “Not another one? Damn! Let me help you up.” He grabbed
him by the armpits and steadied him to his feet.

  “What do you mean not another one?”

  “Let’s get you home first. Remember I said I had things to talk about?” Gryffyth had imagined it meant a catch-up on village gossip. “Well, unless I’m mistaken, you just encountered one of those things. Where’s your stick?”

  “I dropped it.” What was the old man talking about?

  “Hang on a tick. Here, hold on to the handlebars.” His father stooped and retrieved his fallen bicycle. “That’ll steady you. Now, let’s see if I can find your stick.” He pulled a torch from his coat pocket and shone the beam over the ground. First thing he found was the broken torch. “This yours, son?” he asked, bending down to pick it up.

  “No, Mary lent it to me.”

  “Mary Chivers?”

  “Lord, no, Dad. Mary LaPrioux. The girl I danced with on Saturday night.”

  “Oh.” Amazing how much meaning and speculation the old man could pack into one syllable. “She lent it to you.”

  “Yes, Dad, she did!” And right now he was not in the mood to share the circumstances. “I’ll buy her another to replace it.”

  “You might have a hard time finding one, son, but never mind that right now.” He’d happily change the subject too. “Hang on, let’s see if I can find your stick.”

  Less than a minute later, Gryffyth had his stick secure in his hand. “Right, son, let’s get back home and get you cleaned up.”

  In the light of the kitchen, Gryff looked a proper fright: his hair on end, and his jacket and shirt ripped to the elbow.

  “Haven’t I always told you to roll up your sleeves before you shift your hands?”

  “There wasn’t time. And what the hell was it that came after me? You know, don’t you?”

  “Yes, son. I do. I should have told you before, but I wanted you to get settled, and honestly never thought it would happen like this.”

  “Like what, Dad? And what the bloody hell was it?”

  “Don’t you start swearing at me, son. You get a move on and clean yourself up and put on a new shirt. I need to call Helen Burrows and tell her I’ll be a bit late, and you’re coming up there with me now you’re home.”

  “Up where, Dad?” He was in no mood for a social call.

  “Up to the Council of War.” He avoided more questions by going out of the kitchen and picking up the phone.

  Gryffyth took off his jacket and shirt and went over to the kitchen sink to wash up.

  Dad reappeared minutes later carrying a clean shirt and a knitted pullover. “Here you are, son. Put them on. At least you’ll look presentable. We’ll see what we can do about mending your jacket in the morning. For now, let me tell you a few things.”

  “Alright, Dad, but first—what do you mean by Council of War?”

  “Just that, son. We’ve been under attack. And I don’t just mean the Blitz or the invasion.” He shook his head. “I should have told you the whole business, but things have been quiet since the last one, and I wanted you to relax a bit. My mistake.”

  “What last one?”

  “There’s been two of them, maybe three.”

  “Three what?”

  “Vampires, son. Vampires.”

  “Spare me, Dad. Vampires don’t exist.” Stress of the war had addled his father’s wits. “They’re a figment of Bram Stoker’s imagination and a scary thrill for filmmakers.”

  “Now look here, Gryffyth. They do exist. You just faced one. You can’t deny it. Wish you hadn’t had to meet it unprepared, but that’s done now. And before you start on about Vampires being fiction, remember there’s a lot of people would say Dragons don’t exist.”

  “But we’re real, Dad.”

  “So’s what you met in the lane a little while back. What did you see? Feel?”

  What had he? Gryffyth shuddered, thinking back. “I felt menace, violence, and I saw a twisted face in the dark and…fangs.”

  “We’ve got another one to deal with. Make no mistake about it.”

  This barely made sense. “Dad.”

  He held up his hand. “Hold on, Gryff. Wait until we all get together and we’ll fill you in. Alice is on her way to pick you up. I told them I was bringing you, as you have news. Bad news.”

  Minutes later, there was a knock on the kitchen door, and Andrew Barron, the director of the new hush-hush munitions plant, stuck his head around the door. “Evening, everyone. Alice is outside. She stopped and picked Gloria and me up first. Everything alright?”

  Apart from wondering what the blazes was really going on. “Smashing.”

  “We’re ready,” Howell Pendragon said, reaching for his coat.

  Gryffyth put his back on, glad the army had had the foresight to go for stout construction that held up even under a Dragon’s change, and grabbing his stick, went out and down the path. Alice was driving and Gloria Prewitt, the district nurse, was sitting in the back. They all piled in and Alice headed up the hill.

  “Feeling totally lost and at sea?” she asked.

  “Without map or compass,” Gryffyth replied.

  “I understand,” Andrew said, from the back seat. “It’s rather complicated.”

  That, Gryffyth was more than ready to believe, but why they seemed to be making a party out of all this was a bit beyond him.

  He hoped he was going to find out.

  Seated around the kitchen table in The Gallop, Alice’s home, where she lived with her grandmother and new husband, Gryffyth felt even more at sea. Mrs. Burrows, Alice’s gran, bustled around pouring cups of tea and offering apple tarts and Marmite sandwiches as if they were here to plan a village fete. But instead, unless his dad had completely lost his marbles, they were holding a Council of War about Vampires.

  He needed something stronger than a mug of tea.

  “Well, then,” Mrs. Burrows said, as she sat down. “We’re later starting than we planned but it’s wonderful to know we have Gryffyth with us.”

  Gryffyth let the nods, smiles and “Hello, Gryffyth” greetings subside. “I can hardly be with you if I’ve no idea what’s going on.”

  “Howell,” Mrs. Burrows said, with a look of surprise. “I thought you’d explained.”

  “I told him we were dealing with Vampires, that’s all. And he met one in the lane awhile back. That’s what delayed me.”

  Dad’s announcement certainly livened up the meeting. Gryffyth watched shock, horror, and amazement flicker over the faces around the table.

  “Damn,” Peter Watson muttered. “Sorry, Gran,” he added, to Mrs. Burrows. “Just slipped out, but is there no end to them?”

  “Seemingly not,” Gloria replied. “But don’t you think we should fill Gryffyth in with what’s happened? Must add,” she said, with a smile in his direction, “it’s marvelous to have another Dragon on our side.”

  At that, Gryffyth almost doused himself with tea. Dad had revealed what he was to them! After having sworn him to secrecy. What the heck was going on here? And why were they all so matter-of-fact about Vampires and Dragons?

  “Just a minute,” Dad said, guessing no doubt the questions his confused son was about to throw at him. “Let me start. Son, we’ve been under attack from a series of Vampires. They appear to come singly, which is a mercy. First one, we didn’t recognize at the time—but we have a few suspicions now—he disappeared on his own. Second came and lived in the village. Caused a bit of bother, but once we worked out what we were dealing with, Alice and Peter took care of him.” He’d like to know how the hell they did that but didn’t interrupt. “The third one, Nurse Prewitt here did in for us, with a bit of help from Andrew. And this one, seems he just announced his arrival to you. So see what I mean about a Council of War?”

  Maybe. “Alright, Dad, but assuming these are Vampires—and I’ll admit I encountered something not quite right and it had fangs—but how, please, with all due respect, did Alice and Gloria kill them? Aren’t Vampires supposed to be immortal?” And nonexistent, but that he’d keep
to himself.

  “I think, Gryffyth, we need to explain a few things,” Mrs. Burrows said. “You look confused.”

  “Understandably,” Andrew Barron said. He shot Gryffyth a look of solidarity and sympathy. “I was for a long time. I think first, you should all tell him what you are.”

  “Good idea.” That came from Gloria. “We know you’re a Dragon, like your father, but you don’t know what we are.”

  Other than confusing him totally, no, he didn’t.

  “Very well, then,” Andrew said, looking at Alice. “Why don’t you start, my dear?”

  Chapter Nine

  It was well and truly dark when Paul Schmidt walked up the curving drive of Wharton Lacey and approached the tradesman’s entrance. He was not feeling well-disposed to the world around him. The “lift” that Weiss had arranged for him was in a farm lorry smelling of pigs. The old codger driving it, a shriveled specimen of humanity scarcely worth biting, refused point-blank to take Schmidt up the winding drive. “I was told to drop you here,” he insisted as he pulled up at the gates. “That’s what I was paid for. I’m not going up to the house.”

  Schmidt shoved aside the temptation to rip out the man’s throat for his impertinence. Unfortunately that might draw too much attention to his arrival, and anonymity was a necessary precaution. He cursed the old fool and set off walking.

  And walking. The first sight of the house, as he reached a bend in the drive, was favorable. He might just arrange to keep it as his headquarters when the time came. He ran on in the dark, heading for the back door as he’d been directed.

  If he hadn’t been a Vampire, he’d never have found it. The night was pitch dark and the drive bordered with shrubs, but he found his way around the house, pausing by a window to overhear a boring conversation about the quality of wartime cheese. Foolish mortals, death was about to rain on them and they worried about cheese!

  He made his way around the side of the house and knocked on the kitchen door.

  It opened a crack and a man’s voice asked, “Who is it?”

  “Paul Smith,” Schmidt replied. “I’m the replacement gardener. Miss Aubin is expecting me.”