clutching at her faded bathrobe with arthritic fingers.
"Talk you to death before they shoot you."
Henry was inclined to agree - the commander definitely sounded like he'd been watching too many propaganda films. This did not lessen the danger. Regardless of what else Hitler had done in his "economic reforms," he'd at least managed to find jobs for every sadistic son-of-a-bitch in the country.
"You." The swagger stick indicated the old woman. "Come here."
Shaking off the restraining hands of friends and relatives and muttering under her breath, she stomped out of the crowd. The top of her head, with its sparse gray hair twisted tightly into an unforgiving bun, came barely up to the commander's collarbone.
"You," he told her, "have volunteered to be first." With rheumy eyes squinted almost shut in the glare of the searchlights, she raised her head and said something so rude, not to mention biologically impossible, that it drew a shocked, "Mother!" from an elderly man in the clutter of villagers. Just to be sure the commander got the idea, she repeated herself in German. The swagger stick rose to strike. Henry moved, recognizing as he did so that it was a stupid, impulsive thing to do but unable to stop himself.
He caught the commander's wrist at the apex of the swing, continued the movement and, exerting his full strength, ripped the arm from the socket. Dropping the body, he turned to charge the rest of the squad, swinging his grisly, bleeding trophy like a club, lips drawn back from his teeth so that the elongated canines gleamed.
The entire attack had taken just under seven seconds.
The Nazis were not the first to use terror as a weapon; Henry's kind had learned its value centuries before. It gave him time to reach the first of the guards before any of them remembered they held weapons.
By the time they gathered their wits enough to shoot, he had another body to use as a shield.
He heard shouting in Dutch, slippered feet running on packed earth, and then suddenly, thankfully, the searchlights went off.
For the first time since he entered the square, Henry could see perfectly. The Germans could see nothing at all. Completely unnerved, they broke and tried to run, only to find their way blocked by the snarling attack of the largest dog any of them had ever seen.
It was a slaughter after that.
Moments later, standing over his final kill, blood-scent singing along every nerve, Henry watched as the dog that had followed him all night approached stiff-legged, the damp stain on its muzzle more black than red in the darkness. It looked completely feral, like a wolf from the Brothers Grimm.
They were still some feet apart when the sound of boots on cobbles drew both their heads around. Henry moved, but the dog was faster. It dove forward, rolled, and came up clutching a submachine gun in two very human hands. As the storm troopers came into sight, he opened fire. No one survived.
Slinging the gun over one bare shoulder, he turned back to face Henry, scrubbing at the blood around his mouth with the back of one grimy hand. His hair, the exact russet brown of the wolf's pelt, fell in a matted tangle over his forehead and the eyes it partially hid were the eyes that had watched Henry emerge from the earth and later feed.
"I am Perkin Heerkens," he said, his English heavily accented. "If you are Henry Fitzroy, I am your contact."
After four hundred years, Henry had thought that nothing could ever surprise him again. He found himself having to rethink that conclusion.
"They didn't tell me you were a werewolf," he said in Dutch.
Perkin grinned, looking much younger but no less dangerous. "They didn't tell me you were a vampire," he pointed out. "I think that makes us even."
"That is not a perfectly normal way to meet someone," Vicki muttered, wishing just for an instant that she was back at home having a nice, normal, argument with Mike Celluci. "I mean, you're talking about a vampire in the Secret
"Talk you to death before they shoot you."
Henry was inclined to agree - the commander definitely sounded like he'd been watching too many propaganda films. This did not lessen the danger. Regardless of what else Hitler had done in his "economic reforms," he'd at least managed to find jobs for every sadistic son-of-a-bitch in the country.
"You." The swagger stick indicated the old woman. "Come here."
Shaking off the restraining hands of friends and relatives and muttering under her breath, she stomped out of the crowd. The top of her head, with its sparse gray hair twisted tightly into an unforgiving bun, came barely up to the commander's collarbone.
"You," he told her, "have volunteered to be first." With rheumy eyes squinted almost shut in the glare of the searchlights, she raised her head and said something so rude, not to mention biologically impossible, that it drew a shocked, "Mother!" from an elderly man in the clutter of villagers. Just to be sure the commander got the idea, she repeated herself in German. The swagger stick rose to strike. Henry moved, recognizing as he did so that it was a stupid, impulsive thing to do but unable to stop himself.
He caught the commander's wrist at the apex of the swing, continued the movement and, exerting his full strength, ripped the arm from the socket. Dropping the body, he turned to charge the rest of the squad, swinging his grisly, bleeding trophy like a club, lips drawn back from his teeth so that the elongated canines gleamed.
The entire attack had taken just under seven seconds.
The Nazis were not the first to use terror as a weapon; Henry's kind had learned its value centuries before. It gave him time to reach the first of the guards before any of them remembered they held weapons.
By the time they gathered their wits enough to shoot, he had another body to use as a shield.
He heard shouting in Dutch, slippered feet running on packed earth, and then suddenly, thankfully, the searchlights went off.
For the first time since he entered the square, Henry could see perfectly. The Germans could see nothing at all. Completely unnerved, they broke and tried to run, only to find their way blocked by the snarling attack of the largest dog any of them had ever seen.
It was a slaughter after that.
Moments later, standing over his final kill, blood-scent singing along every nerve, Henry watched as the dog that had followed him all night approached stiff-legged, the damp stain on its muzzle more black than red in the darkness. It looked completely feral, like a wolf from the Brothers Grimm.
They were still some feet apart when the sound of boots on cobbles drew both their heads around. Henry moved, but the dog was faster. It dove forward, rolled, and came up clutching a submachine gun in two very human hands. As the storm troopers came into sight, he opened fire. No one survived.
Slinging the gun over one bare shoulder, he turned back to face Henry, scrubbing at the blood around his mouth with the back of one grimy hand. His hair, the exact russet brown of the wolf's pelt, fell in a matted tangle over his forehead and the eyes it partially hid were the eyes that had watched Henry emerge from the earth and later feed.
"I am Perkin Heerkens," he said, his English heavily accented. "If you are Henry Fitzroy, I am your contact."
After four hundred years, Henry had thought that nothing could ever surprise him again. He found himself having to rethink that conclusion.
"They didn't tell me you were a werewolf," he said in Dutch.
Perkin grinned, looking much younger but no less dangerous. "They didn't tell me you were a vampire," he pointed out. "I think that makes us even."
"That is not a perfectly normal way to meet someone," Vicki muttered, wishing just for an instant that she was back at home having a nice, normal, argument with Mike Celluci. "I mean, you're talking about a vampire in the Secret
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