Bloody Right

by Georgia Evans

Genres: Historical Fantasy; 20th Century Romance

Synopsis

It will take all of Brytewood's Others to save their village from destruction in the climax of a Georgia Evans' supernatural trilogy. . .

Gryffyth Pendragon has done his bit for the war effort when he comes back to sleepy Brytewood from the battlefront at Trondheim. It cost him a leg, and his chance to use his dragon's strength against the Nazis--or so he thinks. Until he finds out that his little village is facing a plague of vampire spies set on delivering it to the Third Reich. They've come up with a plan that, if they can pull it off, might break all of Britain's will to fight. . .

But there are more allies for Gryffyth in Brytewood than he'd ever imagined, and while a doctor, a nurse, a schoolteacher, and a couple of sexagenarians doesn't sound like much of a battle force to him, there's more to his cohorts than meets the eye. Against ancient and impossibly powerful agents of evil, they will need every man, woman, and dragon-shifter they can get. . .

Release date: August 4, 2009

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

Guildford, November 1940

“Something the matter?” Paul Schmidt asked Weiss, looking across his unheated sitting room.

Something the matter? Hans Weiss wanted to spit. He’d say there was. Their masters in Germany were baying for results and blood—he gave a twisted smile at that last thought—and here he was, facing the hardest assignment they’d been given, with the last and feeblest member of their cohort as his only help.

The nagging knowledge that someone or something in the area had the power to annihilate Vampires didn’t add anything but another layer of anxiety to his prospects.

The world was wrong. He’d been the next thing to invincible for five centuries and now he was reduced to serving his petty masters in Adlerroost and watching his fellow Vampires disappear among the accursed peasants. “We need to take action,” he said.

“I wouldn’t argue with that,” Schmidt replied, “but what? Do we have orders?”

“We do.”

Schmidt raised a blond eyebrow. “And?”

“Our masters are changing their plans and our mission.” Weiss paused, as if considering the impermanence of mortals. “With the onset of winter, the invasion is postponed until the spring.”

Schmidt nodded. He’d worked that much out for himself. “So what do they ask of us now? To keep on sowing discontent and unease?”

“That’s a given but, naturally, there is more. The High Command have decided the best way to disable this wretched and stubborn country is to remove the leader.”

“Kill the king? That’s regicide!”

Weiss permitted himself a little smile. “Indeed it is, but the King here counts for nothing. He is a figurehead, a tool for propaganda. They mean the leader: the one who has convinced these Inselaffen, these puny island monkeys, that they are of the fabric of heroes, that their pathetic armed forces will prevail against the might of the entire German war machine, and getting bombed out of their homes is nothing more than a mere inconvenience.”

“Gott!” Schmidt leaned forward, his eyes wide. “You mean Churchill?”

“Yes,” Weiss replied with a nod. “We are to kill Churchill.” And sat back in the lumpy armchair to enjoy Schmidt’s surprise.

He was not disappointed.

Consternation, incredulity, utter amazement, and finally stunned disbelief played across the younger Vampire’s face. “They are insane!” he said at last, shaking his head.

Weiss inclined his head. “Think it would be wise to share that with our masters? Would the Führer welcome your candid opinion? There are how many of your blood kindred in their hands?”

Frustration blocked out Schmidt’s other emotions. “It is close to impossible, even for us,” he replied, shaking his head again. “He’ll be protected, surrounded by police—or the army—at all times.”

“I note you said ‘close to impossible,’ not impossible,” Weiss replied. “Nothing is truly impossible.” Not even learning who or what in that village could destroy a Vampire. “It will not be easy, but it is possible. Attacking in London would be reckless and suicidal. Instead, we will strike when he is less defended.”

“And that will be when?”

Weiss paused. Pathetic really, almost mortal to go for effect, but since he could…“Soon. He frequently spends weekends in the country, at Wharton Lacey with his loyal friends, Sir James and Lady Gregory.”

Schmidt’s jaw dropped in a highly gratifying manner. “The old fool who commands the local Home Guard?”

“The same, although ‘old fool’ might be less than accurate. But fool or not, he is trusted. He and Churchill were at school together. The prime minister takes his secretary and a couple of policemen for protection. Sometimes cabinet ministers and representatives of friendly nations join him.”

“And you know this how?”

Skepticism was to be expected. This had not been part of the master plan. “One of the parlormaids at Number Ten is our agent, plus I have suborned the family cook at Wharton Lacey. She’s told when and what to cook, as seems the prime minister is a hearty trencherman.”

“Brilliant, but how did you manage it? Surely she didn’t volunteer.”

The creature had his moments of wit. “Hardly! Propitiously, she is a native of Jersey and has relatives who did not flee before the invasion. She will provide the information I ask, to protect her family left behind.”

“You don’t have the power to protect them!”

“She believes I do.”

Schmidt had to smile. There was a reason, other than his age, that the mortals at Adlerroost chose Weiss as their leader. He was devious, focused, and implacable. Not that Schmidt felt sorry for the duped cook, or the damned Inselaffen. But he made a mental note to never earn Weiss’s enmity. “Excellent!” He meant it too. Eliminating Churchill would definitely leave the country in chaos and was the perfect opening for the Vampires to take the upper hand. “You will kill him?”

“Quite possibly.”

“Only possibly?” What did Weiss have in mind?

“Eliminating him would send the country into confusion, which would be admirable, but if we could control him it would be even better.”

Better but far riskier. But Schmidt would keep that to himself. “Do we have instructions?”

Weiss raised an eyebrow. “We followed instructions before and look what happened to Eiche and Bloch.”

In point of fact they did not know what had happened. “You are convinced they are dead?” If such a word was precise enough to describe the extinction of an immortal creature.

“It appears they are no more,” Weiss replied, “and that, in itself, is worrying. I intend to find out what happened to them while you ready the way for Mr. Churchill.”

He might have guessed this was coming. “And I do what?”

Weiss smiled, always a bad sign. “The undergardener at Wharton Lacey had a most unfortunate accident early this morning: multiple fractures to his left leg. Tripped, careless man. He will be incapacitated for weeks, and you, my dear Schmidt, will fill the position.”

Just like that? “How do we manage that? I’m an ambulance driver.”

“Not any longer. You are now the good cook’s cousin, who had his lungs severely damaged through childhood pleurisy and therefore cannot serve in His Majesty’s Armed Forces.”

Marvelous. Working as a laborer by day and a rescue worker by night. The things he did for the fatherland. “Wharton Lacey is a good distance away. How am I supposed to get back and forth, and where do I live?” He did not want to sound desperate, but a Vampire needed shelter and if he was expected to work out of doors…

“Your dear aunt, the cook, will arrange for that.”

Indeed. “And have you considered the daylight factor?” Most likely not.

“Of course, my dear Schmidt. Firstly, I do consider your age. The Crusades, wasn’t it, when you were turned? You can endure a little sunlight. If you’re not impaled on a tree.” Nasty that, but he’d let it pass. “In any case, sunshine is so unusual at this time of year and the days so short, I think you need not worry. You are in chronic poor health. The mortals will expect you to be weak.”

There was something wrong with this entire scenario. Several somethings in fact. “How close is this Wharton Lacey to Brytewood?”

Another smile. A good reason to be cautious. “Four miles, my dear Schmidt. Four of their English miles. Distant enough for you?”

It was going to have to be. The last thing he needed was encountering that good Samaritan doctor. “I hope so. Doubt I’ll have any reason to go into the village anyway.”

“Better you do not,” Weiss replied, “unless summoned. I will be there, from time to time, investigating this Vampire killer.”

A shiver snaked down Schmidt’s back. Not many things gave a Vampire anxiety, but those with power to destroy could. “Anything else?” Might as well hear the lot while he was here.

“Not altogether.” Which meant there was. “Except…that Fairy creature who works for our masters?” So Weiss had noticed too, had he? “Has been conspicuously absent, hasn’t she?”

And he hadn’t missed her poking in his mind one little bit. “Yes. I wonder why?”

“Most likely they killed her.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Beats me. I can’t read mortal minds. Perhaps she refused to cooperate. Maybe her powers waned over time. How should I know?” Or care. “If she’s not prying into our minds, the less the mortals in Adlerroost know about us.”

“Damn good thing too, if you ask me.” Not that Weiss had or was likely to.

Weiss stood. A clear signal the summons was at an end. “You have ambulance duty tonight, I believe. I suggest you miss it and use your time to study your new cover.” He nodded at a thick envelope on the table. “Should be simple enough.”

Paul Schmidt stood and picked up the envelope. Weiss wasn’t telling him everything, that was a given.

He wished Weiss luck in that village that had already consumed two Vampires, Eiche and Bloch. Still, with Weiss occupied, he’d have the field clear for his own ambitions.

Brytewood

“Here you are, Nurse, with Lady Gregory’s compliments,” Edith Aubin, the cook from Wharton Lacey, said as she handed Gloria a large hamper.

“This is so incredibly generous,” Gloria Prewitt replied, as she lifted the lid and saw two roasted chickens, a good-sized ham and an almost complete Cheddar cheese. No wonder Miss Aubin had needed the driver’s help to carry it into the village hall from the car.

Miss Aubin nodded in agreement. “Not too much for a returning hero,” she replied. “Lady Gregory said to let me know if you’re short on bread or tea.”

“We should be alright, Mr. Whorleigh has donated tea.” From under the counter, Gloria suspected, but she wasn’t going to quibble over that. “Bread, someone is fetching from Leatherhead.”

“Of course,” Miss Aubin nodded. “Your baker disappeared, didn’t he?”

He’d disintegrated at Gloria’s hand, or rather under her teeth, when she’d been in fox shape, with a little help from Andrew Barron, her intended. Not that she was ever mentioning that to anyone who didn’t know already. “We certainly miss having fresh bread.” But disposing of a Vampire of nefarious intent made the whole of England safer.

“Would you believe it, he did a moonlight flit?” Mrs. Chivers, mainstay of the Women’s Institute and Mrs. Burrows’s knitting circle, added her ha’pennorth. “Shocking, just walked out and left. Obviously forgot there’s a war on.”

No, he certainly hadn’t. He’d been a very real part of the war but that, too, Gloria kept to herself. She was keeping a lot to herself these days.

But despite the war, the heavy black curtains that covered the windows and doors, and the scrimping and saving to put together the wartime equivalent of a groaning board, Brytewood was ready for a party.

No doubt the women in ancient Greece or Babylon put on feasts to welcome home returning warriors. And here they were, following the ways of countless women who waited and wept and wondered if their sons and brothers and lovers would return from the wars.

She was getting positively maudlin. Her lover, fiancé and light of her heart, was brushing aside the blackout curtain that covered the door.

“Andrew!” She restrained the urge to rush across the hall and wrap her arms around him. Didn’t need to really, just meeting his eyes and knowing that smile was hers was enough.

“Hello, Gloria.” And that was a smile and a half. “Brought you something.” He placed a battered cardboard box on the table.

She lifted the top and peered inside. “Corned beef?”

He grinned and a sexy grin it was. “Best I could manage.”

“Purloining government stocks?” Mary LaPrioux, the evacuated schoolteacher, asked.

“What a suggestion!” Andrew managed to look shocked whilst grinning. “It fell off the back of a lorry.”

“Never mind where it came from,” Gloria said. “We can use it to make shepherd’s pies. Someone brought in a couple of sacks of potatoes, or we could try that rissole recipe from Lord Woolaton.”

“Stick to shepherd’s pie. You know what’s in that,” Andrew said. “Or better still, what’s wrong with bully beef sandwiches?”

A lot easier too. “Pity we can’t make chips with the potatoes.”

“Have Mrs. Burrows organize a dripping drive around the village. Bet you’d have enough to fry several hundredweight of potatoes.”

Behind Gloria, Mary laughed. Andrew was right. Mrs. Burrows was a force of nature—of course few people knew the doctor’s grandmother was a Devon Pixie. It rather gave her the edge over mere mortals.

“How about…” Andrew went on, but broke off at the crash of a breaking window.

Miss Willows, one of the schoolteachers, looked up from counting out cups and saucers at another table. Her eyes met Mary’s.

“Bet it’s one of mine,” Mary muttered, and ran out of the door.

The cold, damp, night air hit her immediately, but she wasn’t going back for her coat. She ran forward, looking around as her eyes adjusted to the dark. She caught sight of two boys running, and set off after them, knowing she hadn’t a hope of catching them unless one or both of them tripped. Until a tall man stepped out of the shadows and grabbed them both, hauling them, squalling and wriggling, back to the village hall.

He set them both on their feet a few yards from Mary. “Here you are, Miss LaPrioux. What do you want done with them? Should I boil them in oil? Send them to the coal mines? Or would the galleys do better?”

She had never appreciated Tom Longhurst’s wit, and most likely never would. “Thank you for nabbing them, Mr. Longhurst,” she said, eyeing the pair of them and noting, with a wave of relief, that they were village boys. She shouldn’t be pleased, but she was. Seemed her Guernsey evacuees and the few remaining London ones got blamed for almost everything. “What are your names?”

They hesitated, looking at each other, obviously debating silently the wisdom of answering. “Well?” she asked, tapping her foot. “You do have names, don’t you?”

“Jim Polson.”

“Mike Polson.”

Brothers, or maybe cousins of some sort. “So Messrs Polson. Who broke the window?”

“Didn’t mean to, miss,” said Mike, the taller of the two. “I was aiming at the drainpipe.”

“And you had a good reason to throw stones at the drainpipe?” The scuffed toes of their shoes became of paramount interest to the boys. “Trying to get a stone to rattle all the way down, were you?” Mary suggested.

Two pairs of eyes snapped open. She’d almost swear she heard them gulp with surprise. Did they never realize that teachers had once been nine years old too? The trick of getting a small stone over the top and into the drainpipe so it rattled all the way down wasn’t exactly their personal invention. “Besides, shouldn’t you be home after dark?”

“Mum’s in the hall, helping,” Jim said. “She told us to play quietly.”

So they weren’t even June Willows’s responsibility. “Then I suggest you go right into the village hall and explain to your mother what happened.”

They didn’t exactly rush to follow that direction.

“Better get a broom and clean up the broken glass too,” Tom Longhurst added.

Good point. Mary watched the two boys drag themselves toward maternal retribution. It was getting downright chilly. She wrapped her arms around her chest as she followed the boys back inside.

“Take my coat,” Tom Longhurst said, unbuttoning his tweed jacket.

“No, don’t bother. Thank you, but I’ll be inside in a jiffy.” She darted forward and grabbed the door. “Were you heading here?” She hoped not. On his way to the Pig and Whistle most likely.

“Yes, I was. Mother wanted me to check numbers. She’s baking apple pies.”

As if Mrs. Longhurst couldn’t guess how many pies might be needed. Honestly! Flimsy excuse wasn’t the word. “How kind of her. She’s a wonderful baker.” He’d nipped ahead of her and had the door open and was lifting the blackout curtain. Would be downright rude and silly to not go in. “Better tell Gloria or Mrs. Chivers,” she said quickly. “They’re organizing this shindig. I’ll keep an eye on those boys.”

She darted across the hall, full steam ahead as the irate teacher, to find that Mrs. Polson had done the job for her. The two boys were fairly quivering under the scolding. “And now you’ll clean up the mess and cover the broken pane and on top of that, pay for the new glass out of your pocket money.”

Mary almost began to feel sorry for the pair of them, heads hung and shoulders slumped under the weight of guilt. “Clean up and find a piece of cardboard to cover the hole and I expect Mr. Simmons could fix it,” she said. The school caretaker was pretty adept at replacing panes broken by cricket balls, and other flying missiles.

“He’s expert. Mended a couple my brother and I broke over the years.”

Darn, it was Tom Longhurst. Right at her shoulder.

“You think he would, sir?” Jim Polson asked, eyes aglow with relief.

“Best ask him in the morning and cover the pane for now. There’s a gale blowing through.”

Mary tamped down her irritation. She and Mrs. Polson made the same request and the boys stood there. Tom Longhurst tells them and they hop to it. Alright, she was being unfair. There were precious few men left in the village and Tom was a favorite of most of the boys. And a good many of the women as well. She darn well wished they’d get his attention instead of her.

“One good thing,” Tom went on, giving her his most appealing smile. “They proved that the paper strips on the glass really do hold the pane glass together.”

“Yes,” she replied. It certainly did. When Jim lifted the curtain the shattered fragments hung on the strips of tape that crisscrossed the window pane.

“Put that curtain back down!” a voice called across the hall. “Or we’ll have the air raid wardens down on us.”

“No point in inviting Jerry to the party,” someone else added.

Nothing more she could do here. Might as well head back to the table where Gloria and Mrs. Chivers sorted food donations.

Only Tom tagged along. “You know Peter Wills is playing the piano for tomorrow night.”

Of course she knew. She and Gloria had been in on the planning for Gryffyth Pendragon’s return since the very beginning. “Should be fun.” Although she rather questioned the tactlessness of dancing at a party for a returning amputee. But it seemed no one else had any qualms.

“So,” Tom went on, with another too charming smile, “will you promise me a dance?”

Damn! She was not a swearing woman, but really. She’d gone to the pictures with him once (grave error of judgment that had been) and now he laid claim to her. “I’ll give you one dance, Tom.”

“Just one? I’m being rationed?”

Heaven help her! She’d turned him down twice already. Maybe she was too tactful. “Tom, I’d better let the other women have a look in. Can’t monopolize you, can I?”

He actually paused to ponder that, which gave her a moment to get back to the table by the door. Once she was behind that…

“Wouldn’t mind,” he said, grabbing her hand.

She would. “One dance, Tom,” she repeated, taking her hand from his and feeling the eyes of half the assembled company on her. “Why don’t you check with Mrs. Chivers and see how many pies we need?”

“Excuse me,” a voice, to her left, said. “Sorry to interrupt.”

Thrilled to be interrupted, Mary smiled at the speaker, the cook from Wharton Lacey. “Yes?”

“Just wanted a quick word. If you don’t mind.”

“By all means. Miss Aubin, isn’t it?” Mary stepped to the side and Tom moved away. To ask someone else for a dance, no doubt. “Can I help you?”

“Just wanted to introduce myself properly. You’re the Guernsey girl, am I right?”

“Yes, I’m Mary LaPrioux. Evacuated here with my class.”

The woman held out her hand. “Edith Aubin. From St. Clement’s Parish on Jersey.”

Mary clasped her hand. “I’m from St. Martins. It’s good to meet someone else from the Islands.” Even if she was from Jersey.

“Just wanted to say hello.”

“I’m glad you did. Home seems a long way away these days. Have you been here long?”

“Fifteen years. Used to be I went home every holiday, but now…”

Who knew when they’d be home? If ever. “I alternate between homesickness, being glad I’m safe, and worrying about everyone left behind.”

“You get news?”

“Yes,” Mary replied. “But how much can they say on those Red Cross forms? We set up a code before I was evacuated, so we could let each other know if anything dire happened.”

“I’ve an old mother, I worry about her,” Edith Aubin said. “Didn’t have much schooling so she never did write much. I’ve a married brother and sister but seldom hear from them.”

Worrying. Had to be. “I think there’s a limit how many of those letters they can send.”

“I know,” Miss Aubin replied. “I tell myself he uses them to write to his wife. She and the children went back to her family in Devon. But I can’t help but worry.”

She looked more than worried. She looked downright haggard. “Do you know where in Devon? The doctor’s family are from that way and so’s her new husband. Perhaps if you ask them.”

“Miss LaPrioux!” a voice called across the hall.

“Sorry, I’d better go,” Mary said. “I’ll talk to Alice.”

“Come up and have tea one day. I’d enjoy talking to someone from home, or at least close to home.”

“Thank you, I will. I’ll stop next time I’m over your way.”

“Please do.” With a nod, the older woman buttoned up her coat and left.

Mary went over to see what Mrs. Chivers wanted.

 

“I think you’re breaking Tom Longhurst’s heart,” Gloria said, as she and Mary walked home, their shaded torches lighting the way.

Mary assumed she was teasing. “He’ll survive.”

“You really don’t fancy him, do you?”

Good question. “He’s a nice enough chap.” And, she had to admit, one of the few single men left in the village, now that Gloria and Alice Watson, the doctor, had snagged the nicest two. “But he’s just not my type.”

“He’s smitten, sexy, intelligent. If you gave him just the weeniest come-hither he’d be yours for the taking.”

Maybe. But he was clearly and unmistakably human, and Mary wasn’t about to tangle with him. Going out to the flicks once had been an error in judgment she was not likely to repeat. He might have a hammerpond on the edge of his land, where she bathed when the need for water overwhelmed her. But she could just imagine the look on his nice, human face if she said Oh, by the way. I’m a Water Sprite. You don’t mind if I go off in the moonlight and swim in all weathers, do you?

Might almost be worth it to see the shock in his big blue eyes, but no. She’d been trained from childhood to keep her nature a secret, and a secret it would remain. Unless she met another of her kind, and the odds of meeting another in landlocked Surrey was about as likely as the Germans deciding they didn’t want to invade her home after all.

“A penny for them?” Gloria asked. “Tom on your mind?”

“Gloria, he’s just not my sort. He really isn’t.”

“I didn’t say he was your Mr. Right, but how about a Mr. Right Now?”

Mary shook her head. “No. Someone else can have him.” They were practically lining up after all. Of course, there was still the problem of the damn dance she’d promised him.

Maybe she’d stay home tomorrow night. Fat chance of that. Sensible, oh-so-human Gloria would nag her into going. There was no way out, short of breaking a leg or developing some contagious disease. She was going to have to brace herself to dance with the most eligible bachelor for miles around.

“Dad, I’m not going tonight. I can’t. And that’s flat!”

Howell Pendragon looked up from filling the teapot, almost baptizing himself with boiling water at the sheer panic in Gryffyth’s eyes and the sweat beading on his forehead. “Right you are, son,” he replied, putting the lid on the pot and covering it with the knitted cozy Helen Burrows made out of Air Force Blue wool. “Tea’ll be ready in a minute. Want a piece of toast with it?”

“Did you hear me, Dad?”

“Yes, I heard you.” Would have been impossible not to, given he’d as good as shouted. Another mark of how keyed up he was. “You don’t want to go to the party tonight.”

“That’s all you’ve got to say?”

Howell put two mugs on the table and reached into the bread bin. “What do you expect me to say, son? You said you won’t go. You’re a grown man. I can hardly wallop you on the bum and tell you, ‘yes, you are!’ The way I did when you refused to carry your cousin Bronwen’s train at her wedding.”

“Dad, I was six at the time.”

“And now you’re twenty-six. So you won’t come. Want one slice of toast or two?”

“I don’t want any toast!”

Silly git! Not that he’d say that aloud. Howell shook his head and put four slices of bread under the grill. He was hungry and he bet Gryff was. He fetched the week’s ration of cheese from the pantry and started slicing. The lad had always had a weakness for cheese on toast. (He damn well wasn’t calling it Welsh Rarebit the way the English did.) And they had two hours to go before Alice Watson would pick them up.

Howell busied himself with plates and filling the milk jug, all the time casting glances in Gryffyth’s direction. He understood the lad’s reluctance. It was no joke for him, hobbling about on his tin leg while everyone else, old fogies to little nippers, skipped around on two. But dammit, Gryff had done nothing but mope and frown since he came home, aside from one trip down to the Pig with Andrew and Peter. He’d gone the once and refused ever after. It wasn’t good. Not at all.

“Here you are.” Howell. . .