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  And then another figure leaped from the woods and tore the Nazi pursuing her in two. The shadows split in front of her, and droplets of hot blood spattered on her cheek. Patrice lay utterly still in shock, except for the tip of her tongue, which shot out to capture the drops.

  She watched, silently, as the new figure cut through the entire Nazi patrol. Even before his third kill, Patrice had recognized the style of fighting and the way he moved. But pain had made her giddy, and her recognition was only a very faraway fact, more amusing than anything else.

  When at last the slim shadow came toward her, blood- soaked, she just watched him from her place on the ground until he said, in his thick Russian accent, "Patrice?"

  "Ivan Derevko." She made a sound that was half cough, half laugh. "Fighting for Mother Russia again?"

  "Always. God knows who you are fighting for, but I dare say you lost." Ivan stepped closer to her, so that she could see him more clearly in the moonlight. He wore a long gray woolen coat and a black scarf looped around his neck, both somewhat disheveled from the fight. His blond hair and beard were striped with blood, and his smile still showed his fangs; it was how she remembered him best.

  "I have to get to Stalag VII-A. As fast as I can. You have to help me."

  "I? I have to do nothing. Luckily for you, your charms are such that I will help you as soon as it would do any good. In other words, not yet."

  Charlie was in a prison bunk, sick and maybe dying. "Damn you to hell."

  "Our mutual sire took care of that for both of us. Convenient. But whoever it is you hope to kill, you won't be able to manage it until that leg has healed."

  Patrice wanted to argue, but she wanted to sleep even more. That deep, powerful urge to rest was a sign that her vampire body was attempting to shut down and repair itself. "I don't trust you."

  "Wise of you. And yet tonight, you have no other choice." Ivan stooped to lift her in his arms. His embrace filled her with memories of years gone by—or were those dreams? Patrice could no longer tell the difference.

  * * * *

  She awoke in a house made of ivy.

  No, Patrice realized—it was a regular house, but one so long-abandoned by humans that ivy had reclaimed the walls, the ceiling, even most of the floors. Ivy ignored winter and remained vividly green, its dark leaves defiant against the snow and ice that caked every other surface. The fireplace had been cleared out, or Ivan had simply started a fire there without caring if the ivy would eventually catch and burn down the entire structure. That would be like him.

  Groggily she pushed herself up on her elbows. Ivan sat in the corner, on a metal chair that also was overgrown with ivy. His face remained as unearthly beautiful as ever: narrow but masculine, with high cheekbones and piercing blue eyes. Apparently Julien had turned him as a kind of work of art; at least, so Ivan claimed. But Patrice could believe it. He hugged his arms as though he were cold, and she realized that she was lying on his coat.

  "I like what you've done with the place," she said.

  "It's not much, but it's home." Ivan's wolfish grin made her smile despite herself. "Now, the story. For two weeks I've been tracking you. I recognized your scent—the style of your kills—but I told myself, Patrice is much too sensible to decide that wartime is the perfect opportunity to travel in Europe. I wasn't convinced it was you until I saw you for myself."

  "The man I love is in a German POW camp. I'm here to get him out."

  Ivan didn't immediately react, but Patrice could tell the smile was no longer entirely genuine. Then he surprised her—he laughed. "Still you are trying to replace me. Not so easily done."

  "You replaced me well enough. Did I object when you took up with that Greek girl? What was her name— Athena?"

  Ivan shrugged. "That was ten years after you left me. I shouldn't have expected you to object."

  "Now it's twenty years after I left you. So let's put the past in the past." Patrice pushed herself the rest of the way up, so that she was sitting down instead of lying down. "You must hate the Nazis as much as I do. Won't you enjoy helping me? Think of the fun we'll have, killing them all."

  "If I help you, it won't be for fun. And it won't be out of hate," he said quietly.

  Rather than acknowledge the true meaning of his words, Patrice turned her attention to her knee. Dried blood was thick on her skin and her long woolen skirt, but the wounds had almost completely closed. Carefully she bent the knee; it still hurt too much for her to walk easily, but it was much better. Her vampire healing would restore her fully by sundown.

  "Once it turns dark, I'm going, Ivan. Are you with me or not?"

  "I'm with you. Always. You know this, of course." Ivan sighed and leaned his ivy-covered chair back; vines went taut and snapped. "So, tell me about this man who so enchants you. Human, I assume; no self-respecting vampire would remain in a POW camp for very long."

  "Human. Charlie Jackson. Studying mathematics at Howard University."

  "When and how did he learn what you really are?"

  Patrice could no longer meet Ivan's eyes. "You've heard all the details I intend to tell you."

  He laughed so loudly that Patrice tried to shush him, but he wouldn't be silenced. "You haven't told him! This Charlie thinks you're a sweet young girl from home. What will he think when you appear before him as the avenging monster you really are?"

  "Charlie loves me." Her voice sounded overly sharp, even to her, but she wouldn't be mocked by Ivan—not about this. "And I love him. He's a good man who's sick and suffering in a camp run by people who think he's even less than an animal. I'm going to save him. Nothing else matters."

  Ivan's smile had softened. This, too, reminded her of other days. "When I met you, I believed you cared about nothing but clothes and champagne and fun. Fun for me, too, I thought. But I did not fall in love with you until I learned how fierce you are."

  Briefly Patrice remembered a long-ago sleigh ride in the snow, furs heaped around her to ward off the bitter chill of the Russian winter. She and Ivan had been running for their lives, and she had felt no fear, only the savage joy of the hunt. With Charlie, she had shared so much laughter and warmth, but never a moment like that.

  But this could change.

  Ivan continued, "War brings this savagery out in humans. In your Charlie, too. He's not the man you once knew. He has been to war. He knows what it is to kill. Be ready for that."

  Patrice tried not to listen. She closed her eyes and thought instead of dancing with Charlie in the USO canteen. Although she could bring every other detail to mind—the smell of cigarette smoke, the crispness of Charlie's uniform, the laughter of the other junior hostesses on the dance floor—she couldn't quite recall any of the music. The only sound was the crackling of the fire.

  * * * *

  Three hours after sunset, Patrice and Ivan huddled together at the edge of a grove of trees. The cold, hard ground that stretched out before them had been roughly cleared, and it was mostly a mess of frozen mud between them and the barbed-wire fences of Stalag VII-A. Searchlights periodically swept the perimeter, but by now she knew their pattern. Even with her knee still stiff, Patrice could move faster than any human. And if the barbed wire ripped her flesh as she climbed over, well, that would heal, too.

  "There are occultists among the Nazis," Ivan murmured. His breath was cool against her ear; vampire's breath never fogged in the winter. "I should imagine no more than a few dozen of them in the entire Third Reich have any idea what they would truly be dealing with, if presented with a vampire. But if one of them is here tonight, it will go badly for us."

  "Badly for me," she said. "You're staying out here."

  "I thought you said you wanted my help."

  "I do. If I get hung up inside the POW camp, I'll need someone to come in after me and Charlie. And if we're pursued afterward, you could cover us. But while I'm trying to sneak around in there? One more person is just double the noise."

  "I hate it when you prove that you're smarter than I a
m."

  "You know I can't help it."

  They gave each other the mocking look that always used to make them laugh, but the humor was darker now.

  Ivan said, "Have you any idea how to find him?"

  "I know he's in the infirmary, so it will just be a matter of finding the sign."

  "How did you discover this?"

  "His mother wrote it in her last letter."

  "You're writing to his mother! Bozhe moi, when you playact at being human, you don't stop halfway, do you?"

  Scowling, Patrice said, "Do you want to keep making sarcastic comments, or shall we begin?"

  Ivan stepped slightly back among the trees, silently indicating his acceptance of her plan. Turning her attention back toward the camp, Patrice waited for the searchlight to slide slowly past one more time—and then she ran.

  Full vampire speed: she rarely used it, rarely had the need. But now she felt the joy of pushing her body beyond its old mortal constraints. Although her knee burned in protest, it was pain Patrice could easily bear. So were the stabs of barbed wire in her palms, against her knees. Her skirt ripped as she vaulted over the fence, but that didn't matter. Nothing mattered except finding Charlie.

  Patrice scrambled across the camp yard; if she understood the rotation of the guards, nobody would walk directly past her for a few minutes yet. Each barrack was neatly labeled, and hopefully the infirmary would be, too.

  There! Krankenstation—that was the German word for it. No lights, no guard at the door; these prisoners weren't held captive by bolts or locks but by that barbed-wire fence around them.

  For a moment, Patrice couldn't think about the danger they were in or the difficult explanations that lay ahead. All she could think about was that she was within moments of seeing Charlie again. How stupid of her to be happy—to be like a human girl about this—but there was no denying it.

  Silently she stepped inside. Though the infirmary bunks were full, no doctor or nurse was on duty. These men were expected to heal or die on their own, at least at this hour of the night.

  Immediately Patrice saw him—Charlie was the biggest man there. Though he was so much thinner than before—

  She crept to his bedside, tears welling in her eyes. "Charlie?" she whispered. "Charlie, wake up."

  He opened his eyes. He didn't show any surprise, only a slow kind of wonder. "Patrice."

  "I've come to take you home."

  "I—always knew—" His breath came shallow and fast, like his lungs couldn't take in air anymore. He was even sicker than she'd feared: pneumonia, or perhaps even tuberculosis. "Always knew—you weren't just a girl."

  The shock felt like falling into the coldest snow, but she knew better than to overreact. "What do you mean, Charlie?"

  "Knew you were—an angel."

  "An angel come to take you home. Put your arms around my neck."

  Charlie tried to do so, no doubt believing that this was merely a dream, or some kind of vision before death. Though his grasp was weak, it would do. Patrice called upon her vampire strength and lifted him from his sickbed. Though he was six inches taller than her and probably seventy pounds of muscle heavier, she could manage it easily. Getting him over the fence—harder, but still within her power. As she settled him in her arms, his rough black blanket fell to the floor. She considered trying to grab it but discarded the idea. No doubt the cold would be bad for him, but maybe that wouldn't matter for much longer.

  She walked out of the infirmary, leaving the door open behind her; let them believe Charlie had escaped. Almost as soon as she walked into the yard, though, she heard a guard call out, "Haltestelle!"

  And then she could only run for the fence, knee stinging, Charlie strangely light in her arms. A searchlight panned toward her, almost blinding her with its sudden blaze, but she had senses beyond sight.

  "What's . . . what's happening ..." Charlie rasped.

  Patrice couldn't answer. She hoisted him to one side to get one hand free and vaulted for the fence. Barbed wire sank into her palm, tore at her knees, but she was moving almost too quick to feel it. Machine-gun fire rang out, but missed her.

  She and Charlie slammed hard into the frozen ground as they fell outside the stalag fence, but Patrice didn't even slow down, just swung him back into her arms as she continued running. Footsteps and shouts echoed behind her, but she never glanced back.

  As she crashed into the grove of trees, she had to slow down, and she heard her pursuers gaining on them. Then she heard their screams, and Ivan's laughter.

  Yes, it was always good to have backup.

  As she sank to her knees and settled Charlie upon the earth, Patrice sucked in a deep breath to soothe herself, and smelled blood.

  The machine-gun fire hadn't missed after all. Charlie was badly hit.

  Patrice put one hand on his chest, which was wet and hot with blood. He was all but unconscious now, quivering in what were likely to be his death throes.

  And she realized she felt—relief.

  There was no choice to make now, no compromise. It didn't matter how much Charlie loved life; it didn't matter whether he would have chosen to become a vampire or not. He was dying. The only chance he had now was to change, and to join Patrice in immortality.

  She briefly remembered the conversation she'd had with Mrs. Bethany at Evernight. This, Patrice knew, was the real glory of war for vampires. In a time of bloodshed, there were so many opportunities to kill without guilt.

  For humans, too, she supposed. But they didn't matter now.

  Patrice leaned over Charlie and gave him a quick kiss. "Don't be afraid," she whispered, in case he could still hear. "I'm going to make it all better."

  As her fangs slid into her mouth, she thought for an instant of what it had been like to dance in Charlie's arms at the USO canteen—to lean against his chest and hear his heart beat.

  Then she bit into his throat again, knowing him prepared for the change, and silenced that heartbeat forever.

  * * * *

  "I'm still hungry," Ivan complained. "But you won't think of me any longer, will you?"

  "You hush. You've eaten plenty. Remember how it is when you first wake up?" Patrice had not left Charlie's side throughout that night. A few more Nazi patrols had come out searching for their lost comrades, which was why Ivan really had no business complaining about hunger pangs. And while she was grateful for his help, she wished he would have the decency to leave them alone for a few minutes.

  Morning was dawning. Soon Charlie would rise.

  He lay, still and dead, in the center of the ivy cottage. The ivy's life despite the winter's cold seemed to echo Charlie's coming resurrection. Although the air was bitterly cold, they didn't dare build another fire. Smoke against the gray morning sky would reveal their location, if any soldiers were fool enough to still be searching for them.

  "He looks like your long-lost Amos," Ivan said lazily. "How predictable of you."

  Charlie did bear a strong resemblance to Amos, but it wasn't so unremarkable to prefer a certain "type," was it? "I love him for himself."

  "You love him for the illusion he represents. I look forward with great interest to seeing the two of you confront each other's reality."

  Enough of his nonsense. "Don't you want to check the edge of the forest again? There could still be soldiers out there. If you're so hungry."

  "You think Charlie will awaken and you will share a rapturous reunion. And if it is like this, I will accept your suggestion and gratefully miss the romantic scenes that will take place. But it's not always so easy, is it?"

  "It was for me."

  "And for me. But not for all."

  Patrice was about to tell Ivan to stop his Russian doom- saying for once, but that was the moment when Charlie's foot twitched.

  Both she and Ivan went very still, and he took a couple of steps backward. While he might mock her newest love affair, Patrice knew that Ivan understood the importance of this moment.

  Slowly, so slowly, Cha
rlie's eyes opened. He remained very still, as though he did not trust the new sensations and powers flowing through his undead body. When he glanced at Patrice, she smiled at him gently, but made no sudden moves. If he remembered his death clearly, he might at first feel some illogical fear of her. She wanted him to understand that he was safer than he'd ever been. Nothing could hurt him now.

  Then his gaze flicked toward the corner, where the last of the Nazi soldiers who had pursued them slumped against the wall. The soldier was unconscious but alive. Charlie's expression hardened, and he worked his jaw, no doubt feeling the first emergence of his fangs.

  "Are you hungry?" she whispered. "Then drink."