Metamorphosis

FRANCE–OCTOBER 1942

The cellar of the isolated farmhouse was damp and cold. The RAF Squadron Leader huddled deeper into his jacket, trying to escape the chill permeating his bones. Occasionally he shivered, as he tried to doze leaning against the hard stone walls of his self-imposed prison, resting his aching shoulders. The cellar was sparsely furnished, having only one rickety table and two backless stools.

In the two nights he had spent in the cellar, he’d seen his host only once. The elderly French peasant had come down the first evening and left wine, bread, and cheese–enough for the future abandonment by his host. Using a multitude of gestures, the old man had finally made Hutch understand he was going for help. Eventually Hutch also began to grasp the idea that the peasant was giving him directions to the next village in case he didn’t return. Endless diagrams were drawn on the dusty table.

Hutch hadn’t left the cellar during the following day and night since the farmer had left. The flyer knew from his host’s gestures and a few words that the “Boche” were hunting the downed pilot.

As his misery increased with the predawn chill, Hutch struggled to his feet to begin pacing. He limped very slightly as he moved around the darkening cellar. His right leg and side were badly bruised from where he had connected with some part of his plane as he bailed out of his dying Spitfire. He ached from the parachute landing, as well. Luckily he had come down in an open, freshly plowed field which had softened the impact with the ground.

He needed the exercise both to warm up and to alleviate the stiffness that seemed exacerbated by the cold and wet in his underground hiding place. Stamping his feet and waving his arms, he mapped the confines of the hideaway. While pinwheeling his arms, he found his mind racing back to his recent escort mission over the small railway switching yards.

* * *

It had been with relief that he had watched the bombers pull up from their bombing run over the heavily guarded railroad tracks near a small French town. Amid the antiaircraft barrage, the lumbering bombers turned in a slow arc toward the west and home. Hutch’s Spitfire rocked suddenly with a near hit on the port side, but he continued his deliberate turn above the Lancasters. He was leading his squadron of fast maneuverable Spitfires as high cover for the bomber squadron. Now there would be little trouble from the ME109s and FW190s, because of the flack. However, the Jerry fighters would be waiting to jump the clumsy bombers just outside the artillery’s range.

Hutch’s fighter continued its dance as he fought the controls to complete the turn. The antiaircraft flashes were still lower than his plane so only the shock waves were directly affecting his craft. The deadly fireworks limned the Lancasters in an unearthly light as the American followed their lead toward the edge of the danger zone. In fascinated horror he watched one bomber take a hit directly amidships and begin to disintegrate as it spun toward the earth. It dipped and swayed among the close knit formation of the rest of the squadron. In trepidation, Hutch waited for the white clouds of the parachutes and saw with satisfaction that there were two or three in his range of vision. There were nowhere near enough to account for the whole crew, however. Finally the dismembered ship disappeared from his view.

In disgust, he saw that the air bursts had long since ended and with desperate eyes, he frantically began scanning the sky. He was moments too late–there was a strange whine and a sleek fighter appeared from two o’clock high then another zipped toward the vulnerable bombers. The high-pitched whine increased as the closer enemy aircraft flashed across Hutch’s field of vision. Mesmerized he watched the plane’s nose guns flashing measured bursts at a helpless Lancaster. In his peripheral vision he saw another bomber light up the sky as its fuel tanks were hit.

Flying completely on instinct while shouting the warning to the rest of his squadron, he shoved the yoke forward on the Spitfire and sent his plane rocketing toward the enemy craft, his .303s chattering a deadly hail toward the attacking fighter. Smoke was drifting lazily from two of the Lancaster’s four motors as the dying bomber began dipping in a gentle spiral toward the ground below. The German fighter lost interest in its first victim and started looking for its next prey.

The radio was alive with reports from the rest of squadron. These strange planes were diving on the bombers from all directions and the bombers were dying rapidly. The rest of the fighter pilots were desperately trying to distract the super fighters and were paying heavily for their efforts.

On one level Hutch was concentrating on the mechanics of flying his own plane and trying to shoot down the enemy. On another he was puzzled at the sudden appearance of the craft and its strange design. There were two bloated appendages hanging from either wing, and most puzzling of all there were no propellers. The general design of the craft was puzzling as well. The wings swept back along the fuselage in a very streamlined manner with a long pointed nose.

As the first of his shells rushed past the enemy fighter, the Jerry pilot’s plane climbed away from the Lancaster and ascended into the night sky lit by the full bomber’s moon. Hutch pulled his Spitfire into an answering climb. Too easily the German fighter outdistanced the straining British plane. Before the American was completely aware of it, the Luftwaffe pilot completed his maneuver to come around behind the lagging Spitfire.

Immediately Hutch saw the danger and yanked his plane into a sudden roll. He no longer had time to worry about the abilities of the strange airplane since the Jerry pilot quickly followed him through turn after turn and roll after roll even as he executed a scissors dive. The red muzzle flashes and gleaming tracers from the stranger’s machine-guns surrounded the fleeing RAF fighter as Hutch pushed his plane into another headlong dive. With dogged determination, the German pilot followed the American down, his plane’s nose guns snarling a deadly rattle. Hutch pulled up and rolled the plane still trying to escape the bursts of fire. Eventually the outclassed British plane shuddered in its death throes. Smoke poured out from the cowling, obscuring Hutch’s vision as he popped his canopy and leaped into the dark void. He had absolutely no idea which way had been up when he jumped and could only hope not to fall back into the slipstream of his dying craft.

* * *

The aching of his leg made him return to the only dry corner in the cellar. He eased himself down on the floor and made a makeshift pillow from some dusty rags he had found in a cabinet near the table. Closing his eyes, he turned his face into the wall for some rest. At first his mind replayed the appearance of the mysterious airplane. Finally he decided that when he got back to England and was debriefed, that subject was for the High Command to figure out. With that settled, he let his mind roam to better memories.

His mind drifted toward a restless doze. He let his subconscious bring him peace in his lover left behind in war-torn Britain. He remembered their last leave together…

They had wanted to take a few days and spend them at a beach, but beaches in England were now barbed wire and tank traps instead of peaceful sand or pebbles. Instead they had managed to get seats on a train to a small town outside London. Luck had been with them in finding a middle-aged woman willing to rent them a small room in the back of her home. It lacked privacy, but made up for it in the delicious food Mrs. Harris achieved even with shortages and rationing.

They had walked the countryside the first day. The second day they had found a farmer who would rent them two elderly hunters. Their hostess had packed them a picnic lunch and they set out to explore the nearby forest. Starsky had commented that he felt he should be in a Robin Hood movie as he sat astride his horse in the boneless fashion of the western rider. Hutch smiled and agreed that the towering trees lent themselves to that particular fantasy.

After lunch it had been a fantasy come true as the two entwined themselves on the ground beneath a large oak tree. Their loving had been hard and quick after a long abstinence; a simple frottage was all it had taken to bring them off.

Hutch mourned that it had been the last time since he had to leave immediately the next day to return to his base. The next time their leaves would have coincided was to have been this coming weekend and here Hutch sat in a crumbling French farmhouse. He was saddened at his loss and snuggled against the damp wall, seeking some comfort in his memories.

Gradually the cellar darkened into night. Hutch shifted uncomfortably in his niche. His disquiet wasn’t completely physical; there was a definite mental uneasiness. He shifted restlessly then rose and paced the confines of the cellar.

Almost in a frantic hurry, he grabbed up the remains of his meager meals and stuffed them into his pockets. The long-necked wine bottle made an uncomfortable bulge in his jacket, but he didn’t want to abandon the remaining dregs since he didn’t know when he would next find something to eat or drink.

Warily he breached the door and it creaked ominously as he shoved it open. Looking around at the open farmyard, he noted that the old-fashioned, two wheeled cart still canted forward on its shafts. He moved into the dark night and slid around the corner of the thatched building that had housed him for a couple of painful nights.

Favoring one leg, he carefully made his way down the dirt driveway that wound lazily between tall hedges. As the hedges gave way to a paved road, he slipped off into the field planted with a tall grain crop nearly ready for harvest. He paralleled the obviously well traveled road. He knew there must be a village somewhere nearby, if he had understood his host correctly, and that was where he was going for help. The old man had been gone simply too long for his peace of mind.

After what he judged to be nearly an hour of struggling through tall grain crops and over or under dense hedges, he neared a small town that seemed dead to the world. He gingerly walked down narrow streets and went up the back door of the third house on the block. He remembered all the diagrams in the dust on the wooden table in the cellar which directed him to this location to be used if the peasant didn’t return. He tapped lightly on the door, waited, then tapped a second time a little louder. A woman with her head wrapped in a black scarf carefully cracked the door. She noted his uniform and gestured him back into the shadows.

He waited long minutes before a man wearing a dark stocking cap came out of the door and walked toward him. Not a word passed between them, but the Frenchman signaled curtly for the airman to follow. Down dark alleys and around corners that seemed to appear out of nowhere the Frenchman led the American. Stopping occasionally to listen, the burly Frenchman finally led the way up the steps to a small church nestled among tall trees, showing the changing colors of fall. All this was discernible since false dawn was lending a dim light to the proceedings.

Once inside the man quickly genuflected to the altar and led his charge down the side aisle toward the confessional built against wall. He gestured sharply for Hutch to enter one. Hutch went into the darkened closet-like cubicle to hear the latch snap into place. He gently placed his hand on the door and shoved. There was no give in the wood. Panicking, he leaned his shoulder against the door and pushed harder. The heavily built door resisted all his efforts and his concentration was such that he barely heard the slide of the priest’s screen in the wall of the confessional.

“My son, cease trying to destroy the Lord’s House,” a quiet accented voice came out of the dark. Jerking his head around, Hutch looked for the source of the voice. It was then that he saw the cloth-covered screen that separated the two occupants of the confessional. This had gone unnoticed before because of the dimness of the light. There must have been some source of light in the priest’s area as the screen was now noticeable. Hutch slumped down on the narrow bench provided.

“You must wait here until provision can be made for your departure,” the priest continued. Hutch nodded then answered in a subdued voice.

“Yes, Father.”

“Get some rest if you are able. I will return as soon as possible,” the priest started to close the screen then stopped, “I will unlatch the door of the confessional if it will help your peace of mind.”

“Thank you, Father. I’d appreciate it. Feel a bit claustrophobic in here.”

“Peace, my son.” Hutch heard the whisper of the screen closing.

Hutch leaned his head into the corner of the cubicle and dozed intermittently until the gradually breaking dawn let him look around his surroundings. His stomach gave a low growl so he reached into his jacket and extracted the wine bottle and what was left of the bread. He alternately gnawed on the hard bread and sipped the dregs of the bitter wine. Finally both were gone so he slid the bottle behind his feet under the narrow shelf that was stiffening his back and neck.

He rose and stretched in the cramped, stuffy cubicle trying to ease his throbbing head, shoulders and lower back. It was a futile effort as there wasn’t room enough for proper stretching of his tall body. He slid down onto the hard bench. At the moment, he imagined that the bench must be made of solid concrete instead of wood. His thoughts were interrupted by the irreverent thump of heavy boots. Loud voices shattered the peace of the early morning. Hutch listened in dismay as harsh voices railed at a softer French voice. There was the unmistakable thud of something hard slamming yielding flesh. Even with his limited German, he quickly understood that the patrol was looking for him. There was another thud and this time a muted cry of pain.

Making a decision quickly, he shoved open the narrow door to his refuge. Uniformed figures turned sharply in his direction, ignoring the slumping priest. Hutch carefully raised his hands as troopers with guns held at ready moved between the pews toward him.

Rough hands yanked him around to face the confessional. He was quickly searched and efficiently divested of his sidearm and knife. His flight suit held no papers or means of identification in case of just such a contingency. There was no way to identify him from any other RAF pilot as was the policy of the Royal Air Force.

Guns with bayonets signaled for him to move toward the door. He put his hands on his head at an upward gesture of a rifle barrel. As he turned to go down the aisle, there was the distinctive rattle of a machine-gun. He whirled around to see the priest crumple face down on the stairs in front of the altar one hand reaching toward the altar. A Nazi soldier nodded with his chin toward the door. In dejection Hutch limped toward the door, but not fast enough to suit the German soldier, who jabbed him harshly from behind with a rifle butt that caused him to slam roughly into the ornate door jam. Catching himself, he staggered down the rough concrete steps awkwardly, his hands clasped behind his head.

LONDON

The pub was hazy with cigarette smoke and dimly lit. At one of the back tables the dark-haired American observed the slim figure negotiating the crowded tables, holding two beers. Starsky leaned back and watched the man, noting not for the first time that the Brit was too slender for his normal sturdy figure. However with closely cropped dark hair and broad shoulders, he looked quite dashing in his uniform.

The beers sloshed dangerously as the man staggered when a shapely woman slammed into him while getting up from her table. Turning to apologize, her eyes widened with interest as he shrugged off her apology; her date glared and held out his hand. The couple went to the dance floor with the woman still staring over her shoulder at the man. She watched him until he sat down at Starsky’s table.

“Just made a hit with some of the local talent, Bodie,” Starsky commented as the agent settled down and passed the extra beer to the American.

“Yeah, she nearly took a bath in your beer.”

The two men lifted their beers and drank deeply. Wiping his sleeve across his mouth, Starsky sighed in contentment having finally adjusted to the room temperature beer. “Any news?” he questioned quietly. Bodie shook his head slowly. He didn’t need any explanation; he knew the American’s question before it was asked.

“Guess he couldn’t be lucky twice. Last time someone saw him go down in Channel.”

Bodie nodded. Lucky twice wasn’t usual.

“None of the squadron got back this time either,” Starsky continued. “Did any of the bombers get back?”

“No,” Bodie answered shortly. “And you didn’t hear that from me. The High Command of the Air Force is about to have kittens. And you didn’t hear that from me either!”

“What made this trip so special?” Starsky queried quietly.

“Nothing…Not a thing. It was a routine escort mission–on a routine bombing run over a bloody routine railway switching yard. Nothing that would explain why a whole bloody squadron would disappear. The radio reports were a garbled mess, something about mysterious planes out of nowhere.” Bodie looked down into his warm beer, brooding.

Starsky nodded and felt around in his shirt pocket for his cigarettes, offering one to Bodie, who accepted. He struggled in his slacks for a lighter and lit both cigarettes. Both men sipped their beers solemnly.

Starsky tipped his glass back and then set it gently on the table.

“Wanna another?” asked the British agent.

“Naw. Drinking doesn’t help.” Starsky knew that from experience. Bodie was an expert on how much drinking did not help one forget.

Bodie nodded, taking a deep drag on his Players, and leaned back against the wall behind him to watch the dancers who were gyrating in time to the juke box.

“Let’s get out of here. I can’t stand the noise any longer,” Starsky murmured as he crushed out his half-finished cigarette. Bodie stood up and led the way into the blacked-out city. There were distant flashes of artificial lightning visible behind the skyline.

“Hitting the fighter bases again tonight,” Starsky quietly commented as the two men began walking down the deserted streets toward the small furnished flat they occasionally shared when their jobs for the war effort permitted.

“That direction could be bomber bases as well,” Bodie remarked softly. “Just lucky they don’t hit the cities yet.”

“Yeah. Lucky.”

The two men walked shoulder-to- shoulder up to the door of a block of flats. Opening the door, Bodie led the way up the stairs to their lonely rooms. Once inside the sitting room, they separated each to their own lonely beds. Both mourning lost loves. Bodie hadn’t gotten any word out of France in months from Doyle. At first he had gotten drunk at every opportunity; now he grieved by wrapping himself in hard work.

At first, Starsky worried about Bodie, but the man had pulled himself together and was adjusting, something Starsky was afraid that he too would have to do. Silent tears leaked from his eyes as he turned toward the wall in the small spare room he had shared occasionally with Hutch during the past. Damn the man for not being more careful! Starsky punched his feather pillow.

The door cracked open and a familiar figure filled the space. “If you need to talk or anything, let me know,” Bodie said quietly into the dark room.

“Naw, thanks anyway. It’s just so futile. I wanted to keep him here with me, but if I hadda then he wouldn’t have been my Hutch anymore.”

“I understand.”

“Yeah, I ‘spect you do.” Starsky paused. “‘Night, Bodie.”

“‘Night.” The door whispered shut. Starsky silently thanked the other man for his sympathy.

* * *

FRANCE

Hutch leaned wearily against stone walls, again. This time, however, he was more battered and bruised. Upon leaving the village, he had been taken to a small Luftwaffe base. He had been briefly questioned by the commander and then thrust into this temporary cell, knowing that he would soon be transferred into the heart of Germany to a prison camp. Discouragement and defeat were his close companions as he settled down on the bare cot.

He dozed fitfully and woke to tramping feet in the corridor outside his cell. The metal door banged open to admit the camp commander and another figure in civilian garb. “On your feet!” the civilian snarled, stepping forward to grab the groggy flyer by his now-tattered flight suit.

“You will not abuse him on my base, Herr Behrman,” the Luftwaffe officer snapped. Hutch’s German was barely sufficient for the conversation that followed.

“The Gestapo may have custody of him when you get him off this base. I have raised my objections and will continue to object,” the irate officer said. “This man is rightly a prisoner of the Luftwaffe!”

The civilian gave a mocking salute and backed away from the dejected prisoner. “As you say, Oberst, he is not our prisoner until we have him in our headquarters.”

The small cell became more crowded as two more civilians came through the door, clutched Hutch by the arms then hustled him from the cell. He tried to protest, but a hand covered his mouth as his hands were jerked behind his back to be handcuffed.

“We will return him when we have the needed information on the underground contacts.”

Hutch was alternately dragged and shoved out into the bright sunlight of the new day. It had been late night when he had arrived at the camp. There was a gathering of Luftwaffe officers watching with disapproval as the Gestapo agents manhandled him into the waiting car. Once he was blindfolded and shoved on the floor of the Mercedes, the two guards had no reservations about kicking him occasionally in the ribs or resting their feet on their captive. It was a long drive and Hutch became more cramped and sore as the time progressed.

Eventually he was dragged from the car, his blindfold removed then taken to the basement of large a building somewhere in a large city. He assumed it must be Paris, but he couldn’t be sure. They had been driving for a long time through city streets so he knew the city was a big one.

By this time the American flyer was dazed, aching and hungry, having been in the car for hours without any relief. There would be no relief forthcoming, he felt.

With little formality, he was roughly pulled out of the car and forced to stumble down narrow stairs to yet another cell. Vaguely he had noticed that the sun was now setting. His hands were released as he stumbled into the waiting cell. He ran his hand through his short, damp hair, the blond color darkened with dirt and perspiration. He used the bucket in the corner provided for sanitary facilities, but there was no food or drink. He wasn’t sure he could manage to keep anything down at the moment, he was so dispirited.

He eased his aching body down on the moldy cot for yet another period of waiting. He had no idea what the Gestapo could have in mind for him but nothing good, he imagined. What did puzzle him was the interest the Gestapo had in him. He remembered something about underground contacts, but he had none…anymore. Obviously his only contact had betrayed him either willingly or unwillingly. Most probably the latter.

The chunky Gestapo agent did not leave him waiting long. With his bald head gleaming under the harsh light of the cell, he began questioning the American airman. “What is your squadron and where is it based?” The Nazi echoed the question in an endless repetition as he assistants alternately punched or slugged the man.

“Go fuck yourself!” Hutch muttered repeatedly, after tiring of giving the standard answer of military prisoners.

“Obscenity is not necessary,” Behrman snapped and nodded at his assistants who obligingly punched the airman once more in the midsection. Finally as consciousness slipped away, Hutch heard the door to his cell open and close. He was left in an aching peace slumped on the floor where he had been unceremoniously dumped.

* * *

“We have only one question for the airman that you are so interested in, Herr Kessel,” Behrman commented to the tall, crew-cut blond, pacing his tiny office. “We simply need to know if he is the last member of RAF Squadron 27. That is the squadron that was escorting the bombers over the switching yards. It is too soon for knowledge of the experimental fighters to get back to London. I don’t even want, if he is a member of 27, for him to go to a Luftwaffe Camp. Information has a way of leaking back to London from those camps. So you may have him for whatever little games you like to play with your victims after I know for sure.”

The slate gray eyes lit up at the last comment. “Heil Hitler!” Kessel responded as he gave the open palmed salute and left the dingy office. Once more Behrman contemplated his need for these types in his continuing patriotic work for his Fuhrer. He would return before dawn and see if Herr Kessel had the information he needed. Somehow the man always disappeared before sunrise.

It was too bad that he had to make all these young airmen disappear. However, word of the new secret weapon could not be allowed back to England so soon. He had told the Luftwaffe that it was too soon to allow the planes into combat. Their full production schedule would not start for a few months yet. He removed his round, steel-framed glasses and wiped his eyes. It was all so tiring. Yes, he must leave before Herr Kessel began his gory work. He admitted the necessity for such as Kessel, but he simply didn’t want to view or hear his handiwork.

* * *

Hutch was rudely awakened as the cell door banged open. Two grim-faced individuals moved into the tiny room and yanked the aching, dazed American to his feet then frog-marched him from the room. He was taken to a larger room where he was stripped of most of his clothing, strapped to a metal chair and left. He shivered involuntarily as the chill of the room seeped into his bones.

In the long intervening moments, he began to have all types of fears. What sort of information could he provide the Gestapo? He was simply a pilot. Had the Gestapo figured out his and MI6’s rescue of Starsky over a year ago? What would torturing him now accomplish? Starsky was safely working for the British government at a research facility in the wilds of England. He had absolutely no idea what his lover and friend was working on. His mind raced in circles and more circles the longer he sat in his underwear on the cold chair. He shifted uncomfortably in the hard chair that seemed to accentuate his bruises and his stomach felt as though a knife was being slowly twisted in his gut–a nagging ache from his earlier interrogation.

Seemingly hours later the door behind him clicked open to admit a tall, nearly albino looking man with bushy dark eyebrows. His gray eyes were nearly colorless and his almost white hair formed a widow’s peak on his high forehead. He walked around his victim smiling coldly as he assessed the tense airman in the metal chair.

“Now, Squadron Leader, please make it easy on yourself,” lazily commented the interrogator. “What is your squadron and where are you based?”

“I…I am not…not required to give…,” Hutch paused to clear his parched throat and started over much to the glee of the observer. “I…I am not required to give that type of information. By the Geneva Convention.”

“Ah yes…I have been hearing quite a bit about the Geneva Convention lately. It has absolutely no bearing on this conversation.” The white-haired man paused and nearly leered at his victim. “I really don’t think you’ll be in any shape to complain to the Geneva Convention.” He smiled coldly. “Make it easy on yourself. Tell me your Squadron number and where you are based. That’s all the information I need.”

Hutch simply shook his head, too terrified to do anything more. His companion laughed gently and leaned forward to run his hands through Hutch’s limp, dirty hair. “I have a friend with just about this color of hair. It has always fascinated me.” The Nazi moved his hands down to Hutch’s neck, stroking his fingers lightly over the racing pulse in Hutch’s throat. “American blood! I don’t think I’ve ever had American blood. I wonder if it tastes any different from other blood.”

Hutch shuddered and tried to draw away from the too intimate touch of the agent. He flinched as the Nazi leaned forward and licked the pulse point on his throat, then began thrashing in his bonds as the Nazi began to nibble gently on his neck. He nearly screamed as bits of his flesh were pinched between the interrogator’s teeth.

Kessel leaned back from his struggling victim and laughed softly. “You don’t like that, Yank! Ah, but you will. I guarantee it.” He turned away and took a long finger-sized metal rod from the shelf. He held it up and turned back to the flyer.

“You haven’t changed your mind, I hope,” he whispered, moving across the room. Numbly Hutch shook his head, his fascinated gaze never leaving the rod.

Faster than a striking snake, Kessel brought the rod down across Hutch’s hand lying laxly on the arm of the chair. The American screamed as bones shattered in his hand and wrist. As the waves of pain started to subside, his other arm was given a similar treatment before the rod was carefully put back in its proper place. Hutch continued to shriek for long moments as waves of pain from his hands and arms reached his beleaguered brain. Then he finally slumped back against the unforgiving metal chair.

Kessel moved beside the suffering airman, grabbed him by his filthy hair, and roughly pulled his head back exposing his vulnerable neck. The agent fixed his now completely emerged canines in the airman’s throat. Hutch was not unaware of the new pain, but it was minor compared to his hands and he didn’t bother doing more than grunt. A lethargy settled over him and he relaxed into the welcome haze, never seeing the transformation of his host. The man’s gray eyes were a glassy yellow and his sharp, unnatural fangs were longer than any man’s.

Not without reluctance, Kessel brought his inhuman urges under control. He turned away from the American and changed slowly back to his human camouflage then went back to his workbench in the corner of the room where he reached for the metal rod. With it in his hand, he returned to the quietly suffering airman, noting that the man was nearly unconscious. Lightly he tapped the man on one of his mangled hands causing Hutch to whimper and jerk his head up. His eyes were glazed, but there was still a measure of intelligence there.

“Now, are you a member of RAF Squadron number 27?” the agent questioned sharply. He had waited until the man’s breathing came back to something normal, but there was no response. Again he tapped the broken hands and wrists gently, and there was an answering sound somewhere between a whimper and groan, but nothing else. The interrogator sighed and smiled grimly.

“You force me to do this,” he whispered in the American’s ear. Hutch shuddered and shook his head, the motion sending waves of pain from his arms straight to his brain forcing another low whimper.

The interrogator hefted his metal rod and struck. This time he brought it down further up on the flyer’s arms. Hutch merely moaned and thrashed against the restraints and pain, his head flopping from side to side as he instinctively tried to escape the torment. Kessel continued to strike Hutch’s mangled arms and hands until eventually splinters of bone began showing through the bloody flesh. Finally Kessel stopped and stroked the bloody instrument then gently licked some of Hutch’s blood, savoring the flavor.

As the reek of blood filled his nostrils, Kessel’s unholy urges struck and the transformation of his eyes and teeth appeared. He grabbed the slumping head and lifted it to expose the jugular vein on the other side of Hutch’s neck. This time the sharp pain never registered on his victim at all but Kessel was careful to pull away before all life left the human.

He didn’t bother hiding his changed appearance as he whispered in the American’s ear, “The old peasant didn’t last anywhere this long. He wasn’t nearly so much fun.” The Gestapo agent laughed unpleasantly. “So quickly the old man betrayed you. I’m glad to see that you are holding out so well.” He paused and ran his hand over the flyer’s chest in a parody of a loving stroke. “Now.” He paused, running his hand down to the damaged hands and arms. Squeezing lightly, he listened in fascination to the moan from the American.

“Now,” he repeated, “is your Squadron number 27?” He squeezed the hand harder. As he noted the continued resistance along with the weakened condition of his victim, Kessel pulled Hutch’s head back and made contact with his eyes and mind. “Now you will tell me what I want to know.” The vampire’s mind grabbed and held the human’s in thrall. “Is your squadron number 27?”

“Yes…,” Hutch croaked. When Kessel released his head, he let it slump down on his chest in defeat.

Drawing back, Kessel smiled and composed his features into a semblance of humanity. He turned and went out the door. Straightening his cuffs and settling his immaculately tailored suit on his shoulders, he turned down the hall to the waiting guards.

“I have the information needed for Herr Behrman. Tell him that the answer is ‘yes.'” The pale Gestapo agent started to turn away. “Leave our friend where he is. I will come back later tonight and finish the interrogations.”

The two guards looked at each other and shrugged, both thinking to themselves that they would never get used to this one. However, he seemed to get results and enjoy his work. Both men went back to the paper work that seemed endless in the Third Reich.

PARIS

The creature known at this time and place as Herr Kessel exited the headquarters of the Gestapo and took a deep satisfying breath of the crisp night air. He saw and heard a movement in the shadows but he felt no alarm–his enhanced senses had quickly identified the being restlessly waiting for him.

“Nicolas,” Kessel murmured, giving the name the gentle French slur that dropped the s and accented the middle syllable. “Have you come to your senses yet?”

“LaCroix!” Nicolas spat out. “Why do you continue to work for the Nazis?”

“Ah, Nicolas. They provide me with the best sport that I have had in ages.”

“You are no better than the Inquisition!” The being known in Paris for the moment as Nicolas Chevalier moved from the shadows provided by the surrounding buildings into the waning moon light. He ran blunt fingers through his waving light brown hair somewhat nervously.

Confronting his mentor was always disturbing at the best of times, yet somehow he kept coming back to his abuser. It was an unhealthy relationship, he knew, but he couldn’t quite leave the older vampire and what he represented–even now he could smell the tempting odor of fresh blood on LaCroix’s breath. LaCroix had just fed on human blood and Nicolas was sorely tempted by the lush, sweet madness of killing and feeding on “human cattle” as LaCroix termed them. At one time he had fed on criminals and perverts, but now he only existed on animal blood, trying not to even kill the dumb beasts.

“Yes…the Inquisition. It would have been interesting to have been on their side. Very satisfying, I should imagine.” The older vampire studied his protégé. “You have been drinking all that bovine and equine blood, and it is beginning to warp your instincts. Come back inside with me. Don’t you smell the human blood? Don’t you want to indulge? Just this once?” The platinum blond man smiled winningly. “There’s this luscious young man just waiting for your attention.”

Nicolas turned away and controlled his lust. It would be easy to give in again to LaCroix; his nature almost demanded it. He clenched his fists and moved once more into the shadows.

LaCroix laughed mockingly as he lifted swiftly from the pavement to disappear into the clouds above the city. He would have Nicolas back in his thrall sometime, somewhere, he knew.

Nicolas started to depart as well when he remembered that LaCroix had offered him a taste of his victim. This admission told him the unlucky man still lived. Could he be saved? If he saved one victim of LaCroix, he might continue to atone for some of the atrocities that he had so enjoyed when he was LaCroix’s lackey. This might be a start at redeeming his humanity, his soul. The redemption of his soul was becoming a consuming passion.

With hardening resolve, Nicolas turned toward the darkened building LaCroix had just left, and began walking down the steps from which the other vampire had emerged. It took little of his heightened strength to snap the lock on the door then move down the dimly lit corridor. Two guards looked up as he moved with inhuman swiftness toward them and though both made moves toward their weapons, he had them in a trance before the gesture could be completed.

“You have not seen me. Return to your papers,” the vampire whispered then carefully turned up the cell block. Looking back after a few paces, he noted with satisfaction that both guards were back shuffling papers. The uniformed figures were completely absorbed in their task.

Nicolas cautiously checked each cell in the corridor as he walked hurriedly toward the one that reeked of blood and despair. With the use of some of his vampire abilities, his unnatural instincts nearly overrode his humane ones as he got closer to the source of the blood odor. Upon breaking open the next-to-last door, he saw a figure slumped in a metal chair. As his canines flexed in his jaw and his eyes started to glaze, he stopped and waited long moments until he could control the impulse.

He first took note of the damaged hands, but was relieved the man was breathing and even semiconscious. The unhealthy pallor of the prisoner was the next item to draw the vampire’s attention. Yes, LaCroix had fed, but hopefully only enough to diminish his victim’s strength. The man might be salvageable; he had possibly arrived in time.

Gently taking the prisoner’s head in his hands, he looked into the glassy eyes. His mind reached for the human’s and his voice spoke in a soothing tone, “You feel no more pain. Rest now. Sleep.” He repeated the commands until the eyelids fluttered closed with some measure of peace.

It took only moments for his vampire strength to snap the leather straps that bound LaCroix’s victim to the chair. He looked around for something in which to wrap the unconscious human and found a dirty blanket shoved in a corner. He gently picked up the man and wrapped him in the grimy, bloodstained folds of the tattered fabric then lifted him over his shoulder, bracing the weight with one hand.

Carrying his burden with ease, he went into the hallway and saw that the two guards were still diligently working on their papers. He paused and listened for any sounds in the hall. When he was sure he heard only the shuffling of papers, he casually carried the man from the building, easily retracing his earlier steps.

Once out on the quiet, deserted street, he suddenly didn’t know what to do. He rose swiftly into the air and headed for the only haven he could think of, Janette’s small supper club on a quiet street off the Champs Elysees. He flew swiftly toward that destination, hoping that LaCroix had business elsewhere.

It took only moments to arrive at the small club that normally catered to very exclusive patrons, landing lightly on the roof of Le Corbeau. After scanning the area with all senses alert, he then jumped down into the dark alley at the rear of the building. With ease he supported his burden until he had the back door open and slipped down the hallway toward the room he often used when dawn caught him too far from his own daytime shelter. He put his unconscious burden down on the plain pallet which was the room’s only adornment, critically looking at the former prisoner, noting the clammy, pale skin and harsh breathing. It was obvious to even the most uninformed that the man was near the end of his resources and probably suffering from shock. With regret, Nicolas left the room and went to the bar at the front of the building.

Naturally the bar was dim and smoky, but he was not prepared for the change in the patrons. Normally Le Corbeau drew mainly the local vampires and a few humans looking for a different thrill. Tonight the bar was filled with uniforms, and a very loud group it was. Janette was sitting on a bar stool sipping her normal drink of blood and wine, a mix to which she had become quite addicted.

“Nicolas!” Her throaty voice drew him through the crowd waiting for more drinks. “What are you doing here?”

“I need to talk to you–alone,” Nicolas whispered below the roar of the group at the bar, knowing her vampire hearing would sift out any background noise. She took in the desperate stance of his figure and leisurely set her drink on the bar. The bartender immediately took it and put it in the low icebox behind the bar.

She seemed to gracefully float to her feet, leading the way out of the bar toward the small room at the rear that served her as an office. Once the door was closed on the small room, she flung up her hands and hissed under her breath.

“See what my new clientele looks like!” she snarled as she began pacing the small room. “Suddenly my club…my club has been blest by the Third Reich.” Nicolas waited, knowing that she would calm down shortly. Her emotions simply had to run their course.

“Well, what is it, Nicolas?” she questioned as she rumpled her long dark hair then smoothed it all in one motion. While Nicolas was trying to think of a reply, she settled herself in a leather chair behind the desk.

Hesitantly Nicolas began explaining his activities of the past hour. “You did what?!” Janette snarled. “And you brought it here!” She paused to catch her breath. “Nicolas, when LaCroix finds out what you have done, you will pay dearly for interfering in his pleasure. And he will find out, you know!”

“It is something I have to do,” Nicolas replied with force. “I just couldn’t stand by and watch another human subjected to his cruelty.”

“You didn’t have to watch–you weren’t even there!”

“But I would know! It is getting to where I can’t live with myself when I find about out such things. I had to see if I could rectify it.”

“Now that you’ve done it, let’s see what can be done,” Janette conceded reluctantly, knowing when Nicolas was this determined there was no changing his mind. She briskly rose from her chair, led Nicolas out of the room, and down the hall to the cubicle that he used sparingly.

Upon entering the room, Janette looked at the man on the bed with cold, calculating eyes. She took in the ashy pallor and labored breathing for only moments. “My dear Nicolas, it looks as if you have saved a dead man. He isn’t quite dead now, but he soon will be.” Nicolas could only nod as he looked at the sprawled figure.

“The only way to save him is if you brought him across,” she quietly commented as she noted the dejected figure, standing beside her, his dejection quietly breaking her heart. “As it is, he could possibly come over anyway, and as LaCroix’s minion. I doubt that is the fate you had in mind when you took him from the Gestapo. If you feed unto his death, he will come over and look to you for training.” She paused again and looked at Nicolas speculatively. “Are you ready for that responsibility?”

“I thought perhaps if we could get him to a human doctor, he could be saved.”

“Look closely at what you have brought here. Even if they could restore the blood with transfusions, I don’t think they could save his hands and arms. Do you really think he or anyone would want to live without either hand?”

Nicolas shook his head.

“Then do it! Now, Nicolas, before he suffers any more. I would not let a dog continue to suffer this way. Make up your mind.”

Nicolas turned away and looked at the shuttered window, trying to remember what the daylight looked like. It wasn’t possible–all he could remember was the pain sunlight now caused him.

“I have a contact that perhaps could get you out of the country and to England. After this you shouldn’t stay anywhere within reach of LaCroix or the Nazis,” Janette said quietly, turning her gaze again to the human. “Do it, Nicolas. Or give him the true death.”

“It’s a decision he should make himself,” Nicolas answered without turning toward the woman. His tortured mind was dredging up bitter memories of a lovely woman who couldn’t resist the savage urges of her new nature. This was a woman he had deliberately brought across to save her life. Was he now prepared to fail again? He wasn’t sure if he could stand it. But he was the only hope this abused individual had. This time he would take greater pains to educate this newly made vampire. It might work if this man didn’t harbor the bitterness of his previous experiment.

“He can’t make a rational decision now. You have to make it. Think about it. If he simply can’t live with what you do, then he can choose the true death later. You will only give him another option besides death. If death is what he desires, so be it,” Janette interrupted his troubled thoughts.

Nicolas considered for a long time, running his hands over his face and through his wavy hair. It wasn’t as if life as a vampire was impossible. Could he really prevent this one from ever killing? It could be something worth trying? Could a vampire survive and never kill? Yes, he could do it with that thought in mind. His previous failure still dogged his thoughts, but he was decided to give it one more try, the more he considered it.

“All right,” Nicolas began taking control of his emotions. He had acted without thinking clearly this time, but Janette had made him see his options and now he was ready to do what had to be done.

“I will make contact with someone from the underground to get you both to England. You take him now. Make him feed from you a little then he can heal during the day and my contact will be ready as soon as practical. Possibly in the next day or two.” She briskly began organizing her thoughts. “You can’t stay here. It’s too dangerous, both from LaCroix and from the ‘Boche.’ However, I have known of a place in the country. You can fly him there and wait for the underground.”

“I didn’t realize that you knew the underground existed.”

“Nicolas! I have been making my own plans. I’m not sure how much longer I can remain here and watch what these animals are doing to my beloved Paris.”

Nicolas could empathize with her feelings. He too, had been shocked at the German occupation of his country. He just hadn’t taken it too seriously since he knew in the ways of human affairs that it was a transient thing. Janette reaction set him thinking of more than just his relationship with LaCroix and that perhaps it was time to get more involved in the human world. He sighed quietly. Then he heard his charge begin to moan and thrash on the cot as the stupor wore off. Looking up, he saw that Janette had left the room to give him a semblance of privacy.

For the first time in recent memory, he made a conscious effort at transformation. His canines lengthened and he saw his vision begin the slight reddish distortion of his killing frenzy. Then he leaped on the unconscious man and began to finish the job that LaCroix had begun. He never quite slipped over to his killing mode, but he was killing just the same. He remembered Janette’s admonition and forced some his own blood from a small self-inflicted wound into the man’s mouth. He wasn’t sure if it were true or not, but most vampires believed that humans achieved immortality at a higher rate if they also tasted their maker’s blood.

Then Nicolas returned to the business of finishing off his prey. The human under his fangs made a soft sigh and became an inert mass, as if the human was relieved to surrender his life. Nicolas raised his head and would have howled like a banshee, if it had been possible. He licked his lips, involuntarily enjoying the taste of human blood–the first for a long time. He lifted himself from his knees and felt his fangs begin to recede and his vision return to normal.

The door opened softly and Janette entered the room, taking in the scene before her at once. She was glad that she had fed recently since the smell of fresh blood reeked from the vampire standing in the middle of the room.

“Here…directions to the estate of Count Du Lac. He’s one of us, but he’s off in Africa fighting for France.” Janette paused as Nicolas took the slip of paper and read it quickly. “There is good hunting nearby. The workers on the estate are either one of us or aware of the esoteric tastes of the Count and his guests. They will not reveal anyone to the Nazis, either.”

At Nicolas’ stiffening figure, Janette laughed dryly. “I just meant that the Count has a large dairy herd and several horses. Your new fledgling will need to feed immediately upon awakening. He will be ravenous with both the change and the healing so I have some supplies.” She handed him pack that clinked slightly. Nicolas slipped it on his shoulders.

“I know how it is to awaken with that hunger,” Nicolas answered grimly as he began wrapping the inert figure again in the soiled blanket, this time not to protect him from the elements but to give him a sort of dignity even for one who would never be aware of it.

“The man from the underground should contact you in the next few days. Your new minion probably can travel in a couple of days.” Nic shuddered at her choice of words, but they were the truth as she saw it.

“We will have to cross the Channel. Is our contact aware of our travel problems?” Nicolas questioned, making an oblique reference to the fact that vampires were deathly allergic to sunlight and suffered a form of violent seasickness.

“He will have a slight idea. You will, of course, have to make him forget all the arrangements upon arrival in England.”

Nicolas nodded and leaned forward to give Janette a peck on the cheek. She smiled back and admonished gently, “Be careful.”

* * *

Nicolas was weary when he arrived at the estate designated by Janette, having flown just about as far as he could bearing the limp burden in his arms. Daylight was fast approaching and both would need shelter soon. The vampire looked around the area and decided the stable might be the best resting place for the coming day, knowing that when his charge woke to his new state, he would have to feed immediately. The horses in the stable would be the easiest for this initial feeding since they were probably more used to handling than the cattle in the pens outside. Nicolas wasn’t sure that his newly brought over vampire could be satisfied with equine blood and wanted to take no chances with the human occupants of the manor by having his changeling too close to them at his first feeding. He had little experience with what he was undertaking and what he did have made him extremely uneasy.

Carrying his unliving burden, he searched for the best place for them to spend the day, finally feeling very lucky to find that the stable had an underground storage room. It was empty and looked pretty well abandoned. Janette could assure him of the trustworthiness of the estate workers, but he would prefer not to be found until the changeling was again in control of his faculties.

Using some of the stable residents’ straw, he made two reasonable pallets for the day. He made sure that the cellar door was firmly closed and latched then he settled the cold and clammy youth on a straw pallet before settling for the day himself. Peripherally he was aware that the sun was starting to peek over the eastern horizon. Instinctively, he always knew just how long it was until sunrise.

* * *

The sun was barely dropping down behind the rolling hills around the Count’s estate when Nicolas heard a rustle in the straw near him. The human was stirring into his vampire life. The older vampire was pleased since it meant that the changeling had a reason to live and was making an effort, a necessary attribute for any young vampire to survive. Those without a reason to live never made the effort to cross over or quickly found a way to the true death. Nicolas didn’t want to go through all this just to have a vampire with a suicide impulse or simply a dead human body.

Nicolas rose and searched through the pack that Janette had sent with him. He found a half-a-dozen wine bottles containing a thick, viscous, red liquid that was not wine. He uncorked the first one and moved over to the thrashing near-vampire whose best friend or lover would not recognize him as his eyes yellowed and vestal fangs emerged.

Unceremoniously Nicolas sat on the heaving chest and with one hand stilled the rolling head while with the other he began forcing the rim of the wine bottle between the bluish lips. A few splashes of the blood quieted the thrashing and struggles of the new immortal. The young vampire reached with his rapidly healing hands for the bottle and began gulping the liquid, not yet rational, Nicolas knew. He reached for the pack and brought out a new bottle which he quickly uncorked. When the first bottle had been drained, he handed the other one over before his protégé could start to notice how weak he was.

When four bottles had been drained in this manner, Nicolas lifted himself from the supine body beneath him. The former prisoner raised himself up in the straw and looked around. His last conscious memory had been of the basement of Gestapo headquarters in Paris where he had been in intense pain. On top of this disturbing memory, his mind was nearly in overload from the sensory input it was receiving from the vampiric amplification. Shaking his ringing head, Hutch croaked out, “What…what’s goin’ on?”

Not knowing how to answer the man, Nicolas noted the language and began shifting his mental gears to English. As he had suspected, the man/vampire was English or at least English speaking.

“I brought you out of Gestapo Headquarters.”

“Thank you…I think,” Hutch murmured. “Where are we?”

“Somewhere outside Paris.”

“‘M hungry.”

“Yes. I know you are and there are some explanations. But I don’t know exactly where to start,” Nicolas replied, studying the rapidly improving figure in front of him. If he didn’t explain quickly, the being would discover his powers all too quickly. Newly made vampires didn’t survive long if they weren’t ready to feed and move almost at once.

“Introductions first, I think. I am Nicolas Chevalier.” The older vampire paused and smiled benignly, hoping to allay any fears his protégé might have. “And you?”

Reaching forward with his right hand that Nicolas took carefully, Hutch answered, “Kenneth Hutchinson. My friends usually call me Hutch. I think you might qualify as a friend for what you did.” Nicolas smiled at the naive comment.

“Perhaps… Perhaps not… After I explain.” Again Nicolas had no idea what to say so after taking a deep breath simply plunged ahead. “When I brought you out of Nazi hands, you were nearly dead. There wasn’t much that could be done for you.”

“I can believe that. I remember…,” Hutch paused and looked at his now almost completely healed hands. “I…I… but how?” He held up his hands and examined them. “I must have dreamed it…. Some drug those Nazi bastards have thought up.”

“No. What you remember is the truth.”

“Naw, a person can’t heal that fast and leave no scars.”

“You are no longer human.”

Hutch was startled by the quiet comment. “I don’t exactly understand what you are saying.”

The vampire rose and paced the small space. “There’s simply no easy way to explain this. But you have become what I am. I can’t go out in daylight. The sun burns me badly and is deadly in very short order. I am sustained by the blood of mammals. I am very hard to kill. A stake through the heart, exposure to direct sunlight, fire, or decapitation are the only things that are fatal to our kind.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“Think of your folklore. I can’t touch a cross. Holy Water will burn me like acid. I can’t set foot on consecrated ground. It’s difficult for our kind to cross water. Think!”

All Hutch could think of were the many horror movies that Starsky had forced him to sit through. “You don’t mean something like Dracula–vampires–all that Hollywood nonsense?”

“It’s not nonsense,” Nicolas replied soberly. “Before your Hollywood ever made a movie, we existed and still exist. You were so damaged that this was the only way I thought I could save you.”

“I don’t believe a word of it. I dreamed the torture…had to dream it. It’s not possible.” Hutch started to stand and confront his companion only to slump back down as his weakness hit him full force.

“You need to feed. Eventually your instincts will take over and force you to. Right now you have your senses and can make the decision of how you want to feed.”

“Shit. I must be dreaming.”

“No, Hutch, you aren’t. I think a small demonstration is in order.” Nicolas rose straight up in the air to top of the cellar. Hovering, he reached up to release the latch of the small trap door in the ceiling. Hutch stared and leaned back against his straw bed.

“Now I’m sure of it. This is some fever dream.” Hutch sighed and looked again at his hands. “Somehow I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore, Toto.”

Nicolas slowly settled to the floor, grasped Hutch’s hands, and with little effort lifted him to his feet. “Now you must feed. We can continue this discussion later. I want you to be the first vampire to cross over and not kill in the initial feeding frenzy or ever. So we have to start before it hits you.”

Nicolas began rising slowly toward the trap door while instinctively Hutch followed suit, guided by the hands that gripped his wrists tightly. The vampire hunched his shoulders and shoved up the trap door, finding it was dark and quiet in the stable. Only an occasional thump and snuffle indicated that the occupants were indeed in residence.

Hutch began to struggle against his restraint as his augmented sense of smell told him that food was nearby. Nicolas spoke a soothing chant. “Easy. You will feed soon. Easy, young one. Easy.”

Hutch calmed down and followed where the other’s hands were leading him. In the first stall a docile bay mare leaned her long neck over the half door curiously staring at the entities invading her domain.

Nicolas opened the stall door and turned his mental focus to the mare. She whuffled contentedly and nudged his shoulder with her muzzle. Hutch began the transformation swiftly out from under Nicolas’ calming influence. He lunged forward and fixed his virgin fangs into her jugular. Nicolas watched then began pulling Hutch from the quiescent mare.

“Don’t kill her. There are many more for you,” Nicolas whispered, relieved when the young vampire pulled away reluctantly. “Lick her wounds.” Hutch’s glaring golden eyes fixed on his mentor. “Lick her wounds. Your saliva will accelerate her natural healing.” Hutch leaned forward and licked tentatively then with more vigor as he tasted the residual blood.

“Now to the next one.” Nicolas led Hutch to the next stall and again calmed the inhabitant. This time Hutch was not so ravenous and almost delicately made contact with the large jugular. He fed contentedly for long moments then dissolved the contact himself and licked the fast-healing wounds.

“Next time you won’t need two donors,” Nicolas quietly commented as he closed the stall door.

Hutch licked his lips and slowly regained his human appearance. “You still have a lot of explaining to do.”

“Yes, but let’s go up to the chateau and clean up. You, my friend, frankly stink.”

“Yeah.” For the first time the American airman smiled and followed his mentor out of the stable and up to the castle a few hundred yards away.

The manor servants had been alerted to the arrival of guests of the Count and quickly took them to rooms, supplying clothing for them to wear. The servants didn’t even seem to think it odd to have one nearly naked man and companion appearing in the late evening. Janette had lived up to her part of the bargain admirably so far. Somehow she had notified the residents of the estate of their coming arrival. Nicolas wasn’t sure he really wanted to know all of Janette’s methods.

SECOND NIGHT

Swirling the shaving brush around and around in the mug, Hutch looked at his visage in the mirror. Another myth dispelled, he noted as he moved the brush to his face and spread the lather over his cheeks and jaw. Taking up a wicked cutthroat razor, he skillfully removed the stubble that had accumulated over the past week. (Was it only a week? It seemed much longer.) He carefully left a pencil-thin growth over his upper lip. Reaching for a towel, he rubbed the remaining flecks of soap from his face.

Slouching back from the mirror, he studied the face that stared back at him. There was no obvious change except the thin mustache. The blond hair and blue eyes remained unchanged and looked quite benign. Running his tongue behind his upper teeth, he could feel the retracted canines that signified so much change in his life. Last night…was it only last night that he had first drunk the sweet blood of the mare in the stable? It seemed like an eternity with all that he had to absorb. And according to his host, it had to be learned quickly.

After cleaning up last night, he and his mentor had spent the rest of the night discussing the ramifications of the change in his life. Nicolas had explained in detail the dos and don’ts of his changed future. It was hard to imagine living only during the night and spending the day sleeping or at least indoors. He knew that many people did that by choice or at least he thought it was by choice. Now he wondered…

A shorter, stockier figure appeared in the reflection behind him. The older vampire was holding out a wine glass that Hutch reached for automatically as he turned to study his companion. The man was a couple of inches shorter with light reddish-brown hair that tended to curl and deep blue eyes. He appeared to be in his late twenties or early thirties. Another myth dispelled–Nicolas looked nothing like Hollywood had depicted vampires with slicked down, black hair, pasty complexion, and glistening fangs. Maybe the fangs glistened, but he hadn’t seen Nicolas’ yet.

“Breakfast,” Nicolas said as he turned and walked back toward the sitting room of the suite that the two men shared. In the artificial light, his hair glinted with moisture from his recent ablutions as he sat on the winged leather chair.

Hutch studied the liquid while seating himself in the couch beside Nicolas’ chair. He knew what was in the heavy wine glass without looking. He noticed his reinforced sense of smell was getting more acute as time went on. The tangy odor brought hunger pangs so he lifted the glass to his lips. After taking a sip he looked at the glass then raised an eyebrow at his companion.

“Bovine,” Nicolas answered at his unspoken question. “I wondered how fast your senses were progressing.”

Taking another sip, Hutch rolled the taste around on his tongue. “Think I prefer the horse from last night, but this isn’t too bad…all part of the training, I take it.”

“Not really. Just thought a change of pace might be appropriate. And the Count’s staff takes regular donations from the dairy herd. Makes it much easier than going out and getting it for yourself, right?”

“So I don’t have to hunt down an animal every night?”

“No. And after these first few nights are over, you can feed more sparingly. Right now your system is still recovering from the healing process plus the normal effects of being brought over. Once that recovery is complete, feeding every couple of days or even once a week will keep you going. You’ll weaken noticeably if you let it go longer, though.”

Changing the subject, Hutch asked, “You never explained yourself last night. I’m curious about why you bothered rescuing me since we’ve never met. You’ve put yourself in considerable danger and inconvenience for a perfect stranger.”

Hutch was voicing some concerns he never thought of the night before when he was trying to adjust to his new situation. He had taken the stranger at his word, but now he was just a bit suspicious. The whole situation was puzzling. Did vampires go around hunting for victims to change over or was it some fluke? He added these thoughts to his previous comments.

“All perfectly valid,” Nicolas answered and rose to walk over to the fireplace where he picked up an unremarkable statue and fingered it unconsciously.

Hutch waited with as much patience as he could while watching the vampire pick up the delicate figurine and turn it over in his hands then set it back down. Before answering, Nicolas picked up another piece from the mantle and rubbed it then turned back to face the American.

“I was brought over in 1228 by a vampire called LaCroix. He promised me eternal youth and wealth, but told me little about the limitations of the life. I assumed for hundreds of years that his lifestyle was the only one available to my kind.” Nicolas paused and turned back to the mantle.

In that quick flash, Hutch saw a suppressed emotion in the expressive blue eyes that might have been a terrible sadness, but it was gone before it registered. Hutch nearly rose to give the entity emotional support, but Nicolas had his emotions under control as he turned back to regard the flyer before continuing.

“LaCroix taught me that all humans were cattle for our kind to feed upon. I never doubted it and reveled in my new powers. We accumulated wealth and moved from country to country enjoying our depredations on man and avoiding the human conflicts.” Nicolas moved back across the room and settled again into the leather chair.

“I’m not exactly sure when the change began to take place. Somewhere my training and upbringing started to overcome my vampiric nature or what I believed was vampiric nature.” Nicolas paused, smiled and looked at Hutch. “I do have a right to the name that I am using now. I was knighted in 1224. So over a hundred years ago…”

Hutch looked up at Nicolas and shifted his weight in his chair, not sure he could believe what he was hearing. Of course, this tale wasn’t any more fantastic than remembering his own fangs slicing open the neck of the horse the night before. Maybe he’d still wake up and discover this was all an elaborate dream.

Noticing Hutch’s distraction Nicolas again smiled and nodded before he continued his recitation. “I began experimenting and found I could live on any mammal’s blood. Now I avoid killing humans if possible. At first I set myself up as mankind’s judge. I killed only the criminals and those useless to society. Now I find that I can’t make myself their judge, jury, and executioner no matter how much I think they may deserve it.” The elder vampire paused then continued almost to himself. “I once made a terrible error in judgment.”

“That explains your motivations in general, but what about rescuing me from Gestapo Headquarters in Paris? I imagine that if you wanted to rescue people there were hundreds or thousands that needed it just as badly as I did?”

“Ah, but there aren’t hundreds or thousands that were victims of LaCroix.”

Startled, Hutch jerked his head up from the cup from which he was about to take a sip. “LaCroix! He was the guy…”

“Yes,” Nicolas interrupted hurriedly. “He was your interrogator. He’s working with the Nazis now.”

“Jesus Christ! And you lived and worked with that monster for…what hundreds of years?” Hutch rocked his head from side to side, not quite believing what he had just said. “Hundreds of years!” He repeated it under his breath.

“Yes.” The word was uttered softly and without inflection.

Hutch was up and pacing the room. “So you rescued me because your old friend had nearly killed me.”

“Yes…not just nearly, but in reality had murdered you.”

Hutch looked at his hands and shuddered. He thought he only half-remembered the pain inflicted on him. If he only remembered half of it, it was enough to set his teeth on edge.

Nicolas rose and walked over to the slumped figure on the couch and knelt beside the airman. Gingerly he placed a hand on the shuddering man’s knee and quietly said, “I am trying to make a start at a new life. I am trying to make up a little for all the crimes I have committed against humanity.”

Hutch shoved the older vampire’s hand from his leg then jumped to his feet and walked quickly to the shuttered window on the other side of the room. He muttered, “Son of bitch!” then slammed his hand into the window frame that splintered under his vampiric strength. He looked back at the slumped figure crouching by the settee, then without thought hurried from the room into the wide hall. Almost running, he dashed down the elegant spiral staircase and out into the night. Not knowing where to go, he simply headed into the stable and paused by the stall of the bay mare who leaned her head over the half-door and nickered at him.

Unconsciously, he placed a hand on her velvet nose and rubbed it. He leaned against the stall and would have wept if it had been possible, but he was finding out that vampires were not allowed the release of tears. He found rubbing the animal’s face and neck almost soothing as he thought about his rescuer. Last night he had liked and admired the formidable person. Now it was disconcerting to find he was becoming dependent on this creature for food and advice as well as spiritual comfort. Knowing that Nicolas had gone through the same change, had kept him going; but that had changed–or had it? The shock of waking up from death to a kind of living death had been hard enough to understand. Now his newfound peace was shattered by finding that this competent and sympathetic person had been as great a monster as the thing that had tortured him.

Taking some deep breaths to steady his emotions, he began to think rationally. Yes, Nicolas had been a monster, but he said he had changed–had he? Yes, Nicolas had demonstrated his changed attitudes by rescuing him,–and at some danger to himself. The rescue was proof that the being was trying to change. It had never been said, but it dawned on Hutch that if LaCroix caught up with Nicolas over this, things might be a bit uncomfortable for his mentor.

“No matter what you think of me, you should come back into the house. One of the servants told me that someone from the underground would contact us tonight.” The older vampire had entered the stables completely unheard by Hutch’s amplified hearing.

Hutch nodded and turned toward Nicolas, “I’m sorry I overreacted. It was just hard to imagine that you were ever that way.”

“Apology accepted. I, however, never forget what I have been and could be again. You have the same possible nature…I can understand your feelings. There is so much to assimilate and there has been so little time. If I had my way, we would spend weeks on this estate working through all your concerns. I know everything is all raw and new now. And compounding it all, you did not ask to be brought over. Perhaps I made a mistake, but it was not an intentional one.”

“Okay,” Hutch answered as he began walking toward the wide door of the stable. He glanced at his host with new eyes. Maybe Nicolas hadn’t always been a completely benevolent person, but he was obviously an honorable man no matter his guise. He had rescued Hutch for his own reasons, but Hutch found he could live with those reasons. “Underground contact…as in maybe we can get out of this country?”

The two went out of the stable carefully shutting the door behind them. Hutch noticed that although the moon was waning, he could see very well. It seemed almost as bright as day to his new sense of vision.

“Yes…As in getting you back to England.”

As anxious as he was to get away from the threat of simply being in occupied France, Hutch dreaded returning in this changed state. He sighed as he contemplated numerous complications and there were probably many more he hadn’t thought of. The sigh did not go unnoticed by Nicolas.

“I think you are beginning to comprehend the problems.”

“Do vampires read minds?”

“No, but it’s logical to assume it has just dawned on you some problems you will have with your job and friends.”

“No kidding…” Hutch began.

“It will be difficult to keep your changed nature from intimate associates. Most of us when we cross over are either declared dead and must change our venue, or we have killed our best friend, lover, or a member of our family. However, you do not have that guilt to live with. Also I don’t know of anyone who has been brought over for many years and certainly none who have not killed in their first hunger. It’s not very common at all to change a human. Then many of these young vampires go completely insane after having killed friends and lovers.” Nicolas paused and looked at the tall blond beside him. “I think you are a unique case.”

Hutch thought about the vampire’s words. Yes, he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t have gone completely insane if he had killed Starsky or even his unbeloved father. He had been lucky that Nicolas, no matter his motives, had helped him and seen to it that he killed no one in his metamorphosis.

Walking up the steps to the chateau, he saw that there were dim lights in the library. Both men hurried faster through the doorway where a maid came toward them. Hutch knew immediately that she was one of them though he didn’t know exactly how he knew.

“Monsieur,” she murmured to Nicolas, turning away from the American. She glanced uneasily at Hutch then continued in the soft, melodious language of her country while Hutch waited impatiently. Nicolas listened intently then sent the woman away.

“There is a human waiting for us in the library. He arrived just after I followed you out to the stables. He wouldn’t give Jeannine his name or any information.”

“So what do you want to do?”

“We’ll just go see what he wants. If there is trouble, you stay out of it. Violence can bring on the ‘killing frenzy,’ which I think you should avoid at the moment. When you’re older, you can control it. But now I’m afraid that you would kill that man before you even perceived what had happened.”

Hutch nodded and followed the shorter man down the wide hallway to the library. Nicolas opened the double doors and entered almost stealthily.

A fire crackled cheerfully in the oversized fireplace opposite the door. The small man turned when he heard the footsteps on the parquet floor behind him. He was a stooped, aging person holding his worn beret in his work-gnarled hands. Nearly tugging his forelock, he said, “Monsieur le Comte?”

“Je ne suis pas Comte Du Lac. Mais je suis un ami d’un ami du comte,” Nicolas paused as he felt rather than saw the changes starting in the being behind him. “Pardonez-moi,” he said quickly to the peasant and turned to thrust the young vampire from the room. In the hall he quickly saw that the transformation was nearly complete. Hoping the American had as much control as he had before, Nicolas shoved him toward the wide spiral staircase.

“Go upstairs and feed! You need to feed more often at this stage. I’ll tell you what this man tells me, but later!” Hutch’s fangs began to retract when he was no longer in the room with all that throbbing blood though it still rang unpleasantly in his ears. He would be glad to go back to his room and finish his interrupted breakfast.

With a quiet sigh of relief, Nicolas turned back to the library. He entered and reassured the peasant man that all was well with his friend. Quickly he questioned the old man who wouldn’t give his name, but assured him that he would be contacted again at the town where he would direct the vampires. Not liking the secrecy, Nicolas could understand the need for it. If you didn’t know who was meeting you, you couldn’t reveal it under interrogation. Or if you didn’t know the members of the resistance in the next town over you couldn’t tell it if the Gestapo threatened even your family and friends. He just felt very vulnerable, especially with the burden of his young untried vampire.

After the old man left, Hutch came down the stairs looking much improved. Nicolas had almost forgotten that in the first few days of a vampire’s life nearly constant feeding was necessary. That usually spelled the true death for many young. The need for blood was so strong that caution was often thrown out the window and humans naturally took advantage of the situation. One couldn’t blame them since normally the young vampire was feeding on the humans near him/her.

“We must leave shortly since we have to make our next contact by tomorrow evening. We will take two horses; our friend assures me that they will be returned to the Count’s estate by a very circuitous route, but returned nevertheless.”

Nicolas began to mount the stairs as Hutch made no effort to answer. Once back in their suite of rooms, Nicolas gathered a few necessary items of clothing from the wardrobes. Standing in the center of the sitting room, Hutch watched without seeing as the older vampire made preparations for travel. “We might fly, but I don’t think you’re up to that just yet,” Nicolas commented as he stuffed jackets into a pack.

“I would have killed that old man,” Hutch murmured, dwelling on the previous scene as he began to pace the floor. “All that blood–I could feel his heart beat–nearly taste the blood as I opened his vein. This has to get better. It will, won’t it?” Nicolas walked over and put his hand on the blond’s shoulder.

“It will get easier in the next few days. Eventually you can walk among humans and barely notice the pull of the blood when you are not starving. Right now you are starving most of the time.” Nicolas turned to the bell pull near the fireplace and tugged on it. Then he continued, “I’ll watch for the symptoms, but the best thing is never to allow yourself to feel hunger until you have fully made the transition.”

At a light tap on the door, Nicolas turned and left the American standing beside the window. He opened the door and spoke to the young female vampire, Jeannine, in quick low tones.

“The horses and our other supplies will be ready in a few minutes,” the older vampire said quietly to his protégé. “Gather up anything you think you will need.”

Hutch sighed and moved into the bathroom to assemble a few toiletries that he added to the small packs while Nicolas was putting in a few items of his own.

A short time later the two vampires were riding horses into the woods behind the Count’s residence. The path was very visible to the inhuman eyes that guided the animals. As they rode without speaking, Nicolas handed Hutch another wine bottle and gestured for him to drain it. Hutch took it without enthusiasm, but instinct took over and drinking all the bottle held was no hardship. The night was nearly over when they entered a small village and Nicolas made immediately for a barn behind the one inn. A woman was waiting for them and took the horses quickly into the stalls. She was a middle-aged motherly type who efficiently stripped the animals of their gear. She spoke urgently to Nicolas who nodded and led Hutch to the large grain storage bin.

Both men crawled into the bin that smelled sweetly of moldering grain. But the straw was clean and the two made themselves comfortable. Nicolas took out more wine bottles from the packs and both made a hasty meal before the sun rose. Hutch immediately fell asleep as he would for a few more days almost in synchronization with the sun. Nicolas checked the large bin for holes that might be a problem before he slept for the day.

THIRD NIGHT

Early the next evening the same middle-age woman knocked on the lid to the bin. Stretching cramped limbs, both vampires quickly exited.

She handed Nicolas a scrap of paper and indicated two bicycles leaning against a support post then quickly left the barn. Hutch noticed that the Count’s horses had disappeared during the day. Securing the pack to one of the bikes, the men slowly left the small village behind. Hutch realized that he was completely dependent on Nicolas as he had no contacts and no idea where he was. Nicolas wasn’t telling him much either.

The night stretched long before Hutch as he rode beside his companion. The forest had given way to fields surrounded by high hedges and tall poplar-like trees that could have been poplars for all the American knew. His knowledge of trees was spotty at best.

With a jerk of his hand Nicolas hurried them off the narrow dirt road. His sharp vampire ears had caught the far off chatter of internal combustion engines on the road behind them. The rattle turned into a roar as the two fugitives found it difficult to hide in the open fields.

A long convoy of German machines, consisting mainly of troop transports and supply trucks, rounded the slight bend behind them. The dimmed headlights of the vehicles caught the two vampires in their glare and froze them like hunted rabbits. Hutch stood still and gestured for Nicolas to do the same, which in fact was all that could be done. As the headlights moved on, the two tried to slip away and not abandon the bikes.

As they stumbled through the plowed field pushing the bicycles, the roar of a motorcycle drew their attention. Two German military policemen were bouncing over the field toward them. Using their enhanced strength, Nicolas and Hutch hurried faster toward the edge of the field. Without taking to the air or other vampiric means of locomotion, Nicolas knew it was a lost cause. Nicolas wanted no tales taken back to the German High Command about fleeing men with super abilities even if they probably wouldn’t be believed.

He urged Hutch ahead of him into the dark of the woodland before turning and waiting for the approaching soldiers. His fangs slid down out of his jaw and his eyes glazed as the changes he couldn’t quite control during danger took over. When the first motorcycle entered the woods, he leaped and knocked the man from his cycle then turned back to face the next one. With ease he dumped that machine and turned to face the first Nazi who was just getting up and rushing toward him. Then Hutch leaped from the brush and grabbed the man in a killing grip. Gunfire snapped as the second rider fired his handgun from the ground. Nicolas flinched as bullets passed harmlessly, not painlessly through his torso and carried on his attack in the face of the pistol. With inhuman speed he snatched the man and snapped his neck.

In the blur of an eye he was back beside his companion as Hutch was starting to make contact with the terrified human’s throat. “Stop, Hutch. Don’t kill him. Not that way!”

Hutch turned and snarled, protecting his victim from competition. Laying a gentle hand on Hutch’s shoulder, Nicolas tried to pull him from the screaming human. Hutch backhanded Nicolas, but didn’t release his grip on his victim. The blow threw the elder vampire into his own killing frenzy, quickly leaping to his feet and shoving Hutch from the German. The two vampires faced each other literally hissing and snarling while the soldier lay stunned on the ground.

Nicolas regained his senses first and quickly overpowered the young vampire, but not before the soldier was fleeing toward the open field. Pushing Hutch away, he actually flew to the human and grabbed him just as he was nearly to the edge of the woods.

Quickly crushing the soldier’s throat, he started to turn back to Hutch only to be bowled over by the attacking airman. He held onto the struggling young vampire, hoping that the bloodlust would dissipate since the humans were dead and the imminent prospect of feeding was gone. It took a few minutes for Nicolas to subdue the growling creature, but as he had thought the young vampire soon began to make his transition back to human appearance. With a deep sigh, Nicolas released his hold on Hutch who slumped to the ground.

Lying on his stomach, Hutch shuddered and sobbed tearlessly into the detritus on the forest floor. Knowing that escape was more important than sympathy, Nicolas left the weeping vampire and flew low across the deeply plowed field to the bikes and their packs. The shots had been heard and one truck was pulled to the side of the road where it was disgorging armed troops. Snatching the pack from the fallen bike, Nicolas fled back into the woods.

Once there he yanked the American to his feet and slapped him across the face. Hutch gasped for air then turned toward the shouting coming from the edge of the field. His first thought was to grab a rifle from the scabbard on the nearest motorcycle.

Nicolas shook his head, “Let’s get out of here. You don’t stand a chance even with that.” He gestured to the semiautomatic weapon Hutch was shouldering. “I had hoped to give you a few flying lessons before this was necessary.” Nodding in comprehension, Hutch slid the rifle over his shoulder by its sling.

Holding hands, both vampires levitated into the trees and began slipping between the branches of the huge trees. It seemed that hours slipped by as they dodged the troops scattered in the forest. Finally a few hours before dawn their embellished senses could no longer discern any humans nearby. It took precious night time for Nicolas to find a small cave carved into the side of river.

The two blocked the entrance of the cave with heavy brush and branches of trees. It was now nearing dawn and both vampires were near the end of their tether.

“Go clear to the back of the cave,” Nicolas ordered tersely as he put the finishing touches on the door to their refuge. He then followed Hutch now carrying both the pack and the rifle to farthest reaches of the damp cave.

“There will be leakage of light. Not much I can do about that. We will have to simply cover our eyes. I don’t think there will be any direct light that will burn our skin.” Hutch nodded, feeling as if he could sleep standing up.

“Drink this,” Nicolas handed Hutch the last of the wine bottles they had brought with them.

“What about you?”

“As I have said, we can go about a week without feeding. I am feeling no terrible hunger now. You, however my friend, are still healing so you need this more than I do. I don’t want you falling into another ‘killing frenzy‘ anytime soon.”

Hutch nodded. He remembered nearly killing the Nazi soldier and didn’t want to feel that out of control again soon. He raised the bottle to his lips and drained it quickly as he felt the lethargy of day hitting him.

While Hutch was drinking, Nicolas had made two meager pallets from the spare clothing. Hutch slumped down and was immediately unconscious. Nicolas carefully covered them both with the packs and slid into vampiric rest–not quite sleep, but restful all the same.

FOURTH NIGHT

The next night saw Nicolas and Hutch flying low to the tree tops with frequent pauses to let the newly fledged vampire rest. Hutch was beginning to feel the now-familiar onset of blood hunger, but he kept it to himself, not wanting to trouble his companion. Near midnight Nic brought them to a halt near a large farmhouse and barn complex.

“You need to feed and we’re out of the bottled stuff,” Nicolas whispered to Hutch. “If we’re careful, you can have some fresh cow’s blood. In that barn, if my nose is correct,” Nicolas murmured, gesturing toward a thatched barn.

Flitting from tree to bush, the two made their wary way to the barn just as the farmer’s dog began barking and snarling from its chain behind the house.

“Damn!” Nic snapped. “Dogs simply don’t like us! You go ahead and I’ll quiet the thing.”

Hutch nodded, not worrying about the dog now that he had the scent of blood in his nostrils. He slid into the gap between the large double doors of the barn. Shuffling nervously in a stall was a brownish cow with graceful horns curving over her brow. Hutch went into the stall and gingerly patted her flank as she shifted away from him. He had absolutely no idea how to quiet her as she lowed plaintively and turned her horned head toward him. With a rush of displaced air Nicolas seemed to appear at her head and quickly mesmerized the cow. “I need to learn that trick!” Hutch whispered loudly.

“Feed,” Nicolas commented shortly. “The farmer may appear at any moment. It would be a bit embarrassing for him to find you sucking blood from his favorite milk cow.”

“Yeah.” Hutch quickly lowered his fangs and made short work of feeding from the cow. Licking her wounds, he raised his head as he heard a door slam from the direction of the house.

Nicolas nodded and the two men left the stall, levitating quickly to the loft. Their quick immersion in the loosely packed hay was none too soon as the farmer opened one of the double doors and peered into the dark. He roamed over to the stall where the cow was placidly feeding from her hay bunk. Finding nothing amiss, he left the barn and pulled the door firmly shut behind him.

Both fugitives heaved sighs of relief and slid out of their prickly hiding place. With vampiric swiftness, they leaped into the air from the open loft door and continued their journey. Nicolas nodded with approval at his apprentice, watching Hutch taking to the air with ease now.

Even with Hutch’s frequent fatigue, flying seemed their only option as all the major roads and most auxiliary roads continued to be clogged with military traffic. The chances of getting out of France seemed slimmer with each moment. Neither voiced their concerns–it seemed redundant. The price of not making it was too high to even consider.

It was nearly morning when the two finally dropped into an alley behind the small restaurant in La Clerc. For the last few minutes of flying Hutch was almost certain that he could smell the sea. Thinking it must be an illusion, he mentioned it to Nicolas and was somewhat reassured to find out that it wasn’t his imagination–the Channel was close by. It wasn’t as close as his senses were telling him but close enough for a certain sense of relief and accomplishment.

Nicolas was lightly tapping on the rear door of the restaurant while Hutch took up a position of watching each end of the alley. There was a small crack of light as a man opened the door. Nicolas said something and the door clicked shut then immediately opened with no light showing. The dark-haired man gestured them into the kitchen then with no greeting or comment, hustled them down the stairs and into a dim wine cellar.

“Wait here!” the man stated in accented English and left. The latch on the windowless wine cellar clicked as it was locked. Both vampires paced the confines of the cellar with Hutch occasionally stopping to study a bottle of wine. He had no urge to drink any, but like most Californians he was interested in the wine-making business in one degree or another. The labels were from obscure French vineyards and reading them was simply a form of distraction.

There was little conversation between the two fugitives. Hutch had his concerns regarding his changed nature, but saw no reason to burden his companion who seemed to have worries of his own. Inevitably the sun rose, unseen from their hiding place, and Hutch didn’t fall into a stupor. Noting this, Nicolas told him that he thought the healing was complete, but that he should rest.

Behind a wine rack Hutch sank into some Hessian sacks and closed his eyes. It was a more natural rest than any he had experienced thus far.

A few hours before noon Hutch was awakened by a touch on his shoulder and found Nicolas was leaning over him. “I think someone is unlocking the door.” Hutch nodded and rose, instantly awake and alert.

The vampires faded to opposite sides of the staircase. The rattling was louder and the door crashed open and men rapidly descended the stairs, carrying semiautomatic weapons at ready. Hutch began a quick transformation, but Nicolas stepped out into the men’s field of vision, smiling his charming smile. The men raised their weapons threateningly as Nic spread his hands in the age-old gesture of submission.

ENGLAND

“Dr. Starsky?”

David Starsky looked up from the microscope he was intent upon. His research of late had been so frustrating; he had almost given up coming up with a formula for a new type of fuel for some experimental engines being tested at this complex. Right now he had hopes for a hydrogen peroxide mixture for some smaller rockets the allies were trying to develop.

“There is someone at the gate for you with credentials from MI6.” The young lab assistant was radiating curiosity.

“Thanks. I’ll go meet him,” the scientist responded. He assumed that it was either Bodie or Cowley, and he didn’t want to keep them waiting although he mentally questioned why they stayed outside. The youthful scientist smiled at the frustration of his assistant, obviously wondering why MI6 would be asking for the American scientist. But he wasn’t in the mood to indulge the young man’s curiosity. He knew his assistant wasn’t pleased with his job lately and Starsky knew he was the one at fault; he had been short and snappish with the eager youngster. He just had very little patience with the whole world after Hutch had gone missing in France. What had worried him most was the fact that the Red Cross had had no luck so far in locating him in a prison camp. Perhaps Bodie had some word and that was why he had driven out from London.

Walking rapidly over the picture perfect grounds of the estate on which the research facility was housed, Starsky no longer noticed the carefully tended gardens and lawns. It was a tribute to how distracted he was over his lost lover. Usually he had difficulty getting to the gatehouse without stopping to smell the huge roses that bloomed all summer and now into the fall. The colors were delightful to the eye and the aroma pleased the olfactory nerves. But this time he rushed by them, hoping that the MI6 agent had some news.

On the road just beyond the heavily guarded front entrance to the facility, was a gray Bentley with Bodie lounging negligently against the long hood. He turned at the crunch of Starsky’s steps on the gravel driveway.

“Lo, Bodie,” Starsky said, walking past the armed guards with their rifles held at ready across their chests. He nodded to the one he recognized who relaxed infinitesimally but still watched both men suspiciously.

“Starsk, good to see you.” Bodie held out his hand to the scientist who took it in a tight grip.

“Let’s take a ride around the countryside,” Bodie murmured, leading the way to the open door of the car. Starsky settled himself on the left side as Bodie slid behind the wheel and started the powerful engine.

“You’ve got some news?” Starsky asked as the automobile slid smoothly down the narrow lane that fronted the grounds of the estate, tires quietly whispering their passage.

“Yeah.” Bodie continued to maneuver the car expertly on the narrow winding road, finally pulling up at a small turn out. After turning off the motor, he shifted to face his companion, watching the blue eyes with sympathy.

Starsky was sure that he wasn’t going to like what Bodie had to say. With his credentials he could have come into the research facility and talked to Starsky in the lab or the lounge. This fact meant that he wanted privacy for Starsky when he told him the news.

“Spit it out, damn it!”

Bodie moved uncomfortably in the seat, finally opening the door then walking toward the open field and leaning on the rock wall edging the pasture. The day was clear and the grass in the pasture was gleaming with the previous night’s heavy dew. Starsky impatiently followed, his posture stiff with repressed anger at Bodie and the world.

Starsky reached for Bodie’s shoulder as he turned and faced the ravaged face of the American. “Yeah, there’s news.” Bodie turned again to look out at the peaceful field. “Hutch was picked up by the Luftwaffe three nights ago.” Starsky sighed and laid his forearms on the stone fence then rested his head on them.

“So he’s a prisoner of war.”

“It’s worse. He was taken from the Luftwaffe by the Gestapo.”

“Shit! Those bastards!” Starsky shuddered at his own memories of his incarceration by the Gestapo. “But why? Hutch should be a legitimate POW.”

“We don’t know. Our contact was sure he was taken to Gestapo headquarters in Paris.”

“Oh God!”

“The Luftwaffe has been making waves with the Gestapo, but of course they haven’t gotten anywhere. There’s a great deal of rivalry between the two.”

Bodie looked over at his companion and pointedly ignored the tears streaking the expressive face. Starsky straightened and slammed his hand into the unforgiving rock wall, never noticing the blood that flowed or the pain that shrieked from his damaged knuckles. He turned and rushed down the road while Bodie followed at a more discreet pace. Finally the scientist stopped and sat on a large rock beside the wall and held his head in his hands. Bodie squatted beside him with one hand on his shoulder, feeling helpless to give further support.

“The Cow has feelers out with all our agents in the underground in Paris. If there’s anything to find out, they’ll find it.” Bodie wasn’t too hopeful–agents disappeared into that building in Paris never to be heard of again, let alone pilots.

Scrubbing his face with the back of his hand, Starsky headed down the road to the Bentley. “Let’s go back to the lab. I wanna pick up some stuff and then we can go back to London.”

“We?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna stay in town for a while in case there’s any information from those feelers. I don’t think I can sit out here in the country and do nothing.”

“All right. I’ve no problem with that. The flat seems a bit lonely lately.” Both men walked back to the Bentley and climbed into their respective places. The low growl of the powerful engine soothed the mental processes of both men.

FRANCE

The rattle of gunfire did not materialize in the crowded cellar as Hutch expected. He watched as four, no five, men clattered down the open staircase. The last man in the line caught his eye. Shorn of curls and wearing a filthy beret, Raymond Doyle was almost unrecognizable. Hutch’s eyes scanned the other figures and their menacing gestures with the Sten guns. Doyle loitered near the top of the stairs with one hand casually resting on the trigger and the other braced on a clip sticking out of the side of the magazine. For all the relaxation of the pose, the menace was evident.

There was a strident conversation in French between Nic and one of the group at the bottom of the stairs. Hutch couldn’t understand what was being said, but he could see the relaxation of the stances of the group as Nicolas answered their questions. He stepped away from his place in the shadows warily when Nicolas gestured to him.

Upon seeing Hutch, Doyle shouldered the Sten gun and slipped down the stairs between his companions. He said a few words to the others and their weapons were lowered or slung on their shoulders.

“Hutchinson,” Doyle greeted the American. “Wasn’t quite expecting you.”

“Know what you mean,” Hutch returned, eyeing the ragged figure of his friend. “Last Bodie told us, you were either killed or captured.”

“Yeah. That was the plan.” Doyle shrugged and turned his attention to the other fugitive who had slid back into the shadows, watching the two intently. “My orders are to get you back to England as soon as possible. None of us can quite understand how you managed to get this far. The roads have been clogged with troops for the last week.” Doyle and the elder vampire continued to study each other while Doyle spoke to Hutch.

“It wasn’t easy,” Hutch said, trying to avoid any further explanation in front of strangers. It wasn’t going to be easy to explain to Doyle who should trust Hutch. But telling someone that they literally flew the last few miles to avoid the crowded roads and highways was going to be difficult.

“Let me introduce you to my guide. Ray Doyle, this is Nic Chevalier.” Hutch was trying to distract Doyle from how they traveled. He had a hunch the tenacious Doyle wouldn’t give up easily.

Both nodded, acknowledging the other, but although there was suspicion on both their parts, they were willing to reserve judgment for the moment since the American airman seemed to trust the other. There was some shuffling from the men on and around the stairs, and a brief comment from one of them. Then all four tramped up the steps, leaving the other three in the dimly lit cellar.

Removing the gun slung from his shoulder and bracing it against the wall, Doyle eased himself down on the edge of a step. Relaxing his own tense shoulders, Hutch slid down the side of a wine cask and settled on the floor. Only Nicolas remained standing with distinct unease.

“One of our contacts in Paris said that there would be a problem for you to travel during the day. And that special consideration would have to be taken crossing the channel. Now ordinarily we’d have had second thoughts of trying to get anyone out of the country with those types of restrictions. However, our friend in Paris is one of the most useful agents we have so we will do all we can to help.” Doyle paused and looked at Hutch then at Nicolas. Neither seemed ready to elaborate on these problems now. “Then London decided that they simply had to have a member of 27 Squadron back. Now why would 27 Squadron be so important?” Doyle cocked his head inquiringly at Hutch.

“The Gestapo seemed inordinately interested in 27 Squadron, as well,” Hutch conceded. “All I can figure is that they want their new fighter to remain a secret. ‘Course shooting down my entire squadron is not any way to keep a secret.”

“New fighter?” Doyle seemed to prick up his ears. “There’ve been rumors of something…could just be a new fighter–something revolutionary anyway.”

Squatting down between the two, Nicolas seemed to relax. “When and how will you arrange to get us out of the country?” he questioned, interrupting the speculation of the two warriors.

“There’ll be a fishing boat,” Doyle answered readily. “Our friends’ll come when the time is right. I’ve a few things to do this evening. Wanna check out the buildup in the Calais area. It might be a few days before I get back.”

“What’s this buildup all about?” Hutch questioned. “Is it the invasion?”

“Probably. I don’t know,” Doyle answered. “Gotta get moving.” He rose and took up his gun. “I’ll be back here in a few days.”

There appeared nothing else to say. Hutch watched Doyle go up the stairs and disappear into the cafe’s kitchen above.

* * *

Doyle returned just after dusk two nights later. The two vampires had spent the time in either utter boredom or discussing the ramifications of crossing the Channel. Hutch had felt that Doyle needed to be informed of the type of entities that his passengers were. Nic was a little uncertain even with Hutch’s assurances that the British agent was very reliable even if he had a nasty temper. He quickly gave Chevalier a synopsis of their history which reassured the elder vampire somewhat.

As the sun disappeared for the day, Nicolas left the confines of the wine cellar, leaving the disclosures to the British agent of their special abilities and restrictions to the American flyer.

Hutch slumped on an empty wine cask as the British agent entered the cellar. He watched Doyle descend the stairs, wondering how to talk to Doyle. The agent sauntered down the stairs, taking in all the nooks and crannies of the tiny cellar. His Sten gun was held loosely in his hands at an angle that made turning it into a deadly weapon with only a slight shift of his stance very easy.

“Where’s Chevalier?” were the first words from Doyle’s mouth as he continued scanning the room.

“He went out a few minutes ago.”

“You’re supposed to stay out of sight,” Doyle snapped, turning around in the small space to face Hutch.

“We decided I should talk to you first. He’s not far away. He’ll be back in a few minutes.”

In fact, Nicolas was only in the broom closet outside the door of the wine cellar where he could eavesdrop on the conversation taking place between the two. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Doyle; he did, but he wasn’t sure how the human would take the announcement that he was to escort two vampires over the Channel to England.

Back in the cellar, Hutch was still gathering his thoughts to talk to Doyle who was fast losing what little patience he possessed.

“Quit stalling, Hutchinson. We don’t have all night to play games,” Doyle finally snapped, wondering what had the normally loquacious American so close-mouthed.

“This is going to be a bit hard to believe…”

“Then don’t tell me. Call your friend back down here. We need to make a few plans to get you to the coast.”

“Yeah, but this might make a difference to your plans,” Hutch again hesitated. Then plunged into the explanation of what had happened to him after he was shot down.

In as concise fashion as he could, Hutch tried to summarize all that had happened to him while watching different emotions play across the face of the English agent who had seated himself on the steps that took up about half the small room. The expressive face showed impatience that gradually turned to incredulity and finally amusement.

“Not exactly sure what those Nazi bastards did to you during interrogation, mate. But that’s the most fantastic story I’ve heard lately.” Doyle chuckled while watching the American carefully, waiting for further signs of the devastating insanity he was sure the flyer suffered from. It was going to be hard to break this kind of news to Starsky waiting in England.

As Doyle was having these thoughts, the door at the top of the stairs silently opened to admit Nicolas to the cellar. He slipped down the stairs unheard by the two people engrossed in observing each other. Hutch was considering flying to the ceiling as Nic had when proving his powers on that first night that seemed so long ago. Or he was thinking of transmuting into his vampire form although he wasn’t sure he could control it. He hadn’t felt any sign of hunger today or the intense weariness Nicolas told him indicated his complete healing and change over to vampire life.

“He’s quite sane, you know,” Nicolas commented as he slid past Doyle on the stairs. Consciously he brought on his own transformation. His fangs descended from his jaw and his eyes changed color while carefully keeping his back to the human until the change was complete. Then he turned and snarled at the wide-eyed human just rising to his feet. Watching the man with his keen vision, Nic grabbed the machine gun from the lax fingers. Bullets usually weren’t too harmful to vampires, but at close range a machine gun could shatter the spine which would be as deadly as beheading.

Doyle started to turn to flee up the stairs as primitive terror took over his normally stable personality. Hutch flew to the door at the top of the stairs and blocked his escape. By this time Hutch had transformed, and Doyle stumbled back down the steps to bump up against Chevalier. Nicolas quelled his growl as he grabbed the distraught human, then forced Doyle to sit on the cask. Hutch flew down the stairs, his arrival punctuated by whoosh of displaced air. He grinned at Doyle when his features had settled back to his human disguise.

“Bloody, fuckin’ ‘ell,” Doyle muttered under his breath. He watched as Nicolas slowly levitated to the ceiling, hung there, then drifted down like an autumn leaf. “So that’s how you managed to get past all the roadblocks and check points,” Doyle, ever the practical-minded, said quietly. Yeah, he believed these things, even the one that wore Hutch’s face. He wasn’t sure that Hutch still existed, but he could see some wonderful possibilities if he did, and if the thing using his face was willing.

During the next hour, the three conspirators began settling travel arrangements. Knowing the secrets of his companions changed the plans of Doyle to some degree. He agreed to meet the two vampires at a cove to be designated at the last moment. Nic knew that he and Hutch could make the short trip in a few minutes instead of the thirty minutes or hour that would be consumed by traveling secretly on foot. It was worrisome that there would be so little notice. They would have to lay in a supply of blood. Nicolas didn’t inform Doyle that they would have to venture out and feed before making such a strenuous trip. He hadn’t told Hutch either, but knew that he could convince the new vampire as the hunger pangs made themselves known. Besides, Kenneth Hutchinson was turning into a responsible vampire no different from the type of human being he had been.

Doyle watched his companions closely. As far as he could tell Hutch remained Hutch. And the two vampires could easily pass as human most of the time. It seemed that they had to make a conscious effort to display their hidden talents. He was a bit uneasy at the prospect of traveling with the pair, but didn’t voice his uneasiness.

* * *

After raiding the village chemist, Nicolas and Hutch flew low over treetops searching for a local farmer that had several cows. The moon was partially obscured by clouds as a small weather front moved through. The two vampires had been waiting in the cellar for three days and nights. So far, except for sporadic visits by Doyle, they had amused themselves with conversation or simply resting. It was now critical that they feed. Nicolas had entered the sparsely furnished drugstore in the village and managed to find some large veterinary needles and tubing. He planned to visit a number of cows or horses and fill the prepared wine bottles with a supply of blood.

Nicolas and his kind had gone through this problem many times. It hadn’t taken him long to find the proper herbs to combine with the alcohol in the wine to prepare the bottles to hold blood in its liquid form and prevent coagulation. Not many vampires enjoyed surviving on the preparation, but sometimes, as now, it was necessary for survival.

Since it was dangerous to leave the cellar too often no matter how stealthy they thought they were, it was well to be prepared for a long wait. There was always the chance of observation and being reported to the authorities if they were too active. Every village could have a turncoat and every resistance cell worried about such a possibility.

A thatched barn loomed up beyond the trees over which the vampires were flying. The low altitude was convenient for finding the farm that Doyle had recommended. There was little chance of observation by the rural populace because of the strictly enforced curfews.

Settling lightly outside the barn, Nicolas shifted his pack and glanced over at the cottage. There was no obvious sign of life, but blackout regulations forbade any light showing. The barn door creaked as Hutch pulled it gently toward him. He lifted up on the hinges to facilitate opening the sagging door. Inside there was shuffling of the occupants as strangers invaded their territory. One large whitish cow in the first stall turned, slamming her heavy body against the stall as she regarded vampires with gleaming eyes. She was obviously protecting the calf nested in the straw in the corner. Nicolas quickly moved to quiet her.

As she returned to her hay rack, they moved to the next stall. In it was a large black and white bull with a ring in his nose. Hutch used his newly learned calming techniques on him. The bull stopped pawing his bedding as the fire was quenched in his eyes. Going from stall to stall, they worked their vampiric magic on all the inhabitants. Finally returning to the bull, Nic opened the door and entered quickly with his equipment. It didn’t take long to fill a couple of bottles from the powerful beast.

Hutch used his equipment on two other members of the herd. Then both vampires fed in the natural way. When all was finished, they packed the blood away carefully in a knapsack which Nic shouldered.

Rising swiftly into the cloudy sky, Nicolas and Hutch flew swiftly back to the quiet village. Back in the alley, they slid through the door of the restaurant and down the cellar steps. Nic stored the filled bottles in a cool corner of the cellar. It would keep there for a few nights. If the waiting went on much longer, both men would be stir crazy and slipping out for feeding would again be necessary.

The few days and nights spent in the cellar had been a long and boring time. They had exchanged confidences. Hutch had talked at length about Starsky. He had wondered if lovemaking was still possible for him. Smiling to himself, Hutch settled down on the blankets in the corner of the dimly lit cellar–the owner of the restaurant had taken pity on his guests after the first night and had provided a few rudiments of comfort.

Complete boredom had brought forth his confidences. Remembering one of those conversations widened the smile on the pilot’s face.

It had been a night when the distant visitation of the RAF was much closer than usual. The bombs had rattled the wine bottles in their shelves and reminded Hutch of the occasional ground shakes in California. The far off bomb concussions had a similarity to minor quakes which rocked the Golden State often.

Watching the dust filter down, Hutch had brought up the subject of sex to his companion, mentor, tutor, or whatever one should call Nicolas. It had started more to get both their minds off the possibility of being buried alive. Not that burial would kill them, but it still wasn’t a pleasant prospect.

Nic had leaned back in his makeshift pallet under the stairs and watched the American closely.

“Of course, vampires have sex!” Then the French vampire had the audacity to laugh. “All beings have sex in some manner. I don’t think the vampire life would appeal to anyone if some sort of sex were not possible.”

Hutch had hesitated about his long-time homosexual lover. Then he plunged ahead with his enquiries.

“It’s just that my partner is a man.”

Nic simply waited. He wasn’t shocked–not in the least. In nearly four hundred years, he had experienced almost every type of sex that was physically possible.

“In some ways, that will make it easier,” Nic finally responded. “It’s best that if you are going to have a mortal lover, that it be a strong individual.”

“Uh…is it much different? I mean…everything still functions, doesn’t it? It’s just…I mean…I haven’t felt any urges.” Hutch stumbled and would have blushed if it had been possible.

“Of course, everything functions,” Nic answered and wondered about his inhibited friend. “There are added benefits…If your lover is willing, the exchange of blood is wondrously erotic for you in this form.” Nicolas paused, remembering a few very erotic moments in his life. Then he continued, “The basic drawback is that you will let your nature carry you away. You could kill by accident.” Hutch was horrified as his active imagination supplied Starsky limp in his arms.

“However, this is what I meant by a strong lover. He must keep his wits about him during the exchange. You can control–all he will have to do is remember to ask you if your impulses have overwhelmed you.”

“So it’s possible,” Hutch sighed. It had been worrying him off and on during the past few days since they’d been holed up in the cellar with time on their hands. Before that he’d been so wrapped up in surviving that he’d frankly forgotten Starsky safe in England.

“Will this change Starsky?” Hutch had finally had the nerve to ask Nicolas.

“It’s possible or rather probable that he will become one of us when he dies, if you indulge often. Lovemaking without the blood is possible, but I don’t think it’s quite so satisfactory. If your lover was a woman, I would caution you more strongly than I do. But she could still control your urges, if you couldn’t.” Nicolas appeared to be enjoying his teaching of this aspect of their nature more than others. “Remember ignorance is what will allow you to kill.”

“So I have to tell Starsky about all this right away.”

“The sooner the better. If he can’t accept it, then he isn’t the lover that you thought he was.”

Hutch had few concerns about Starsky’s acceptance of his change. It was other people in England that worried him. Occasionally he saw a certain speculative gleam in Doyle’s green eyes. He wondered what the agent was thinking up.

* * *

Huddling deeper against the hummock of tough prickly salt grass, Nic and Hutch watched the faint outline of the tank traps that lined the sandy beach. Even with augmented vampiric night vision, the mist and fog obscured the rusting spars most of the time. Only the muffled lapping of the waves gave any indication of the nearby water. Hutch grimaced to himself as his stomach gave a lurch when he even thought of riding a small fishing vessel across the few miles that spanned the channel. He had broached the idea with Nic of flying themselves over only to have that brilliant suggestion torpedoed by his mentor. Vampires were limited on how far they could fly over water by its depth and width, therefore, most rivers weren’t wide enough or deep enough to cause a problem, but oceanic bodies of water were a different story.

A disturbance on the beach below the refugees drew the airman’s attention away from his contemplation. Shifting silently, Hutch looked from behind the scruffy grass to the sandy shore while Nic moved into position beside him and both men visually searched the area around the cove. Eventually the acrid odor of tobacco drifted through the fog. Then guttural voices were heard unnaturally loud in the fog dampened atmosphere. Both vampires froze to the spot, wishing for more cover than some rank grass that was only a couple of feet high at best.

Then the German patrol seemed to move away. Using every sense at their command, they finally perceived that the beach was clear. Relaxing only a very little, both men gave silent sighs of relief.

“Damn,” Hutch muttered almost breathlessly, waiting for his heart to slow its beat. He wondered if vampires got adrenalin rushes–it certainly felt like that to him. “Must’ve been a Jerry patrol.”

Nic nodded into the darkness, not wanting to make much noise even though the patrol seemed to have moved away. It was probable that between them, the two vampires could have subdued the Nazi patrol, but the chances of doing it silently were small.

Both men tried to crouch even lower into the hard-packed sand and stringy salt grass. Long seconds eventually became long minutes that seemed to stretch endlessly before them.

“Wonder where our escort is?” Hutch murmured into the suffocating dampness of the fog and mist.

“It’s not yet midnight,” Nicolas answered, as the gentle waves continued lapping lazily at the sandy beach. Hutch changed position uncomfortably in the itchy substance.

“I won’t be coming with you,” the elder vampire said into the quiet night. Hutch jerked and turned his startled face toward his mentor.

“What do you mean?”

“I have no place in England. You have friends and a lover. I would be superfluous. There is a place for me back in Paris,” Nicolas lifted his head and seemed to be looking toward the once glittering city. Momentarily Hutch wondered if LaCroix figured in Nicolas’ thoughts or the beautiful vampire girl Nic had mentioned when explaining their escape. He couldn’t be sure she was beautiful, but he was sure anyone Nic would associate with had to be beautiful…even LaCroix had a certain compelling type of good looks if you liked that type. Hutch hadn’t before and certainly didn’t now.

“I’m not exactly sure I can survive without your help,” Hutch quietly exclaimed, trying to suppress the onrush of panic. “I still have a lot of stuff to learn.”

“Others have with much less knowledge. As I said, take your lover into your confidence. Doyle is already prepared to help and make use of your talents,” Nic smiled fondly at Hutch and placed a light hand on his shoulder. “You know how to feed and you know the limitations of your ‘condition.'” Nic stopped and listened intently into the gloom. Then he shook his head as the rustling of a night beast became more noticeable. “I have only one more thing to warn you about and that is the Enforcers. They seem strangely silent during this time of history. Perhaps they understand the futility of trying to influence this foolish human endeavor.”

“Enforcers?” Hutch asked in a careful tone that covered his shock. He was glad of something to distract him from the problems of his future with his volatile scientist lover.

“Yes,” Nic answered. “They are a group that attempts to protect our way of life from discovery by the human world. I have given you lessons on how to operate. Follow that and there will be little interference from them. As I said, they seem to be largely absent from this conflict.”

Hutch nodded then asked, “How will I know them?”

“Oh, you’ll know them. Make no mistake about that.” Nic’s head turned abruptly, interrupting their conversation. Hutch’s attention was also drawn into the thickening mist. Both men’s hair was now almost wet from the cold fog that was condensing on it.

Three apparitions appeared out of the pea soup quickly taking human form. The set of the shoulders and slim build of the leader identified him in Hutch’s mind as the British agent.

“Over here, Doyle.” Hutch’s whisper sounded unnaturally loud and seemed to bounce off the hidden rocky walls of the cove as the atmosphere played tricks in the damp air, causing the three men to stiffen and turn in all directions. The acoustics of the night were confusing. Then, as the surf’s rhythmic slapping of the beach overtook the sound and drowned it, the three men relaxed as the refugees were recognized when they began making their way toward the low hummock where the two vampires were rising and moving down the slope.

Hutch and Nic had risen from their positions in the sand and began quietly brushing the clinging sand from their clothes as they slithered their way through the shifting sand.

“Cutting it a bit close, aren’t you?” Hutch asked, as the two parties came together.

“Had to wait for that patrol. The boat will be here in about five minutes. She’ll wait only ten minutes so we’d better get down on the beach,” Doyle answered, checking the watch on his wrist.

The five started to separate but before that Nicolas leaned forward and gently touched his lips to Hutch’s cheek then he hugged the American briefly. “Good luck, my friend. Perhaps we can find one another once this war is finished.” Then he started to go back up the beach.

Doyle seized the vampire’s arm as he passed the British agent. Nic obediently halted and gazed calmly at the man clutching his arm. “Wotcha doing, Chevalier?”

“I’m returning to Paris. I think there’s some unfinished work for me there. No matter what I am or where I am, I’m still a Frenchman and my country needs me.” The shadowy figures of Doyle’s underground escorts nodded in agreement. “I can’t run from this war anymore.”

Doyle understood at once. “Do you have any contacts in Paris?”

“If I didn’t, I’m sure these gentlemen would supply me,” Nicolas answered, as he nodded his head to the others listening to the conversation and receiving shakes of their heads for confirmation.

“Yeah. Good luck. I think you’re going to need it.”

“Thank you. And take care of Hutch. He’s going to be very ill on this trip. Get to England before daylight or if you can’t, keep him on board away from the sun until dark. He won’t like it, but it’s better than the alternative.”

“Yeah, life’s always a better alternative than death,” Doyle agreed, turning back toward the Channel. In his intense concentration, he was already dismissing the French vampire from his thoughts and zeroing in on the matter at hand. Namely, getting the American pilot back for a complete debriefing and what he himself carried back to George Cowley.

As the three Frenchmen disappeared into the mist, Hutch and Doyle slipped and slid through the sand and between the menacing tank traps that lent the whole scene an eerie aspect. Twisted metal which at times leaned drunkenly askew loomed out of the fog with intense suddenness. One minute the fog was impenetrable then as the gentle breeze briefly shifted, a grotesque sculpture would present itself directly in their paths. The muffling of sound by the haze lent itself to Hutch’s fantasy that they were the last people on earth. Then the silence was shattered as a grating noise signified the fisherman’s dinghy being beached. The fog suddenly intensified the creaking sound of the oars being stowed. Following the sounds of the waves lapping against the wood, the two men rushed toward the sea and the waiting rowboat. The figures of the fisherman were revealed as gray specters when the wind shifted blowing away some of the mist and ground-hugging fog.

Hutch stood back and watched as Doyle exchanged words with the fishermen then he was gestured to help shove the craft into the water. With icy water splashing about his ankles, Hutch accessed some of his superhuman strength and easily propelled the small boat into the rocking ocean. The Frenchmen leaped into the boat, grabbed the oars and began pulling against the current. Doyle and Hutch heard a shout from the beach. Hutch almost turned around, before he identified the language as German. Doyle did not hesitate, but leaped for the gunwale of the dinghy, recognizing that the patrol had returned. As the boat began moving back out to sea, Hutch was thrown off his feet momentarily by a wave. Doyle now kneeling in the prow of the boat reached over and grabbed Hutch by his lapels and began pulling him aboard. As he was sliding on his belly over the gunwale, he felt a sharp slap to his thigh then a stinging pain. He grappled momentarily with Doyle to hold his balance then slid awkwardly to the bottom of the boat.

There was the distinct rattle of automatic weapon’s fire, but the pattern was random, showing that the patrol had no idea where the dinghy had disappeared to in the mist and haze. All the passengers mentally relaxed. The oarsmen also may have relaxed mentally, but physically they dug deeper into the water with their oars.

“Are you hit?” Doyle questioned Hutch.

Hutch nodded and smiled, then whispered, “One of the few advantages of my transition is my new powers of recuperation. It won’t even be very noticeable by the time we reach the boat.” He paused and looked around to see if the conversation was being monitored.

“Don’t worry,” Doyle answered his unvoiced question. “I don’t think they understand much English.

“How do they do it?” Hutch questioned.

“Do what?”

“Find the right cove in all this,” Hutch waved his hands around indicating the weather, but specifically the murkiness of the atmosphere.

“Practice, of course,” Doyle smiled. “Then of course, they all grew up on this coast and know every rock and tree for miles. So finding a certain cove on a foggy night was child’s play for them.”

“How is all this arranged?”

“Probably best you don’t know the precise details, but usually they wait for a foggy night then arrive at a prearranged site. If there are passengers, they are waiting with proper code words. If there aren’t passengers, the fishermen return to their ports until the next foggy night. The rest of the time they are peaceful fishermen.”

“How come the Jerries let these guys out in the channel with the chances of them crossing especially in fog or rain really high?”

“The Germans don’t want to feed the French population so they let the fishing industry go on almost unchecked. They do have patrol boats out with the fishing fleets, but when the fog rolls in… It’s like the old saying, ‘When the cats away, the mice will play.‘ These mice play a dangerous game, however. If caught, it’s an automatic firing squad.”

Hutch nodded. The lowly fishermen went up many notches in his estimation at their calm acceptance of the danger to rescue total strangers.

“By the way, Hutchinson, if anything happens to me on the trip across, make sure you get my boots and take the papers sewn in the lining to Cowley and no one else. No one else,” he repeated. “Do you understand?”

Hutch nodded solemnly then noticed his discomfort begin to increase as the water deepened from the shallows. He began to feel some disorientation and a certain amount of nausea. As the nausea began to feel as though it was going to erupt, the mother ship formed up out of the fog.

Doyle grabbed a rope coiled in the bottom of the prow and gingerly rose to his feet. When the dinghy gently nudged its mother, he flung the rope up the short distance to the waiting figures above. Then he reached down and lifted the slightly confused vampire to his feet. By the time Hutch was standing, nets had been lowered from the gunnels of the fishing boat. Under Doyle’s direction he took hold of the webbing and began to pull himself up. Friendly hands grasped various portions of the available anatomy of the American. It took only seconds then before he was sprawled on the deck of the small boat.

In another second Hutch was aware of the nauseating mixed aroma of diesel fuel and fish. The most overpowering odor was fish. Immediately it began to feel as though it was clogging his pores and permeating his clothing. Then Doyle was at his side urging him to his feet. In his utter confusion, he allowed Doyle to push and shove him to the bow of the boat where some spare nets were stored.

He barely noted passing the wheel manned by a gnarled old man who touched his grimy cap and gave them a toothless smile. They both sank down on the lumpy pallet.

Somewhere beneath them a tired diesel engine misfired then began throbbing in an unnerving rhythm, but the boat began a painfully slow journey through the waves. The adrenalin high or whatever it had been had kept most of the rocking motion unnoticed by the vampire, but now as the boat wallowed through the waves, he shuddered as his stomach rebelled against its treatment.

Gasping as the craft began to roll in earnest as it must have left the scant protection of the cove. Hutch rushed to the gunwale and leaned over the edge, his stomach heaving. At this point he found out that the temporary relief afforded mortals by regurgitation was denied his species. Only dry heaves that caused his eyes to water a pinkish fluid continued for long seconds. When the vessel hit an especially large wave, he started to slide over the edge of the safety rail. Just before he attempted to levitate, he felt his belt grabbed by a rough hand. Looking at his rescuer as he was dumped on the deck, he saw a weathered, grinning man in a filthy stocking cap. The man gestured him back to the pile of nets. Gratefully he staggered back with Doyle who was noticeably shivering in the chill breeze off the water. The sailor returned with an oaken bucket that he dropped on the deck near Hutch’s feet and a couple of thick jackets were tossed toward them.

Doyle snatched up the nearest and wrapped himself in it. Sighing at the relief from the icy wind, Doyle looked at Hutch who slowly took up the other coat and held it out to the English agent. Doyle shook his head so Hutch shrugged into it.

“Don’t notice the cold much anymore. But this sea voyage just isn’t my cup of tea?” Hutch tried to lighten the atmosphere. Doyle smiled weakly at the feeble quip.

Trying to take his mind off the bouncing of the boat, Hutch commented to Doyle, “Last report we had of you before I left on my last mission was that you were lost somewhere in France. Now you’re here big as life and twice as nasty.”

“Had to be that way,” Doyle answered shortly.

“Couldn’t you have gotten word back to Bodie through some of your MI6 contacts? He’s been a bit distraught to say the least.”

“No, I bloody well couldn’t. There was a leak in MI6 big enough to drive a lorry through. Cost us a few lives over on the Continent. That’s what you’ve got to get through to Cowley even if I don’t make it. In addition, the bonus I’ve stashed in me boots.”

“Okay, okay,” Hutch conceded, raising his hands in mock surrender.

Doyle snorted and turned his back to his companion. He put his head on his arm and wiggled deeper into the nets. He shifted then turned over.

“Shit! These damned nets are not exactly a feather bed,” Doyle snarled and grimaced up at Hutch who was still sitting somewhat gingerly on the uneven surface. He was finding it difficult to hold his balance as now it seemed as though his inner ear had taken up the wobbling of the boat.

“Put your head in my lap,” Hutch commented. “Might be a bit softer than the netting.”

“Might at that. But don’t you want to get some rest before we reach the coast?”

“Naw, don’t need rest at night, now.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot.” Doyle shifted over and gently laid his short limp curls on the rough corduroy of his companion’s lap.

“Think you’ll ever get use to only being awake at night and drinking blood?” Doyle asked as he unconsciously snuggled deeper into Hutch’s lap. “And never going out during the day?”

“Will have to, won’t I,” Hutch answered as his stomach rolled and lurched in time to the boats erratic motion. “Any idea how long this trip is going to take?” Hutch was hoping for a quick trip, but the little craft was making little headway in the dark.

“I’d guess we’re only doing about five to six knots. Gonna take a while even if the captain doesn’t get lost.” Doyle’s last few words were muffled in Hutch’s trousers as he slipped into an exhausted sleep.

“Uh huh. Damn,” Hutch muttered, while trying to shift his gaze to something other than the rising and falling guard rail. He looked up at the sky and it wasn’t long when he noticed a winking light. The overcast seemed to be lightening or was his acute sight playing tricks on him? No, it was getting less and less foggy. There was another twinkling light. Finally he noticed a glimmer of the setting moon.

“Doyle,” he nudged his dozing companion with his forearm. “Ray, I think the fog is breaking up.”

Groggily Doyle raised his head up from the soft lap. He rubbed eyes gritty from lack of sleep. His exhaustion of the last few days had made him drop off in the middle of his conversation with the pilot. He followed Hutch’s pointing hand and saw the dim glint of the crescent moon then saw a few faded stars.

“Yeah, you’re right. Shit, this mission has been fucked from the very beginning.” Doyle sat up and dropped his hands over his knees that he had drawn up nearly to his chest. “Nothing anyone can do, but hope. I don’t think this wreck can make any better speed so we’ll just have to hope that the E-Boats have all gone back to port. Surely as thick as this pea soup was, the Huns will assume that the fishermen all went home for the night.” Hutch suddenly knew that Doyle was talking to boost his own belief as well as Hutch’s.

Looking around, Hutch noticed the worried looks on the faces of the fishermen as they too saw the dissipating fog and rising wind. With the heavier wind, the throb of the engines increased, but that was offset by the choppiness of the waves.

“Ask him how far we’ve come?” Hutch said to Doyle. Doyle rose and went to the fisherman fighting the huge wheel. After a lengthy conversation, Doyle returned to the nets. Hutch looked at him in anticipation.

“‘E thinks we’re close, but can’t be sure because of the current.”

Hutch nodded and leaned back against the gunnel behind the nets. “Might just make it then.”

“Do vampires swim?”

“Hell, I have no idea. Think we might find out tonight, do you?”

“Just might have to. I don’t think our taxi can be exactly choosy where it drops us off.”

Hutch nodded and leaned back to watch the ever increasing stars. At least the excitement of the past few minutes had quelled his nausea. Perhaps danger negated the effects of ocean travel for his species. However, he thought he’d take the nausea instead of the worry. He rose thinking that it might be a help if he watched for the E-Boats. Perhaps his sharp eyesight could give them a crucial edge. He rose and began pacing the available area, hoping that he wouldn’t be told to sit down. The fishermen were too busy holding the course to notice his pacing. He watched behind and on all sides, but nothing seemed to be in the distance. Hutch knew he could see farther than the most keen-eyed human.

The tension dragged on interminably as Doyle joined him in his pacing. The boat was about 15 paces wide and the length that they could move was even shorter. He quietly briefed Ray on what he was doing, getting a nod of approval from the agent.

Seemingly hours later, Hutch thought he saw a speck on the horizon to their port side. He pointed it out to Doyle who couldn’t see anything in that direction. Both men watched with growing apprehension though Doyle couldn’t see anything, he believed that the vampire could. He’d had enough of a demonstration of their powers back in the basement of the restaurant. Finally Doyle spotted something that he could show the fishermen. He went to the lookout posted in prow of the boat. Both humans conversed then the Frenchman shouted to his companions about the speck growing on the horizon.

Doyle turned his attention to the direction that they were traveling. He thought when he briefly scanned that area minutes before there might be something ahead of them. Another boat? He couldn’t be sure. He joined the men in the prow of the boat, watching for any sign of shore. Yes, there was something definitely in that direction.

Then Hutch had an idea as he watched the ship grow larger and more menacing with each moment. He wasn’t sure if he could manage it, but he wasn’t going to remain here after getting this close to England only to put himself back in the hands of the perverts in Paris. He went over to Doyle and tapped him on the shoulder then gestured for him to come to the front of the vessel.

“I’m sure I can see the shore from here even though you probably can’t,” Hutch spoke quietly into Doyle’s ear. “I’ve got an idea. Do you trust me?”

Doyle nodded and waited for the vampire to continue. He surprised himself as he actually did trust his companion. Perhaps yesterday he would have had a different answer. But he had watched a very sick man try to cope with a difficult situation when they had boarded the boat. Now after nearly a night in his company, he found that this changed Hutch was basically the Hutch of a couple years ago during the trip in and out of Germany. Perhaps he wasn’t quite as naive as he had been then, but he was still as honest. His physical changes hadn’t changed his integrity.

“What do you say we go overboard now? I think I can fly us that far or perhaps if I flake out you can swim what’s left.”

“I thought you said that you couldn’t fly far over water, if at all.”

“Don’t know until I try. Anyhow, I seem to have an adrenalin surge during danger that seems to offset the effects of the water. Remember I’m no expert at being a vampire.” Hutch paused and ran his hands through his lank blond hair. Doyle remembered this gesture from two years ago. Yes, this was Hutch, slightly changed, but still basically Hutch. “I don’t even know if vampires have adrenalin highs, but I know I don’t feel too bad, considering the shape I was in a few hours ago. All I know is that I would rather drown than go back into Nazi hands.”

Doyle could relate to that considering that the American’s last experience had literally killed him and very painfully. Luckily he actually didn’t remember much. Most of what Doyle had learned about the incident had come from Chevalier.

“If you think you can do it, I’ll tell the captain that we’ll try to swim for it.”

“Yeah, or ask him for the dory. He might be more apt to buy that.” Hutch thought of the rowboat just moments before. “Have him drop it over the side then turn away and leave it. It could even have its uses.” Hutch nervously ran his hands through his hair again. “The Jerries might buy the captain’s story that they got lost last night in the fog.”

“Might at that,” Doyle said as he went back to the bow of the ship to explain the plan to the captain.

Hutch worriedly watched the ship coming closer. It was now close enough for him to distinguish figures on the deck. He was reasonably sure that humans could only see the outline of the ship and it wasn’t as close as he thought. He jumped when he heard a splash behind him. One of the men gave him a thumbs up and he saw that the dinghy was floating gently on the swells of the ocean. Doyle came to him and they both removed the jackets and handed them to the fishermen. A quick handshake and both men were moving down nets and into the water. They swam for the dory and clutched the gunnels as their taxi turned back toward the European Continent.

Hutch wasn’t exactly swimming, but merely levitating with the help of the buoyancy of his body in the water. It was interesting to find he wasn’t quite as buoyant as his human form had been. He didn’t think he could have swum if he had to. As the fishing boat disappeared into the dark, he felt for Doyle’s hand and discovered he was cold and shivering. He had forgotten exactly how bad it would be for a human this time of year in the open sea.

Grabbing the man around the waist, he lifted them both out of the water. It wasn’t as easy as it appeared when Nic had lifted him when he was exhausted on the flight across France, but he thought he could manage. He didn’t think he had any choice. Doyle couldn’t swim any distance in the icy water of the Channel. Following his instincts, he moved as fast as he could. He didn’t care if the Germans or the French saw two men flying. No one would believe them anyway. There was another pressing concern impinging on his consciousness. His vampiric intuition suddenly started telling him that sunrise wasn’t that long off. He wasn’t experienced enough to be able to give an accurate timetable of the appearance of the sun, but he knew he had only a part of an hour to find shelter.

With a rush of displaced air, he found himself soaring over a rugged rocky coast. Looking frantically to the east…he didn’t need a compass anymore to know which direction danger came from.

“Bloody hell, I like your mode of transportation, Hutchinson,” Doyle commented through chattering teeth.

“Sunrise isn’t far off,” Hutch answered. “Any suggestions?”

“Yeah, there should be a lot of caves along this coast. Been used for years for smuggling. Wouldn’t be surprised to know that our friends come here whether they have passengers or not. Probably have contacts all along the coast for buying and selling of goods without worrying about the inland revenue.” Doyle smiled grimly as his shivering increased in the chill air.

Hutch was worried about both of them. He could die from the rays of the sun and Doyle could die of exposure. Neither extreme would happen if he could help it. Using his sensitive vision, finally he spotted what could be a cave. He landed on the sandy beach outside the entrance. Taking a quick look, he saw immediately that it wouldn’t be suitable. The sun would probably reach the back of the shallow cave well before noon.

Rising again he looked up and down the coast. He had no idea what way to go so he took a tighter hold on Ray and rose quickly to a reasonable height, but one that was still under the ever observant British radar.

“Doyle, if I don’t make it before the sun rises, tell Starsky…” He couldn’t continue.

Doyle just squeezed the arm around his middle in reassurance. “No problem, mate. We’ll find a place yet.”

A dark spot became visible about a mile down the cliffs. Hutch concentrated and momentarily was landing on the slippery rocks outside a much deeper cave. With relief he levitated through the entrance above the water rushing back into the cavern with each wave. He hoped that the tide wasn’t rising, but he would have to take that chance. As they flew through the darkened cave, he just began to hope that there was some sort of ledge to rest on. He didn’t relish clinging to the ceiling all day like a bat.

Eventually he found a narrow ledge to land on and gratefully settled his burden on the hard rock. Now Doyle was trying to suppress his shakes, but wasn’t having much luck.

“I’ll be right back,” he told Doyle as he took off again. Surely there was someplace more appropriate for them to rest. Then he spotted a small boat tied at the end of the cave. He turned back and got Ray. Settling the agent on the makeshift dock, he began looking over the situation. There were boxes and bales stored farther back.

While Doyle huddled miserably on the sandy ledge above the boat, Hutch rushed back to rip open the bales as if they were wrapped in tissue instead of heavy canvas. He found a few bolts of musty cloth that he took back to the agent.

“Get out of those clothes,” Hutch ordered then began to strip Doyle. Doyle’s hands were so numb he couldn’t be much help.

“Easy, Hutchinson,” Doyle commented as Hutch popped a few buttons on his slacks. “Don’t damage the merchandise.” Without pausing, Doyle’s underpants were thrown on the sand. “That’s some of me best bits, you’re messing with,” Doyle complained. “Am gonna report to Starsky that you nearly raped me.” Doyle shoved the pilot’s hands away and took off his shirt.

Hutch quickly wrapped the agent in all the makeshift blankets he had brought over. He knew that Doyle was in more danger than he knew from lowered body temperature. Hutch had received all the lectures in RAF training, regarding ditching in the Channel. The last resort was to have a normal warm body crawl inside the blankets and share body heat, but he hadn’t a normal warm body any longer. Perhaps a fire, the thought struck him.

“I’ll be right back,” he said to the shivering man now wrapped like the proverbial mummy.

Levitating to the entrance of the cave, he looked quickly around for drift wood. There was quite a bit just outside. The sun hadn’t reached over the cliffs. There was a chance he could make it. He flew out into the blinding light. His skin immediately felt on fire, but he grabbed all the wood he could manage and rushed back inside the cavern before his smoldering skin could ignite or blister. He wasn’t sure exactly what would happen. Nic hadn’t exactly been forthcoming on the subject. Carrying his huge armload of firewood, he wondered if he had any way to light the stuff.

Doyle was nearly unconscious by the time he got back, and the shivering had stopped. Hutch had a moment of panic when realized the danger. Doyle’s body temperature was getting dangerously low.

Fumbling momentarily he searched through Doyle’s pockets and found a few water-proof matches. Then he went through the bales and found some cotton material that he carefully shredded. Making small clumps of material, he took out Doyle’s utility knife and shaved some wood. Finally he managed to light one of the matches and watched the cotton catch fire then the wood shavings. It was a long, drawn-out process, but eventually he had a roaring fire going on the floor of the cave. He moved Doyle closer to the fire and gently rubbed his hands and any other extremities that he could carefully uncover then recover. As he put away the right foot after its massage, he looked up to see green eyes watching him.

“Where’d you get the wood?” Doyle asked suspiciously. He had noted the reddened skin of Hutch’s face, neck and hands.

“Just outside the cave,” Hutch answered.

“Nothing but water out there. You got burnt getting it didn’t you?”

“Yeah, nothing serious as you can see. I’ll be healed before nightfall.”

“Thank you. Never thought I’d get warm after that dip in the ocean. Feeling much better, though.”

As the fire sputtered, Hutch grabbed a bolt of what he thought was silk and tossed it on the fire. The smoke drifted up to blacken the rocky ceiling then wafted out toward the entrance.

Doyle snickered, “The smugglers around here are just going to love you, Yank.”

“Yeah, well I can’t very well go back outside for more wood and they’d probably really appreciate it if I burned their boat. Thought I’d save it in case you might want it to get outside during the day.” Hutch settled back against the rocky wall. “Think I’ll get some rest now that you’re awake.” He reached for an unburned bolt of silk and used it for a headrest. Without further comment, he became still and barely breathed.

Doyle watched the sunburned vampire for a few minutes then turned his head away from the fire and slept. Sleep was quick in coming, since he was warm and dry thanks to the American vampire. Just before sleep took him, he snickered at his thoughts. It sounded like the title to a bad movie, American Vampire in London, or something like that.

* * *

Doyle shifted uncomfortably in the lumpy bed. Twisting around, he couldn’t find his pillow. Damn that Bodie! Why did he always have to confiscate both pillows only to toss one on the floor? Doyle changed position again and tried to snuggle deeper into the covers. Finally he opened his eyes still mentally cursing Bodie. Expecting to see his bedroom in the agents’ London flat, he was disconcerted to notice a crack in the rock ceiling soaring over his head. Then as his nose was repelled by the musty odor of his covering, he remembered his hurried exit from the deck of the fishing boat. But how had he managed to end in a cave somewhere? Suddenly the impromptu flight over the Channel rushed out of his subconscious.

Memories of the previous morning soaked in as he looked around at the ashes of the fire still smoldering from the incompletely burned bolt of cloth. He saw that Hutch was still slumped down with another bolt of cloth for a pillow.

He got up and felt his clothes and found them still a bit damp, but he would feel better if he had on some trousers. Damp underpants he decided to skip. He tussled with the material that was not only damp but stiff from the salt. However, he felt better after donning them. His shirt was in the same shape, but he shrugged into it as he glanced around his sanctuary.

Working out a few kinks from his shoulders, he walked across the cave to the American. Shaking the man’s cold damp shoulder, he was shocked to receive no response. Quickly he felt the other man’s jugular and was concerned to find only a faint pulse. He shook the airman’s shoulder even harder again, hoping against hope that the pilot hadn’t killed himself in his saving of Doyle’s life. Doyle remembered Hutch’s bright pink complexion just before he drifted off to sleep. The flyer’s head lolled against the unforgiving floor then his eyes opened and immediately glazed over with a yellowish tinge. Doyle was startled when there was a low growl from his companion who then used immense strength to shove Doyle back against the cave wall. Rough edges of stones dug into his shoulders as Hutch’s mouth opened and long yellow canines extended. Doyle pushed futilely against the inhuman strength while calling, “Hutch! Hutchinson! Ken!” He had forgotten this aspect of Hutch’s change which the Frenchman and Hutch had displayed to him a few days ago. In fact, it had seemed so fantastic that his logical mind had quite put it out of the upper level of his consciousness. It seemed almost easier to believe in flying over the ocean. Now it was brought back to him forcibly as he was struggling against inhuman creature that had him pinned to the wall like a fly on flypaper. Again he tried to get through to whatever was left of the man that he had once called friend.

“Ken,” Doyle called softly and was relieved to feel the hands holding him so helplessly gradually relax. Then he was callously dropped as the vampire turned away. Moments later, as he was picking himself up from the bottom of the cave, Hutch turned back to him, looking as human as he had looked inhuman minutes before.

“Bloody ‘ell, mate!” Doyle said quietly. “If you want to sleep in, just say so.” He hoped his flimsy joke would help ease the tension thickening the atmosphere in the cavern.

Hutch smiled thinly and made his own feeble attempt at humor. “Sorry about that. Must remember to tell my friends to watch their step when wakening a vampire.” Unconsciously, he rubbed his hands up and down on his damp trousers and studied the floor of the cave.

“It’s not sundown yet. I’d wake more normally if the sun were down,” Hutch continued to look at the sand under his feet.

Doyle grunted an agreement then said, “I’ll remember the next time. Just forgot your little problem for the moment. Thought you were dead. Got the shock of me life when you moved so fast and were so strong.”

“There are a few advantages to my condition. Not many, but a few,” Hutch paused and scraped some sand around on the floor. “Guess almost anything is preferable to being dead.” Hutch’s blue eyes looked over at the scruffy figure opposite him, searching for condemnation in the green eyes that looked back at him quite frankly with admiration. Hutch glanced back at the floor.

Doyle decided he should drop the subject since he could tell his companion was quite uncomfortable with trying to explain things to him, but he couldn’t quite stop the question that fell from his lips.

“Is it true that you’re allergic to garlic as well as the intense sunburn side effect?” Doyle studied his companion, “But it must go away quickly since now that I look at you, I can see that your sunburn is gone.”

“Yeah, the old legends are quite true about the garlic. French food is full of garlic. Passing a restaurant is nearly torture now. I used to like garlic in food. But…” Hutch stopped and looked off to a middle distance.

“You do uh…drink…uh…?”

“Yeah, blood. I guess it’s no more repulsive than eating a rare steak. I never liked rare steaks so it’s been…”

“Difficult?”

“Yeah, you might say that. However, when the hunger strikes, I don’t seem to have much choice.”

“Do you…uh…?” Doyle again stumbled on asking the question.

“No, I don’t kill anything. Nic thinks that I’m perhaps the first vampire to cross over without killing.” Hutch paused and looked intently at his companion, “I plan to keep it that way!”

“No offense meant. I was…just…well, curious.”

“I understand. A friend doesn’t turn into a vampire every day. Just a rather touchy subject for me, yet. I didn’t ask for this. Nic took it upon himself to save me. He’s trying to cast out some of his own devils and I happened to get in the way.”

Doyle was nicely surprised at these revelations. This was more information than Hutch had ever volunteered regarding his transformation. Perhaps he was becoming adjusted to his changed state. Doyle certainly hoped so. He remembered Chevalier taking him aside one evening and briefly mentioning that one of the dangers of Hutch’s adjustment was suicidal depression. Chevalier had filled him in on other minor details such as sleeping and eating habits of vampires. Doyle had trouble then and still had trouble with these details which might have motivated the questions to which he already knew the answers.

Doyle paced the sandy floor of the cave, noticing that his head was aching as were various other portions of his anatomy. He walked back to the airman now seated on the ledge with his feet dangling over the lapping water. He said, “I think I can make it out to the beach in the rowboat. I’ll go for help. It looks like you need some rest.” Watching Hutch just stare off into space was unnerving so Doyle wanted to get him off his hands. He didn’t want to wait for night when Hutch could travel. He had to do something now. Besides it would probably be evening before he could get transportation down from London.

Hutch nodded, knowing it wasn’t rest that he needed but blood after the exertions of the previous night. Having Doyle out of the way was the best thing. Doyle was a walking temptation to his depleted system.

Not receiving a verbal answer, Doyle slipped into his stiff, leather boots. Salt water hadn’t done them any good either, but it was all he had. He looked back at the reclining American who still seemed absorbed in his own unhappy thoughts. “I’ll get back as soon as possible. You’ll stay here?”

“If I can.”

Doyle nodded his agreement and freed the dinghy from the ring sunk in the solid rock then settled himself on the bench and began rowing toward the beckoning sunlight, strangely saddened to leave the American in the dank darkness of the cavern. Before he changed his mind, he hurried the boat down the short channel to the rocky entrance.

Glancing back into the cavern, he couldn’t see Hutch so he continued rowing until he found a place to get the boat out of the water. He pulled the boat above the high tide marks and noted the rock formations around the cave entrance so he could find it again. Then he began slogging down the beach. The damp sand seemed to reach out and grab his boots, making walking arduous. He stopped occasionally to rub out the cramps and look for sign of human habitation. It was nearly two hours later that he finally saw the building perched on the top of yet another cliff, its antenna proclaiming its function.

After Doyle was gone, Hutch regretted letting him leave; he could have used the company. The cave was lonely and depressing. All he had was his own thoughts to keep him company until the sun had set. His thoughts were quite depressing.

Until he finally reached the shores of England, he hadn’t let himself think too much of how the changes in his physical condition were going to change his everyday life. If he were human, he could be walking companionably with Doyle into the normal world. He wasn’t sure that Nic had done him any favor. Doyle had said that life was always better than death, but he wasn’t sure.

True, he had some sort of life, but would Starsky be so repelled by his needs that he would leave him and seek another human lover? No, he really didn’t think so. The bond between them was stronger than the simple need for sex. But would they be able to have any kind of life together? Then there was the warning from Nic that he had to hold on to his self-control or kill. He had come close to killing those German soldiers in France only Nic had prevented him from doing it.

He had been depending on Nic to keep him in line and to advise him on things, but at the last moment his mentor had abandoned him. Or had he felt it was necessary to cut the apron strings? Perhaps he had been depending on the French vampire too much.

His need for blood was distracting him. All he could think of was Doyle out on the beach; he was a source of life. Hutch paced the confines of the cave. Ever since bailing out of his Spitfire, he had been locked up somewhere. His patience was shredding moment by moment. Just as he was about to bolt out of the cave, his good sense got the best of his impulse. His intuitive time instinct told him that he would soon be free of the cavern…sunset was approaching. He wouldn’t have to wait for full dark, just until the sun was below the horizon.

He slid on his shoes and looked around the small refuge. Suddenly it was again a shelter and not a prison. There wasn’t anything else that he needed here. He was glad that the smugglers had forgotten their booty or hadn’t been able to get back to retrieve it. Possibly it had saved Doyle’s life. Thinking about Doyle, he wondered what had happened to the English agent. It had been hours since he had left the cave. It didn’t matter. He would catch up with him later. Right now the important thing was to feed as soon after sunset as possible.

He felt around in his pocket and found a scrap of a pencil. Finding no paper that was of any use, he wrote a brief message on a tattered bit of canvas to Doyle that he was going to go to London and would see him there, probably at the flat.

The light in the cave was dimming so Hutch levitated to the entrance. Yes, the sun was below the horizon so he flew out of the cave and to the moors above. He followed his vampiric nature; food was nearby. Going where his impulse led him, he found himself landing in a large field. Before him was a lamb and not far away was its placid mother who had implicit trust in the human species. Certainly this was a source of food, but he was sure he wouldn’t have the control not to kill something that small. He would have to look farther. Lifting his head, he found what he was seeking. There grazing peacefully in the next field was a dairy cow. She hadn’t been brought in for the evening milking. Hutch, not knowing the whys and wherefores of cows, wondered why this cow wasn’t in the farmer’s byre giving milk, but thanked whatever it was. He levitated easily to the next field and mesmerized the gentle animal long enough sink his teeth into the flesh of her neck and quickly satisfied the terrible hunger that had been plaguing him. Slapping her gently on the flank in thanks, he released his control and she ducked her head back to her own dinner.

Once sated, he sat on the rock wall that served as a fence between the fields and really looked at his surroundings. He had fled the cave in a flurry of hunger and hadn’t taken notice of which direction he had gone. However, it was simply pleasant to relax in the lengthening twilight.

In the distance his intensified hearing could discern and identify the buzz of the night bombers leaving for the shores of the continent to do as much destruction as possible. There was the higher pitched whine of the escorting fighters, but all in the far distance. He wondered briefly if he would ever fly over those shores in a fighting plane. He dismissed that thought since fighting anything didn’t have precedence in his mind.

As he thought about it, perhaps he should return to the cave and look for Doyle, but he had no reason to suppose the agent now he was back in his own country would have any problems. Walking down the beach, Doyle should have located a village or private home with ease. He probably was already on his way back to London. Of course, the agent might be a bit disconcerted to find Hutch gone, but then, Hutch didn’t care if he had inconvenienced Doyle. He was wallowing in a few moments of perfect freedom…no hiding…no obligations.

Also right now he didn’t want to confront that imposing personage of George Cowley…all he really wanted to do was to find Starsky and just be with him. Where would Starsky be? Perhaps he would be in London awaiting word of Hutch’s rescue or death; if not he’d be at the lab. Hutch smiled to himself as he thought how easy it would be now to break into a top security facility such as the laboratory in which Starsky worked.

Reunion with Starsky uppermost in his mind, he levitated off the rock wall and nearly teleported to the city. Some very human intuition told him that within the boundaries of this ancient municipality, his lover and friend waited. He wanted this meeting private and personal, oh so personal and oh so private. His responsibilities to the war effort and his commanders dimmed to insignificance beside his individual needs. He would make up for that later.

* * *

Doyle stood on the beach just down from the entrance of the tidal cave with a glowering Bodie. Bodie was distant and silent on their trek across the moors then down the narrow path to the smuggler’s cave, a path that Doyle had missed that afternoon. Directions from the local constable had made finding the smuggler’s cave much simpler than Doyle had expected. Obviously its existence and use were well known to the locals.

Darkness was fully upon them and the cave was empty. The cryptic message from Hutchinson hadn’t really explained much. Obviously Hutch had left when the sun was down. He was making his own way back to London and knowing the vampire’s uncanny abilities, might already be in the city. He hadn’t let Bodie read the message which explained some of the glower, but not all of it.

Earlier in the day, Doyle had traveled down the beach for nearly two hours, if his estimate could be trusted since his watch hadn’t survived the dip in the Channel. He had expected to come upon a fishing village or lone beach house, but instead had found a coastal radar facility. Having no identification had made it a long and drawn-out process which had involved calling in the local constable who had taken him to the nearest village. It was a measure of his luck this village had no phone service outside the immediate area. It had never been repaired since the last time the Luftwaffe bombers had dropped their bombs far off target. The constable had only a bicycle so it was a long afternoon to finally find a working phone and get a call through to Cowley.

Bodie had arrived a few hours later with a car. It had been a changed Bodie, a taciturn Bodie who said little even in the privacy of the motor.

His only comment was, “Why the hell did you leave Hutchinson in a cave for God’s sake?” Not being able to explain easily had led to more tension between them which Doyle had just added to by slipping Hutch’s message into his pocket.

In disgust Bodie turned away from the cave, slipped and slid through the wet sand that filled his low shoes. Then he began struggling up the narrow path, cursing his cane and infirmity under his breath. Doyle followed, not offering any help to his companion. Anything might set off his partner’s now uncertain temper. He had always been the one with the temper, but now Bodie was as volatile as he ever was, perhaps even more so.

Once back on top of the moor, they walked toward the car that sat incongruously on what resembled a cow path rather than a road. Doyle worried about the innards of the machine, but only peripherally since his main concern of the moment was the strange way that Bodie was acting. One would think that he would be pleased to see Doyle after nearly a year gone on assignment. He didn’t let himself even consider that Bodie had found someone else, someone who was around all the time, or someone who wasn’t going off to parts unknown for unspecified lengths of time. Surely Bodie understood that Doyle had no choice in his assignments or the length of time it took to complete them. Doyle knew he was going through the insecurities of soldiers since the beginning of time who had to leave lovers and wives at home while serving in wars. Knowing it intellectually and actually experiencing it were two different things as he was finding out.

“Your ankle must be giving you gyp. Let me drive,” Doyle said and knew immediately that it was the wrong thing to say.

“Bloody hell, Doyle! I’m not an invalid,” Bodie snapped in a tone that was just short of a growl. Doyle was startled almost as much as he had been that morning when he had awakened the sleeping vampire.

Shoving Doyle away from the driver’s door, Bodie jerked it open, nearly separating the handle from the steel plating. He threw his cane over the back of the seat, got in, and jammed the clutch to the floor. Doyle stepped back as the motor roared to life and wasn’t allowed the luxury of an idle.

“Are you coming or not?” Bodie definitely snarled this time.

Doyle walked around to the passenger door and settled gingerly into the seat. With no further comment, Bodie slammed the car into gear and popped the clutch. The rear wheels dug grooves in the sod, spitting dirt in high rooster tails behind the vehicle as it lurched down the rugged path.

The rest of the trip back to London was undertaken in near silence. It was an eerie landscape the agents traversed. As the evening stretched into night, the lack of any lights showing human habitation was disconcerting. With all road signs removed, the two men were lucky to take only one wrong turn which lengthened their awkward journey.

There was only an occasional sporadic comment on whether one or the other needed to stop for a cuppa or a leak to break the uncomfortable hush. Occasionally the quiet was punctuated with “Where the bloody hell did that stupid Yank disappear to?” from Bodie.

Doyle held his peace only by taking a firm grip on his patience and praying for a speedy trip to London. He hadn’t informed either Bodie or Cowley of the change in the American pilot. He hadn’t figured out how to broach the subject without having his sanity questioned. So he had thought that the flyer could demonstrate it better than he could tell it.

Now he was more concerned about the change in Bodie than in the change in Hutch. Hutch was still Hutch, while he felt he was sitting next to a total stranger even if it was human and Hutch definitely wasn’t.

* * *

In the wee hours of the morning the gray Bentley slipped through the streets that gleamed wetly in the dim, taped headlights allowed by the blackout regulations. The tension in the automobile stretched almost visibly between the two occupants. Doyle felt an inordinate sense of relief as the heavy car pulled to a stop on the street outside the brick building that housed the headquarters of MI6.

Both men were startled as the ground shook from a nearby bomb. The building across the street shuddered as loose brickwork cascaded to the sidewalk. The night sky was lit up momentarily as antiaircraft batteries searched for a target in the heavens above.

Bodie reached for his cane and opened the driver’s door, then without looking back he made his way down the steps to the oak door that barricaded the mundane world away from the headquarters of a secret war. Doyle slid out of his side and followed at a slower pace. He still wasn’t sure if he should try to explain Hutch’s disappearance or let the man…vampire!…display his changed physique.

The unobtrusive operative that manned the basement door waited while Doyle negotiated the steps then closed it behind him. Bodie was waiting impatiently at the door to the lift. Miracle of miracles, it seemed it was working.

The two agents entered the wide door together and pushed the proper buttons for it to clank itself down into the lower realms of the MI6 headquarters. The silence between the two agents grew more frosty as the moments seemed to grow longer. Once on the proper floor, the lift wearily opened its doors for their egress. Side-by-side the two men went down the hall to their boss’ haven.

Tapping lightly on the door, Bodie waited for the muffled signal to enter. Doyle crossed the threshold first followed by the sulking Bodie.

Cowley regarded his two agents through icy blue eyes that resembled two burnt holes in a blanket. He had been up so many nights or had his sleep interrupted so often that he thought he might never sleep an entire night through again.

“I see that our American pilot’s luck didn’t last. Too bad.” He couldn’t feel much sorrow at the loss of another young person; he had seen so many die so needlessly in the last few years.

“Not exactly,” Doyle answered as he sat uninvited on the overstuffed chair in front of the desk. “I’ll explain later.”

Doyle removed his right boot then reached for the ornate, but razor sharp letter opener Cowley kept on his desk. He slid the blade between the stitching on the upper part of the boot. The salt water-weakened stitches gave easily under the assault.

“Did you make contact with our agent in Frankfurt?”

“Yeah, and what she had was worth all the effort, I think.”

“So the plan worked out.”

“Yeah, I let the rest of my contacts think I was taken by the Gestapo and killed trying to escape. It wasn’t pleasant making my way back to France without their help, but I made it, unlike my predecessor.”

By this time Doyle was pulling water stained papers from his now nearly disassembled boot. “His majesty owes me one pair of boots,” Doyle commented wryly as he looked at his handiwork, knowing reimbursement might be long in coming.

Bodie had moved over to lean against the file cabinet in the corner. Unknown to Doyle he was hungrily caressing the slim body with his eyes.

“So,” Cowley began, “You really do think that there’s a leak in this organization?”

“Has to be.”

“No one outside the operation, not even Bodie knew I was going into Germany. And I made the contact and got out.” Doyle paused and ran his fingers through his straw-like hair. “Remember Anson went in as part of an operation put together upstairs. He made contact then both he and his contact were taken. They must not have talked, since Mary Lou is still in place, but she doesn’t feel too safe. Better get her out if you can.”

“Aye. I was afraid you might say that.” Cowley thought it might just be impossible and the young woman would have to take her chances, especially if Doyle was right and there was a German agent within the organization of MI6. There were going to be a some quakes in the upper echelon in the rarefied air of the sixth floor.

Doyle spread the thin sheets of onion skin paper across the desk. “Here’s what Mary Lou is so concerned about.” The paper consisted of drawings, maps, and nearly microscopic writing. In heavy dark ink across the top were the German words, Operation Sea Lion. Doyle paused then continued as his companions studied the sketches. “Mary Lou thinks this is some sort of plan for some type of military operation.” Bodie had moved to where he could lean over Doyle’s shoulder and scan the drawings. The sulk and pout were gone as he became engrossed in the images depicted on the stained paper.

“Bloody hell, it’s the invasion plans,” Bodie snapped. “Look,” he pointed his finger to a sketch on the map. “That’s gotta be a map of the French coast although it’s not labeled. Hum…this must be some type of aircraft and that’s definitely a barge.” Bodie shifted his finger to another diagram on the page.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought too,” Doyle said as he unconsciously leaned against Bodie’s sturdy frame. “I think Hutch can fill us in on the aircraft. He was probably shot down by one of them.”

“Thought you said that he didn’t make it?” Cowley snapped. “The Chief of Flight Operations would like to speak to that young man. He wants to know what happened to a whole squadron.” Studying the depictions in front of him, Cowley tapped the main illustration in front of him, “This could explain a lot.”

The drawings of the aircraft were turned and studied by all three men. “Can’t make head or tail of most of this, but it does seem to be some sort of revolutionary power plant,” Bodie murmured as he shifted his arm over Doyle’s shoulder. Doyle had felt the softening in his chosen mate and reveled in it for the moment. He supposed all could change as quickly as it had become right; he was going to enjoy it while he could.

“Now would ye care to explain about our American flyer?”

Cowley’s question startled Doyle into remembering that there had ever been an American pilot. He kept putting the man out of his mind–probably because he was still unable to reconcile the reality of the American’s change to a vampire. Now he was really in it. Cowley and Bodie were both looking at him expectantly.

Stalling for time, he cleared his throat. Seeing that neither man was going to let him off the hook, he countered with a question of his own.

“Where’s Dr. Starsky? Is he here in London or still out at the facility?”

“At our digs,” Bodie answered promptly. “He wanted to be close so that there’d be no delay in gettin’ the news, one way or the other.”

“I imagine that Hutch would go there first.”

“How the hell would he get there? You said that you left him at that cave. You haven’t explained how you got off the boat and into a cave either?” Bodie questioned.

Doyle sighed and felt momentarily faint. He had had little rest in the last 24 hours and the only food had been a suspect pastie in a roadside cafe on the way into London. It had been hours ago, he thought.

“Ach, let’s go see if our wayward pilot has made his way to London,” Cowley snapped. His lack of sleep was making his voice harsh and his temper as uneven as either of his agents.

Doyle nodded and slid his foot into the remains of his boot and followed Cowley out of the room. Bodie followed suspiciously checking the Webley in his shoulder holster.

The gray Bentley was where the two agents had left it only a few hours ago. Now the day was making itself known. Doyle knew that Hutch was confined by the sunlight wherever he was. He hoped that he was right and that the pilot had rushed to find Starsky. Explaining another disappearance of Squadron Leader Hutchinson to Cowley wasn’t something he relished.

The three men settled themselves in the Bentley with Cowley in the rear seat and the two agents in the front. Bodie started the motor with a lot more consideration than he had out on the moors last evening or was it this morning? Doyle was losing track of time in his exhaustion.

The powerful motor purred in contentment as Bodie directed the car away from the curb and down the nearly empty street. Early morning workers were hurrying away from the tube station entrances to their jobs. They were mostly women, walking with their heads down concentrating on getting where they were going.

It wasn’t too long until Bodie was parking the Bentley outside their flat. Doyle hurriedly got out of the car and held the rear door for George Cowley. Gathering on the stoop, the three men turned and filed into the sparse lobby. There was no chatter as they walked up the flights of stairs then down the hall to the flat.

Bodie tapped on the door. All waited for a response. Bodie had a key and could have taken them on in, but there was an unspoken agreement between them which said if the Americans were in there together, they should have a few minutes to gather their thoughts and other things before they were invaded.

It wasn’t long before Starsky answered the door. Definitely a rumpled man stood before them, but it could have been the normal disorder of someone who had just been woken up from a sound sleep. Doyle might have believed that except for the small wounds on the side of Starsky’s neck and speck of blood on his collar that hadn’t been gotten there by hasty shaving.

“He’s here, isn’t he?” Doyle asked.

LONDON

Arriving over the city, Hutch hovered quietly beside a barrage balloon. He grasped the cable that was designed to wreak havoc on unsuspecting enemy bombers. Momentarily disoriented by the change in perspective offered by his aerial view, he began locating familiar landmarks. Finally distinguishing the area he wanted from the rest of the inner city rabbit warren, he swooped away from the balloon and flew toward his destination.

Hutch had absolutely no trouble finding the flat that they occasionally had shared with Bodie and Doyle, lately with Bodie only. He landed in the alley behind the building, flinching as the rumbling of planes overhead was punctuated by the sharper cracks of the flack batteries ringing the city. The shells exploding in the clouds gave an eerie illusion of Thor slamming his hammer at the aircraft invading his territory. A primitive man might indeed think this a display of the wrath of the Gods. Did puny humans really have the right to this much power over the environment?

A distant whine then a throaty boom signaled one of the bombers laying its eggs somewhere over the nearly helpless city. The pounding of the city lent credence to the speculations of Hutch and Doyle in France that the Third Reich was readying itself for the inevitable invasion. Hutch felt the earth itself tremble as another cluster of bombs invaded it. Perhaps he should be back at headquarters filling in the High Command on what he had observed of the new planes. Momentarily he felt a stab of guilt, then he shrugged it off. He would report after he had a short reunion with Starsky.

Exiting the alley, he stared up at the blank windows of the flat, wondering what kind of welcome awaited him behind the blackout curtains. A very human uncertainty plagued him as he walked up the steps, his shoes squelching slightly, and entered the building. As usual the lift wasn’t working, but he didn’t mind the necessary effort to walk up the ensuing flights of stairs. It gave him suddenly badly needed moments to marshal his skittering thoughts. How to break the news of his change? He couldn’t see himself saying, “Hi Starsk, I’m home, but somehow I got changed into a vampire while I was gone. You don’t mind, do you?”

Upon reaching the door of the flat, he tapped lightly on the heavy dark door then nearly lost his nerve and left to throw himself on the tender mercies of George Cowley and company. This opportunity was taken from him as the door opened to reveal Starsky standing there etched in the light from the sitting room behind him.

“My god!” Starsky exclaimed, “Hutch, is it really you?” Starsky reached out and grabbed him by the shoulders and tried to draw him into an embrace. Hutch easily resisted the human strength of his lover. “Hutch, what’s the matter? Get in here, you bum!” Hutch could tell that Starsky sensed something wrong with the scenario, but he didn’t know what to do about it.

Again the shorter human tried to move the immobile figure in the hall. This time Hutch allowed himself to be drawn into the flat. Any heart-to-heart chat would need at least this privacy. He followed Starsky into the sparsely furnished room. He watched as the scientist turned off the radio, softly playing Glen Miller music.

Turning abruptly, Starsky stared at the lean figure that remained where he had left him. He noted the lank hair, salt-stained clothing, and finally the pale complexion. But the expression on the normally mobile face stunned him. Hutch looked sad and frightened. He was home! What did he have to be frightened of at this point? Starsky was puzzled and he hated unsolved puzzles. It made him an excellent scientist. Right now, Hutch was the biggest puzzle he’d had lately. Why wasn’t he with Bodie and Cowley? Bodie had mentioned before he left that morning that he might have a new lead on Hutch’s whereabouts.

Putting his thoughts into words, Starsky said, “You look like hell.” Hutch didn’t answer, but his light blue eyes never left the figure standing in front of the table that held the radio. “Why don’t you clean up and I’ll fix us a bite to eat.”

Hutch nodded. He was just noticing how stiff and filthy his clothes were. His skin itched from the dried salt adhering to his whole body. His scalp felt as though some Indians were readying it for removal.

“Good idea,” Hutch finally said. It was a wonderful excuse to put off the discussion that he knew was upcoming. Hutch left a worried Starsky standing in the middle of the floor and went into their bedroom to sort out some clothes. It seemed as though it had been a century ago when he had last worn anything in this wardrobe. He found some civilian clothes he hadn’t worn for a couple of years and went into the small cramped bathroom that separated the two bedrooms of the flat. The civilian clothes suited him since he was sure his tenure in the Royal Air Force was over. Hutch would miss his old squadron, but so many were now dead or captured. He had never joined the American Eagle squadron that had formed shortly after his enlistment. He had felt more comfortable with the English flyers he had trained with.

“Be careful. We don’t have much hot water,” Starsky called from the kitchen that boasted a small two burner cooker, a primitive icebox, and not much else.

“Right,” Hutch answered as he stripped out of his borrowed clothes. He fingered his chin and decided he still didn’t need a shave. Nic had mentioned one bonus of his physical state was the necessity of shaving was cut to once a week or perhaps even longer.

Hutch stepped into the shower and began soaping up his grimy body. It didn’t look all that different, except that his complexion, normally a light honey was now closer to a pasty white, if he were honest. It was wonderful to get rid of the dirt, salt, and sand from his body and hair. The water quickly ran cold while he was rinsing his head and if the truth were known, he wasn’t unhappy to get out of the shower. Water in any form made him uncomfortable; a shower was no exception.

The luxury of clean, dry clothes was almost orgasmic. Hutch smiled to himself at that metaphor. He didn’t know if he could experience a true orgasm in this form. He hoped he would have an opportunity to find out in the very near future.

Walking into the sitting room, he found that Starsky had put out some sandwiches and a couple of bottles of beer. He longed for the taste of beer, but knew he wouldn’t be able to keep it down.

Starsky took a sandwich from pile and chomped into it then grimaced slightly.

“Spam! The American contribution to the war effort. You know I once liked this stuff.” Starsky knew he was trying hard to make small talk. This man sitting on the chair next to Bodie’s settee wasn’t the same man who had shared their last leave together. The gleaming blond hair was the same as were the blue eyes that seemed to be drinking in his own appearance. But something was wrong and he couldn’t figure it out.

Hutch rose from his chair, reached over and took the forgotten sandwich from Starsky. It didn’t take much effort to draw the scientist into his arms. They spent a long moment simply nuzzling each other, then Hutch nibbled at Starsky’s neck. He stopped and froze as it dawned on him what he was parodying. He remembered that La Croix had used this gesture early in his interrogation.

Starsky waited without moving in his lover’s arms. Something had frozen Hutch to the spot, his arms beginning to grip Starsky so hard it hurt. As the iron bands tightened even more, Starsky started to struggle. Looking up, he saw that his struggles made no difference to Hutch. His eyes were taking on a funny yellowish tinge. Starsky slammed his fists into Hutch’s chest–nothing seemed to make any impression on the pilot. Starsky wiggled and was shocked as he noticed that not only were Hutch’s eyes looking weird, but his mouth was opening to reveal long wicked looking fangs. He heard a throaty growl rumble in Hutch’s chest. He increased his struggles which the vampire brushed aside as he would an annoying insect. With ease Hutch pushed Starsky back down on the couch and straddled the scientist, clamping those wicked looking fangs to Starsky’s neck. All might have ended there if Starsky hadn’t chosen that moment to make his distress known verbally.

“Please, Hutch. Stop! That hurts!” Starsky moaned and tried to thrash his head from side to side in a mockery of passion. The human side of Hutch heard the familiar and loved voice. With an effort of will he didn’t know he possessed, Hutch suppressed the vampire side of his nature. His fangs receded as did the glazing of his eyes. Sadly, he pushed himself away from Starsky.

“Now you know!”

Rubbing his neck where two small spots of blood were just barely visible, Starsky stared at Hutch wondering what he was supposed to know. He thought for a moment that he had been hallucinating, but the distress revealed by Hutch in his face and the tension in his body made him think not.

“What the fuck do you mean?” Starsky nearly screamed the obscenity. “Just what am I supposed to know now?”

Hutch shook his head and continued pacing then he halted by the darkened window. “I should never have come here. It’s too dangerous.” His voice was so low that Starsky had to strain to hear the words. “I have to leave.”

“You’re not leaving…not until you explain what the hell happened to you a few minutes ago.” Starsky stood up and his first instinct was to go to the blond and draw him into his arms. Then he remembered what had happened when he had followed that impulse a few minutes ago. He simply waited for the agitation to become less apparent in the pilot.

Hutch turned and began to go to the door, his intention plain.

“Oh, no you don’t. You owe me some sort of explanation for that mauling you gave me a few minutes ago.” Starsky planted himself in front of his friend.

“You don’t know exactly what you’re asking.”

“No, I don’t. But you’d better start explaining,” Starsky paused and began to rally his mental faculties. “You owe me for all the things we’ve been to each other. Don’t you think I’ll understand? Don’t you know that I want to help?”

“You can’t,” Hutch answered the last question.

“I won’t know if I don’t know what the problem is. And there’s gotta be a problem or you wouldn’t be acting this way. Tell me and I’ll make it right…whatever it is.”

Hutch tried to walk around Starsky and found that no matter which way he turned, Starsky was in front of him with his hands on his hips, waiting for an explanation. And short of resorting to his vampiric ways, he couldn’t get away.

Wearily he walked over to the large overstuffed chair in the corner of the room as far from Starsky as he could get and sat down and wondered where to begin. Somewhere someone had told him that the best place to start is at the beginning. So that’s what he would do. Starsky sat on the edge of the settee prepared to listen. Hutch leaned back dejectedly and studied the worn carpet.

“I was shot down over France on that last raid,” he began in a dispirited voice.

“No kiddin’,” Starsky quietly commented, shaking his head at the redundancy.

“I’ll tell this my way,” Hutch answered, but with little life to his voice.

“Aw right, but get on with it. You don’t have to give me all the gory details. I just want an explanation for that little performance of a few minutes ago.”

“It all started in France.”

“I’m sure it did.”

“Damn it, Starsk! Quit interrupting me!” Hutch looked up and glared at his companion.

Starsky smiled in return. He had gotten what he wanted. Hutch was acting more like himself and not a whipped puppy. Hutch saw the smile and answered it with a faint grin. He acknowledged the ploy and relaxed.

“If you don’t know, but perhaps you do. Anyhow I bailed out of the Spitfire and was found by a French peasant. He obviously was caught or couldn’t get help. Anyhow, in short, I was taken prisoner by the Luftwaffe. It should have been only a matter of time before I was sent to a prison camp in Germany. But…”

“Earlier in the week, Bodie told me, you were taken to Paris by the Gestapo.”

“Will you quite interrupting, Starsk! Let me tell this my own way.”

“Okay, okay.”

“Anyhow as you know, I was taken to Paris by the Gestapo and questioned.” Hutch paused and then debated on how much to tell Starsky about that questioning session. Luckily, there wasn’t much to remember. He remembered all the pain, but not his rescue.

“They seemed very interested in what squadron I was a member of.”

Starsky understood Hutch’s reluctance to elaborate on the questioning. He knew from very personal experience that the victim of such abuse feels guilty for allowing it to happen. It didn’t matter that the victim wasn’t at fault.

“Just how does this relate to what happened to your eyes and teeth a few minutes ago?”

“I’m getting to that.” Hutch paused and gritted his teeth. “It seems that my reluctance to admit to anything caused the head interrogator to call in a specialist.” Hutch remembered the platinum blond man only vaguely. Shaking his head to clear the cobwebs, he continued, “My memories get really shaky at this point.”

“I can imagine,” Starsky knew that often the mind repressed some of the most awful recollections simply to preserve sanity.

“Somehow I was rescued by an amazing being. He said later that I was, for all intents and purposes, dead when he got me out of the basement of Gestapo headquarters.”

Starsky’s head jerked up. “Of course, he was wrong since you’re here.”

“Actually he wasn’t. He finished what La Croix, the interrogator, started.”

Starsky leaned forward to the edge of his seat and murmured something indecipherable. Something important was being glossed over here. Starsky intended to get to the bottom of it, if he could.

“My next vivid memory is being in some sort of barn with this weird guy, trying to explain to me that I was now one of his kind. He finally convinced me.” Hutch leaned back and didn’t know what to say at this point.

“What exactly did he mean?”

“He said that he was a vampire and so was I.” The words rested in the room quietly like an unexploded bomb.

“Naw!” burst from the scientist’s mouth. “You were hurt and he was takin’ advantage of you. You must have been seein’ things.”

“Were you seein’ things a few minutes ago? It was real convincing to me when I followed his directions and enjoyed drinking the blood of that horse.”

“No, I don’t believe it,” Starsky whispered into the charged atmosphere. He couldn’t deny the evidence of his senses, but it just wasn’t possible. Hutch had to be imagining things, but there were the funny eyes and unusual manifestation of canines that Hutch had never had before.

“Think about this.” Hutch couldn’t sit still any longer. He rose and watched uncomfortably as Starsky stared at him with wide eyes all the while knowing something of what was going through Starsky’s mind. It had gone through his own mind only a few days ago.

“I can’t eat or drink anything except the blood of mammals. Direct sunlight will burn me almost instantly. Running water makes me very uncomfortable. I don’t know about crosses and holy water yet since I haven’t experimented with those. There are some benefits. I was shot in the escape, but it was only a momentary pain. Later when I remembered it and looked, the wound had healed almost to invisibility,” Hutch said in an almost rote fashion. He had rehearsed this speech so often that it came out with little emotion.

“Shit!” seemed to be the only comment that Starsky could utter.

Slowly and with iron control, Hutch allowed his vampire nature to come to the forefront. His yellow eyes gleamed in the artificial light then he opened his mouth to reveal the long amber fangs that protruded from behind his normal teeth. It took only a slight effort to levitate to the low ceiling of the sitting room.

“Convinced?” Hutch said as his eyes and teeth returned to normal while he dropped lightly to the floor.

“Yeah, but it just seems so impossible. I’m used to dealing with scientific laws not with myths and legends. Gonna take me a while to get used to this, ya know.” Starsky rose from his place on the couch and went to stand in front of the troubled man–or whatever was standing in the middle of the floor. “Come on, sit down. We’ll work this out somehow.” Starsky wasn’t exactly sure how anything like this could be worked out, but he loved Hutch and no matter his guise, he was going to support and care for him to the best of his ability.

Hutch shook his head, but allowed himself to be led to the couch and pushed gently down. He slumped to hold his head in hands and if it were possible he would have wept. Gingerly Starsky seated himself beside him. Taking his courage in hand, he put his arms around the now shaking shoulders of the alleged vampire. Instinctively, Hutch turned into Starsky’s neck and rested his head on the broad shoulder. Starsky stiffened then made himself relax. He remembered that this was the sort of posture that had started the whole thing.

“Let me lick your neck. It’s still bleeding and is spotting your collar.” Starsky stiffened again. “That’s all I’ll do. There’s something in my saliva that speeds the clotting of blood. You can believe me. When I give my word, it’s given. In that I haven’t changed.” Hutch hoped against hope that he could keep his word. He wasn’t especially hungry for sustenance, but he was hungry for contact with Starsky. The vampire part of him only knew that intimacy could be achieved with the taking of blood. The human part of him was offended at that thought and wanted another type of intimacy. He hoped he could resolve both sides of his nature and not destroy Starsky meanwhile.

“All right,” Starsky conceded then lifted his chin and felt the rasping of an inhumanly rough tongue. He thought briefly of a large cat. As the tongue continued its job, he felt a tingle below the waist. The scientist pushed Hutch’s head into his neck tighter and lifted his own head even higher, finally resting it on the back of the couch. His groin was definitely throbbing its approval of whatever Hutch was doing.

Hutch was stunned at the level of trust Starsky had in him. After the revelations of a few moments ago, here he was entrusting his life’s blood to Hutch. It was not a trust that Hutch was going to betray. This he vowed silently to himself.

“Yeah, babe. That’s really getting to me.” Hutch drew back and saw that there was no lie in the guileless blue eyes. Starsky reached with one hand and pulled the blond head down to his lips. Hutch froze and pulled away.

“Before this goes any farther, I’ve got to tell you a bit more.” Starsky dropped his hand and waited in silence.

“Nic said…you’ve got to control my impulses. If it starts to get out of hand…I mean if I…uh…lose it, you have to tell me to stop…” Hutch couldn’t get any more out.

“Anything you say, babe,” Starsky answered then raised his hand to Hutch’s lips to still them. “You could never hurt me. Doesn’t matter what you’ve become.”

Starsky leaned into Hutch and kissed the closed lips. Then his tongue demanded entrance. Hutch acquiesced. Starsky then inserted his tongue into the vampire’s mouth. The emergence of the fangs had begun. He explored them fearlessly. He noted that there were needle-like protrusions on the ends of the extra canines…much like hypodermic needles. That explained the ability to extract blood from the jugular veins of mammals, Starsky’s scientist brain said. Hutch tried to draw back as his fangs lengthened following the exploring tongue. Starsky clutched harder on Hutch’s head, not allowing Hutch to retreat.

Hutch relaxed as he remembered Nic’s advice to let his lover lead. He wasn’t sure where Starsky was going, but he was willing to follow. He allowed the scientist to satisfy his curiosity about his teeth and even tasted a little blood where Starsky had gotten too enthusiastic in his examinations. Briefly he worried that the faint taste of blood would send him into transformation as it had a while ago. But he restrained any tingling urge and enjoyed the further assault on his mouth then on his own neck as Starsky changed his venue of attack. Lifting his chin, Hutch allowed his lover better access to his defenseless neck. He felt vulnerable as the scientist took the flesh of his neck in his very human teeth and pinched the flesh slightly. The quick spark of pain seem to be centered in his groin.

Starsky was now straddling Hutch and unbuttoning the shirt he had donned only a little while ago. Then the dark head leaned down and licked its way to a small nipple surrounded by blond down. The hardness in Hutch’s slacks was becoming unbearable. The gathers of the trousers were threatening to strangle his organ.

Hutch pushed Starsky back to his knees which relieved the immediate pressure on his penis. “Let’s go somewhere else a little more comfortable.” Hutch whispered the euphemism of all lovers for the beds they shared. Hutch would have been thrilled with a bed of nails with Starsky, but knowing his sybaritic lover, he knew that Starsky appreciated all the comforts. He smiled to himself, promising to indulge Starsky all he could. This kind of trust couldn’t be bought, but it could be rewarded.

Starsky grinned and leaned over to lightly rub the bulge in the front of Hutch’s trousers. “Yeah, I want to see more of this.”

The two men went to the bedroom locked in each other’s arms which made walking a bit awkward, but neither minded. They just wanted to touch.

“Got too many clothes on…,” they said in unison then nearly giggled. Each began trying to undo buttons and shove clothing out of the way. It was simply too slow so they moved apart long enough for each to strip away his own garments. Sporting two impressive erections, they came together and rubbed together as they slowly went to the bed and sank down into the softness.

Finally with little confusion, they settled against each other and began their explorations anew. With the enforced abstinence, their lovemaking wasn’t slated to last long. Hutch found himself under the frantic Starsky. With mouths locked together, they rubbed and stroked each other. Starsky threw back his head in silent invitation. Hutch pulled himself up to grab Starsky and roll them both over. With the blond now on top, he could sink his fangs into the vulnerable neck. Gently he licked the area and let only the fine needles pierce the skin. Starsky groaned and reached between their bodies to grasp the twin erections. He squeezed and pulled both of them to the edge of completion. Hutch allowed himself a hint of the sweetness of Starsky’s blood.

The gentle sucking sent Starsky over the edge first. He stiffened and contracted in a massive orgasm. Then he squeezed even more frantically on Hutch’s organ that responded with a racking orgasm, but little cum. Hutch collapsed on top of the shorter man, his fangs receding automatically.

“Uh, Hutch…you gotta move. I can’t breathe,” Starsky gasped, but there was no response from the figure collapsed on top of him. Expending his waning strength, he shoved Hutch to one side. Hutch opened his eyes and gazed fondly at Starsky.

“The sun just rose. I seem to react to that in strange ways occasionally. ‘M tired.” Remembering Doyle’s fear in the cave, Hutch continued as long as he could. “I’m not dying. But I gotta rest a while when the sun comes up. There won’t be much of a pulse, but don’t worry.” He slumped back and seemed to pass out.

Starsky relaxed back on the bed and grinned stupidly at the ceiling. He was happy…no, that was the wrong word…he was ecstatic. He laughed aloud and rolled over to retrieve the blankets that had somewhere along the way been pushed to the floor. He covered both him and Hutch although he had a hunch that Hutch wouldn’t care one way or the other. He just felt better if Hutch was covered.

He didn’t care that he hadn’t gotten back his human lover. It was enough he had Hutch back, no matter what form he had taken. He would be forever grateful to that unknown entity in Paris who had taken pity on Hutch.

These thoughts drifted through his mind as he began to doze in the rosy aftermath of sex and love. No doubt there would be problems, but right now he was too tired and too happy to worry much about the future. He had all the future he could contemplate right here in bed with him. He drifted in that Brownian world between sleeping and waking. There were a thousand questions the scientist in him wanted to ask the vampire in Hutch. But there was time enough for that later. Yeah, lots of time.

* * *

Starsky finally dozed until he heard a tap at the door. Groaning he crawled out of bed, slipped into his slacks and shirt then shoved his feet into his loafers without socks. He quickly smoothed his hair with his hands. He had a hunch who was waiting outside that locked door.

“He’s here, isn’t he?” Doyle asked.

Starsky nodded and backed away from the door. The three followed him into the sitting room where the remnants of Starsky’s aborted late snack were still strewn on the coffee table. Doyle noted the unopened beers and uneaten food.

“He told you?” Doyle asked Starsky, collapsing onto the couch with Bodie beside him. Cowley remained standing near the door uneasily watching the interchange between Doyle and Starsky.

“Yeah, it was bit unbelievable at first. But he convinced me.”

“He does have his ways to do that,” Doyle acknowledged.

“Doyle…,” Bodie began to speak, but was waved to silence by Cowley.

Both Starsky and Doyle turned to Cowley who was staring at Starsky unconsciously rubbing the raised wounds on his neck. “I think ye had better start explaining, young man.”

At that moment the bedroom door swung open, to reveal Hutch who warily entered the room, his glinting blue eyes studying Bodie and Cowley. Immediately, he knew that his changed physique was unknown to both men, but suspicion was rampant in the charged atmosphere especially from Cowley. Not knowing why, but Bodie reached for his pistol in his shoulder holster. But before he could clear the holster, Cowley waved him off.

“That wouldn’t be much of a deterrent, would it, son?” he questioned Hutch as he walked the rest of way into the room. The canny Scotsman had noted the marks on Starsky’s neck and the darkened atmosphere of the flat. Cowley’s sixth sense was raising the hackles on the back of his neck as he watched the disheveled blond cross the room.

Hutch shook his head.

“You’ve guessed?” Hutch asked, not sure he was understanding Cowley correctly.

“I’ve had my suspicions of your kind before. The marks on Dr. Starsky’s neck only confirm what I’ve wondered about for years.”

“Actually it’s quite a relief. I knew I could convince you of what I was the same as I did Doyle and Starsk. I just didn’t want you to come at me with a wooden stake in hand.”

“Are ye so changed, then?”

“Only in my eating and sleeping habits. I can’t function during the day in direct sunlight. Nic told me that direct sunlight kills us. I haven’t experimented much myself, however, what I have experienced was painful. He also mentioned that holy water and crucifixes would burn. Again, I haven’t had the time to experiment.”

“But you do have the traditional powers?”

“I can’t turn into a bat if that’s what you mean. But I can fly for fairly short distances. Wouldn’t want to try a transatlantic solo just yet. Bullets hurt, but aren’t fatal unless they shatter the spine, again according to Nic.”

“You do sustain yourself on blood? Human or what?”

“Cows and horses mainly, so far.”

“You don’t kill them?”

“No, Nic was careful to teach me how to avoid that.”

“Who’s this Nic?”

“The vampire that brought me over after rescuing me from the gentle hands of the Gestapo. He said that I was so close to being dead that the only way he thought he could save me was to change me into one of his kind.”

“What were his reasons for helping you and not any of the others in the hands of the Gestapo?”

“I asked him and it was all bound up in the fact that his mentor was my interrogator ‘n something about trying to make up for his own atrocities.”

“Stop the third degree!” Starsky intervened, stepping between the two. “Isn’t it enough to know that he’s back and safe?”

“No, it really isn’t, but we can continue this discussion later,” Cowley conceded to the fury that he saw in the scientist’s eyes. He had backed down before to that temper and acknowledged that he could get the answers to his questions in a more relaxed atmosphere.

If he had known the signs, he might have been worried. Hutch’s eyes were beginning to yellow and his fangs were growing under the pressure of Cowley’s questions.

Bodie had sunk deeper into the settee and was trying to assimilate all the information his brain was receiving in a short period of time. Doyle had tensely watched the developments, but as the atmosphere relaxed, he felt himself sinking into a near stupor.

“What the hell is this all about?” Bodie interjected, glancing at the slumping Doyle and glaring at Cowley alternately. “What’s all this about blood, ‘n crucifixes, ‘n wooden stakes?” He started to rise from the couch only to have Cowley turn and face him.

“As I’ve long thought, we share this earth with another species of humans. There’s enough evidence in legends and myths, but no actual proof.”

“Another species of humans!” Bodie shook his head, not quite believing what his boss was telling him.

“Aye. Now we have proof and a specimen of the type to study.”

“Now wait a minute…,” Starsky interrupted. He was moving toward Hutch protectively. Hutch, sensing Starsky’s fear, was transforming before everyone’s eyes. His vampire form was suddenly apparent to all the humans in the room. Bodie muttered, “Bloody hell!” and reached for his gun. Doyle tried to restrain him, but Bodie easily shrugged off the weary, weakened Doyle. This time his gun cleared the holster before the startled Cowley stepped in front of him.

With a rush of displaced air, Hutch moved to snatch the gun before Bodie could react. After emptying the shells out, he tossed everything in the general direction of the bedrooms. Growling, he turned on Cowley who lifted his hands in a placating manner.

“It was only a figure of speech, son. Calm down!” Hutch snarled and started to move, but was cut off by Starsky. He couldn’t touch Starsky in this guise, but Starsky had no qualms and simply grabbed his arms then held on for dear life.

“That’s right. Calm him down, Dr. Starsky,” Cowley quietly spoke. Hutch began to return to normal. He shuddered and turned away from the group, feeling like a freak. He had overreacted to the term “specimen” and Starsky’s sudden terror. The idea of being some sort of lab animal was so repulsive that he couldn’t have restrained himself no matter how hard he tried.

“Doyle,” Cowley spoke quietly, “go to the kitchen and make us a pot of tea. I think we all could use one. Bodie, you go help.”

Bodie gestured toward the Americans engrossed in one another.

“I’ll be perfectly safe, now.”

The agents went into the kitchen and went through the motions of rinsing and putting the kettle on the cooker to heat. Doyle was so bedraggled that Bodie suggested that he go shower and clean up while the tea water was heating. Doyle acquiesced–even a cold shower would be an improvement over the itchy sea salt still adhering to various parts of his anatomy. Looking into the sitting room on his way to the bath, he noticed that somehow Cowley had gotten the Americans to sit down. They were still together, but on the settee. The streak of defiance was still evident in the posture of the scientist, reminding Doyle of a hen protecting its last chick. It would have been humorous in any other situation.

Leave it to Cowley to smooth things over, Doyle decided, and went into his bedroom and rummaged around for clean clothes. In the bathroom, he showered hurriedly, shaved, and dressed in clean clothes for the first time in recent memory. Leaving the bath, he felt ready to take on another round.

* * *

When Doyle returned to the kitchen, he found Bodie finishing the tea. He had put out five cups and Doyle put one back, “Hutch won’t drink any tea,” he commented as he returned the one cup to the shelf. Bodie nodded then retrieved a tray from one of the upper shelves.

After loading the tray with a few nearly stale biscuits, Bodie poured the tea and carried the cups into the sitting room where the three others were carrying on a quiet conversation. He sat the tray down on a low table and received a nodded thank-you from Cowley. Bodie took two cups over to the small dining table that sat near the door of the kitchen. Doyle came and collapsed into the chair nearest the door. Both men took tentative sips of the black tea. Bodie grimaced, missing the luxury of milk and sugar for his tea. Doyle was just glad to have some type of stimulant. There was no conversation between the men, only the slurping of tea. Then silence reigned. Both were uneasy in the other’s company and exhausted.

Finally Cowley rose from the chair that he had pulled up opposite the divan and walked over to his two agents. Doyle was nearly dropping off into his empty teacup and Bodie was nearly as bad. Both men raised their heads to look at him.

“I’ll take the car back to headquarters. You,” Cowley and he glanced back at the Americans, including all of them in his comments, “get some rest and I’ll send it back at 18:30.”

They all nodded wearily.

“I’ll notify the Air Marshall about Hutchinson. He can begin his debriefing then and, Doyle, we’ll finish up the other business as well.”

Without further ceremony, Cowley limped from the flat. The click of the door lock sounded unnaturally loud in the room. Then his uneven footsteps were heard moving down the hall.

Hutch and Starsky rose together and in almost lock step disappeared into their room gently shutting the door. Bodie looked at Doyle momentarily, noting the dark circles under the murky green eyes. He rose and began clearing the table of the detritus of the conference. Taking two trips, he finally finished piling the sink full and went out into the sitting room to find Doyle had disappeared into their room. He shucked off his shoulder harness and began picking up the bullets strewn through the carpet. His gun lay forgotten next to the bedroom door. He loaded it and put it away in his holster.

Going into the bedroom, he found Doyle sprawled out across the bed. He closed the door and checked the blackout curtains.

Smiling faintly at the disarray presented him, he undressed and shoved the limp form over to make room for his own weary body. Before lying down he slid Doyle’s shoes off. Doyle didn’t wake and only snuffled into the duvet covering the pillow. Bodie despaired of getting him under the covers so left him as he was.

* * *

The noise of running water woke Bodie late in the afternoon. He rose and peered out the bedroom window to see the nearly empty street. Few cars ever moved down London streets now. He missed the hustle and bustle of heavy traffic, but noted men and women with carrier bags going and coming in the neighborhood.

Doyle groaned, rolled over on the bed then sat up and rubbed his eyes. Bodie heard more water running in the bathroom and assumed that their flatmates were both up and functioning. He stopped in the act of picking up his slacks to replay the astounding revelations from the pilot earlier. Sliding the trousers over his hips, he commented to Doyle who was now stretching sleep-stiffened muscles.

“Didn’t dream up this morning, did I?”

“You mean about Hutchinson?”

“Yeah and the double agent.”

“No, and it takes some getting used to, I tell you. Hutchinson especially.”

Bodie shook his head as he slipped into his shoes then sat on the bed to tie the laces. His shirt was too sweat-stained and wrinkled for further wear so he rose and looked in the wardrobe for something else. He finally settled on a bulky sweater as the season was turning. Occasionally his job as Cowley’s aide required him to wear a uniform, but he figured tonight wasn’t one of them. He sighed as he thought of the discussion of a mole at headquarters.

Doyle had risen from the bed and moved behind Bodie. He slid his arms around Bodie’s middle and rested his head on the broad shoulders.

“What’s up, Luv?”

“Just remembering your last operation. Should’ve known it was an ‘Operation Susie’. The old bastard could’ve told me.”

“Naw, he couldn’t. It wasn’t just my neck, but the necks of a few other people were at stake as well.”

“Did he imagine that I might have been the security leak?”

“Naah, he just wasn’t sure if you were a good enough actor.”

“Actor!”

“Yeah, whoever is reporting to Berlin probably knows about us. Just couldn’t take a chance that you might let it slip you knew I was alive.”

“Jesus Christ, mate! You don’t know the hell I’ve gone through these past few months. Not knowing…not knowing if you were alive or dead…or captured!” Bodie repressed the near tears, but couldn’t stop the faint tremble of his torso.

“I can imagine,” Doyle responded faintly. He was reassured and startled that Bodie cared so much.

Bodie turned in Doyle’s arms and reached to pull the other man tightly to his chest. Then he was covering the up-turned face in kisses. Fumbling with the buttons on Doyle’s shirt, he was off balance as the shorter agent moved them toward the bed. They collapsed in an ungraceful heap on the wrinkled bed clothes. Not noticing anything as ordinary as crumpled sheets and blankets, they were intent on each other’s bodies.

“Don’t have much time, do we?” Bodie panted as he undid Doyle’s trousers. His hand reaching for the hardening organ, peeking from the opening.

“Lost m’ watch in the ocean somewhere,” Doyle muttered as he heaved up on the sweater that was hampering his attack on the muscled chest.

He groaned as Bodie’s mouth became affixed to his now rampant penis protruding from the cords he was wearing. Shifting over onto his side, he pulled Bodie’s hips toward his hungry mouth. His own body moved automatically closer to Bodie. He licked and kissed the heavy cock then took it all into his mouth while Bodie ministered to his dick. Doyle returned all favors and added a finger to the anal ring behind the balls he had been massaging. He dipped in and carefully stimulated the tight bud, feeling it relax. Then Bodie moved a hand to pinch and pull lightly on Doyle’s nipples.

Time wavered and became hazy for both men. Then as Doyle felt the cock in his mouth pulse, his own orgasm swept over him. He choked momentarily then swallowed all the cum his partner could produce. As the penis in his mouth wilted, he slid his head down to the soft duvet and shuddered in his own afterglow. Bodie quivered like an arrow just striking a tree. Then he slumped against the bed.

“Got off like a pair of kids, didn’t we,” Bodie commented as his own body relaxed from the sexual tension of the previous minutes. He rolled around to put his head down on the other man’s chest. They remained in this position until there was a knock on the outside door. The two agents tensed and began hurriedly fastening their clothes, pulling down shirts and sweaters. The tap came again, but movement in the sitting room told them the Americans were answering the door.

“Must be the driver from headquarters,” Doyle commented as he lifted himself up from bed. Bodie stood and pulled Doyle into a quick kiss.

“Yeah,” Bodie murmured as he buckled his belt. He watched as Doyle walked toward the bedroom door, and he made a silent vow as the slender man left the room. Never again…never again would he allow Doyle to be taken advantage of. Even if he had to stow away on the plane or boat taking Ray to the Continent, so be it. He would be there to cover his back or whatever needed covering. The war would continue, Bodie knew. However, he would meet the same fate as Doyle. This he vowed, as well.

He heard faint murmuring of conversation from the front room. There was still debriefing and plans to be made regarding invasions and moles, but his heart was singing. The nightmare of the past months was over temporarily and he would revel in it. Straightening his shoulders, he went into the next room with a lighter heart.

* * *

Hutch lay back against his pillow with his arms stretched over his head up to the headboard. He sighed in uncomplicated satisfaction; the first time for what seemed an eternity, but in reality had only been a couple of weeks. However, the reunion with Starsky last night had made everything else seem trivial.

The door clicked open to admit Starsky in his robe. He grinned the irrepressible patented Starsky grin. Hutch couldn’t help but return it. Then he gazed into the sparkling blue eyes as Starsky leaned over the bed. Noting the upraised arms, Starsky clasped the crossed wrists and growled in a poorly accented voice, “Now zat I haf you vere I vant you….” His voice broke into giggles at this point when Hutch easily broke his grip and began poking him in the ribs.

Weakened by his giggles, Starsky was easy prey for his vampire lover to toss him onto the bed then roll over to sit across Starsky’s thighs and continue to tickle the vulnerable ribs with one hand while gripping both Starsky’s wrists in one strong hand.

“Stop! Hutch!” Starsky gasped helplessly. “Uncle! I give up…King’s X!”

Convulsing in his own giggles, Hutch lurched off Starsky and slumped across the foot of the bed. The whole episode had affected both them more than called for, but it was a measure of the relief they both felt. It was wonderful to be silly and carefree if for only a few moments before returning to the real world.

“That was the driver Mr. Cowley sent. We’re supposed to go over to headquarters for a complete debriefing this evening, if you remember,” Starsky said soberly, then grinned widely at the mental picture which flashed across his consciousness of the disbelief of the public. Hutch, vampire extraordinaire, was giggling helplessly in a cheap London flat.

“Yeah, guess I’d better get dressed,” Hutch muttered and rose from the rumpled bed to search the massive wardrobe in the corner of the bedroom for a spare class A uniform. He had decided that in the circumstances the more professional he looked, the better.

As he straightened the belt on his blouse in the mirror, Starsky came to stand behind him. Starsky had also dressed in a neat dark suit with tie. It was a little radical for him, but he had also had the feeling that they should make a statement of sobriety with their clothes since the debriefing was going to be pretty bizarre in other ways.

“Thought vampires couldn’t be seen in mirrors,” Starsky muttered in his lover’s ear as he wrapped his arms around the blond’s slender waist.

“Guess that’s one myth about us that isn’t true,” Hutch murmured as he turned to face Starsky. He leaned forward and pulled Starsky into an embrace and kissed first his eyes and then his lips.

There was a knock on the door and Bodie’s muffled voice filtered into their consciousness. “Let’s go get this over with, children.”

As they reluctantly pulled apart, Starsky took Hutch’s face gently in both hands, “Remember, flyboy, you are loved.” With that both moved separated and went toward the door to face an uncertain future, but one where they were both sure of the other’s love.

The End — so far