"Out with it, Degaud."
He couldn't help but smile at her forceful use of his surname; it reminded him of the war, the army. She'd been a breath of fresh air, right when he needed it. But, she couldn't know all of it. He wouldn't tell her all of it. The less she knew, the better. "A few months ago, I got into a fight with an old vampire."
"How old?"
"Five hundred at least," he shrugged. "I killed him, but somehow caught the attention of a very old and powerful witch. She was plotting to kill me and we had no idea how to stop her, so we found a vampire that was willing to help us. One that was hunted by the same witch."
"Who was the vampire?" Morgan asked, when he paused.
"Aya."
"Oh," she said, her arm dropping away.
"She helped us above and beyond what was asked of her. She helped me," he looked away, knowing that Morgan would get it. "The thing she didn't tell us right away was that she was mixed up with the founding vampires."
"The first vampires?" she said, a note of hesitation in her voice.
"Yeah. Two thousand year old assholes," he scuffed his boot into the dirt, shaking his head. "She helped us take out the witch and one of the founders, but..."
"They killed her, didn't they?" she asked quietly.
"Yes."
"I'm sorry, Zac." Morgan wrapped her arms around him, her head resting against his shoulder.
"He's still here, Morgan," he said seriously, his arm snaking around her back. "Arturius. We're not sure what he wants, but I'm sure it has something to do with our friend, Gabby."
"Gabby? Is she a vampire, too?"
"No," he grimaced at the notion. "She's a witch."
Morgan whistled, knowing that it was a huge deal that a vampire and a witch were best buddies.
"I have no idea what to do," he frowned. "I can't - I can't stop thinking about her." Aya, it was his fault that she had died. If he hadn't of been cursed by that hag, Katrin, then she would still be here. Hell, if he had of kept his big mouth shut the day Alistair had walked into Max's bar, he wouldn't have met her, but she would still be alive.
"It's okay, Zac. I'm here to help you. I managed it the last time, right?" Morgan grinned, trying to pull him out of his depression.
"I know."
The last time he had lost hold of his humanity, he could no longer tell friend from foe. He'd digressed into a predator. Victoria would have been proud of her creation. This was much different to that, but if he wasn't careful, he could just as easily go back down the same road. And death would be the only thing he was capable of.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Normandy, France
August, 1944
Zac had been a vampire for eighty years and he still couldn't control himself all of the time. War was familiar to him. Fighting for a cause, killing in the name of King and Country, that was him through and through. This time he was fighting with Britain against the oppression of the Nazi regime and their stranglehold on Europe. Hitler had to go and that seemed like a noble cause to lose himself in.
The battlefield was vastly different this time. The American Civil War had been brutal; it was a war between brothers. World War I had been nothing but a massacre that had fed his bloodlust. This war, that had become known as World War II, would either be his end or his saving grace.
He would learn control here. He had to.
Zac had fared well up until they had finally deployed to Normandy. Long ago, his family had immigrated to America from Reims in Northern France. Perhaps this time, he would see it.
Two months of hard fighting on enemy soil had seen tens of thousands of lives lost, but the Allies were set to win back much of the North from German control. Paris was next on the list to liberate.
It was the evening after a particularly bloody fight on the approach to the French capital that Zac felt his control slipping. He stood in the middle of the village green in a small hamlet they had been tasked to neutralize. Standing there in the wake of the carnage, he realized he was alone. Everyone was dead. Even with all his speed and strength, everyone had still died.
The bodies of men, British and German alike, were strewn across the square, torn to shreds by machine gun fire. The air was clogged with the smell of dirty blood and gunpowder and it made Zac gag. As he felt the familiar burn in his throat he hightailed it out of there as fast as he could.
When he finally rendezvoused with a neighboring unit and gave his report to the CO, he had had enough. The best thing for everyone, including himself, was to get the hell out of there. He was so hungry, he would go through the entire unit to sate it.
Standing to attention before the Commanding Officer he gave his report as calmly as he could. "Twenty Germans dead, fourteen British. They ambushed us as we entered the village. They came from behind and in front, machine guns were stationed on rooftops and cleverly camouflaged, sir."
"Any civilian casualties?"
"Zero. The village was empty, sir."
The CO frowned and wrote something on the map on his desk. A minute passed before he looked up at Zac, "And how did you manage to escape, soldier?"
"I was sent to neutralize the guns, sir. I was the best covert they had. When I realized I was the last one left, I commandeered one of their points and took out the remaining hostiles, sir." That was mostly the truth. The last few, he had tore apart with his bare hands, but he couldn't tell the CO that.
"Dismissed, Degaud." the CO said curtly. "Report to Major Lewis in the morning for reassignment."
Zac didn't want reassignment. He wanted out of there. There was only one thing left to do.
"Permission to speak freely, sir?"
The CO looked at him curiously, and nodded sharply.
"I'm sorry sir, but I have to go. If anyone stops me, they will die. You will discharge me from service as wounded. If anyone enquires, I have been sent back to London with the other casualties. I will leave this camp unchallenged. Do you understand?" He didn't want any trouble on the road. If he were stopped, it would become very messy, very fast.
The CO was looking at him, slack jawed, his expression vacant as he absorbed Zac's command. He nodded his understanding as the compulsion took hold. "Dismissed, Lieutenant. Safe journey home."
He wasn't challenged as he left the camp, the sentries didn't even see him pass in the darkness. The countryside passed by in a blur and he was hardly aware of anyone or anything. He had to run to clear his head and he didn't care what direction he went in. If any enemy activity was around, he didn't see anything.
It was some time before he realized the city limits were surrounding him. Paris. No sane person wearing a British military uniform would come here. Paris was occupied by the Germans.
Zac found himself deep in the city in the area he knew to be Montmartre. He stood on Rue d'Orsel and stared up at the Basilique du Sacre-Coeur, hardly believing that his vampire feet had taken him so far so quickly. The basilica was shrouded in silver moonlight, making the grey stone look haunted. The streets were empty, the threat of imminent invasion had scared everyone indoors and into bunkers, all save for a few brave souls that lingered around the Moulin Rouge and the whorehouses that littered the side streets.
Gestapo officers, soldiers and sympathetic locals hurried to and fro as he lingered in the shadows pondering his next move. The familiar clink of metal drew his attention to the opposite end of the street. A patrol was advancing on his position, boots thumping on the flagstones as they scanned windows and doorways. It would have been smarter to retreat and avoid confrontation entirely, but he was hungry and his wits gone.
There were only five soldiers and one officer, Gestapo. They were looking for someone or something; there was no reason for one of them to be out here with regular infantry. Well, he thought to himself, whatever they're doing, I'll save that one for last.
Stepping from the shadows into the moonlight, he tilted his head and listened, waiting to see what they would do. Five rifles and one revolver were cocked and aimed dir
ectly at him.
"Halt!" the Gestapo officer cried.
Zac didn't move as they came forward, their guns never dropping. One of the soldiers came forward and patted him down, checking for any concealed weapons.
"löschen," he said, stepping back.
"British," the officer said in English, his thick accent making the word sound strange. "What are you doing out here? Reconnaissance, secret mission?"
When Zac didn't reply, he gestured for his men to take him. As an arm reached out to grab him, he twisted to the side behind the soldier to his left as his comrades fired. But, the bullets only hit their friend, the spray of blood staining his shirt. Zac grabbed the dying man from behind and snapped his neck, letting the limp body fall to the ground. "Actually, I'm American."
Time seemed to slow down as he felt his eyes mist into blackness at the promise of more blood. The remaining soldiers all took a step backwards, eyes wide. The Gestapo officer looked horrified, like he was about to piss his pants.
"Who wants to go first?" Zac asked, his voice thick with anticipation.
Bullets ripped through the material of his jacket, grazing the skin of his arms, embedding into his stomach, but he kept coming. Wrenching a rifle away from one man, he stabbed it backwards, the bayonet impaling the soldier behind. As the blade was still slicing, his hands came up and grasped the helmeted head of the man in front, twisting. The audible snap hardly registered as he turned for the reminder of his prey, who were now running in the opposite direction.
Before the soldiers could reach the end of the street, Zac was in front of them, plunging his hands into their chests. Tearing away, he let their hearts fall to the ground beside their dead owners.
The Gestapo officer skidded to a halt, dropping his revolver with a clatter. Twenty seconds had passed since the man had given the order to take him and all his men were dead. Zac felt the warm sticky blood drip down his fingers and onto the ground as he stepped forward. This was the part he would enjoy the most.
The officer began to plead for his life. Zac let out a laugh as he pushed the man against the wall of a closed cafe, hand tight around his neck. The stench of blood was driving him mad.
"Do you show mercy to those you kill?" he asked, seething as the man begged for mercy. His grip tightened around his neck and he began to choke. "Because I don't."
The man began to scream as Zac lunged, his fangs tearing into the officer's jugular. His blood tasted foul, like fear, murder and cowardice. He groaned as the blood filled his veins. This was what he wanted. As the man's heart stopped beating, he let him drop and staggered backwards, wiping his face with the back of his hand.
Two minutes. It had only taken him two minutes to slaughter six armed men. This was exactly the thing he was trying to overcome. How had he let himself do this? He could have saved someone tonight, someone the Gestapo were looking for, but how did that make him any better than them? Slaughter and murder walked hand in hand.
Not wanting to be near the stench of his own failure, he fled into the darkness, backtracking across the city towards the hidden British units. He couldn't be found here. Challenge would see nothing but death. He wouldn't be able to stop himself.
Zac limped through a field on the outskirts of Paris, blood running from the gunshot wounds in his stomach. Stumbling against a stone fence, he knelt in the dirt, grimacing. Digging his fingers into his own flesh he pulled the annoying bullets out and waited for the wounds to heal. As he sat there, hidden from he road, he caught the sounds of something approaching.
Peering over the fence, he caught sight of a convoy in the distance, travelling down another major road. But, he wasn't alone. Movement in the darkness of the country lane he was alongside gave him reason to pause. It was a group of six men, who he guessed had been sent out to scout the surrounding countryside. He hovered in the tree line, watching their progress. As they came closer he caught a familiar scent on the air. These men had been fighting. Gunpowder, sweat and blood filled his head. The scent of war.
The scene he had fled back in Paris filled his mind and he stumbled backwards. A hairs breadth separated him from losing it again and if he did, these men would die. He didn't have the strength to stop anymore.
"Who goes there?" An unmistakable British accent came from the shadows, but Zac could only smell the man's blood. At some point he had been injured, but it didn't matter if it was only a scrape. In his state, he would still smell it.
Before he realized what he was doing, Zac found himself standing in the middle of the dark road staring down the six soldiers. They came to a sudden stop, rifles aimed at the unknown assailant that had magically appeared in front of them.
"Stop!" the lead soldier cried, but Zac kept walking forward, the order landing on deaf ears.
The crack of a single gunshot rang out across the silent countryside and Zac hissed as he felt the bullet lodge in his chest. He dropped to one knee in surprise and began to dig the bullet out with shaking fingers. The horrified eyes of the British soldiers were on him as he tore the annoying piece of metal from his flesh and tossed it to the side.
A growl came deep from his chest as he stood, eyes black and fangs bared. The sound of six rifles cocking didn't stop his advance. The smell of their fear egged him on, a game made especially for his darkest urges.
Then, he was directly in front of the lead soldier. He wrenched the rifle from the man's grasp and before he could stop himself, he swung the butt directly at the soldier's head, his skull splintering with a sickening crunch. As he fell to the ground, the remaining soldiers stumbled backwards, eyes wide with fear, hearts hammering in their chests.
The stench of blood from the soldier's caved skull was everywhere. As he felt his fangs grow in completely, he knew it was too late. The soldiers would run and it would be pointless.
Zac scarcely comprehended what he was doing as his fangs tore into flesh, the animal inside of him taking over. The remaining five men had fallen before they could fire another shot, their blood staining his face and hands, the taste of it on his tongue.
Stumbling backwards as he realized what he had done again, he fell into the mud at the side of the road and sobbed. Rolling onto his back he held his breath to stop the stench of blood from taking him again.
Monster.
He couldn't tell friend from foe and it made him sick. He couldn't go on like this. He wouldn't go on like this.
Zac didn't know how long he lay there wanting to die. He was so out of it he didn't understand that someone was looking down at him. A woman. At first he thought she was an angel come to take him away, her blonde hair sparkling in the moonlight. What must he look like? Covered in blood, lying in a ditch at the side of the road, six mutilated soldiers from his own side scattered across the asphalt. Had she come to take him to hell?
Strong hands hauled him into a sitting position and somehow he knew the woman was a vampire. Why did she care? He was a stranger to her, a psychotic killer. All the bad things about being a vampire.
He realized then that she was a nurse. He took in her uniform and couldn't fathom it. "How can you..." he began, but the words died in his throat. The moment he spoke, the burning came back and he choked.
"How can I stand the blood?" she asked as he grasped his forehead, rubbing his temples with bloodstained hands.
Zac nodded, eyes wide.
"Practice," she grinned lopsidedly. "What's your name, soldier?"
"Degaud," he rasped.
"Well, Lieutenant Degaud," she had spied the insignia on his jacket, "first things first. Let's get you out of the mud."
"Why?" he whispered as he stumbled to his feet.
"I can't really leave you out here like that," she said, gesturing to his stained clothing. "And you're kind of in the midst of a rampage."
Zac knew she was right. If she left him, god knows what he would do next. He didn't have a choice but to follow her.
The woman led him to an abandoned barn in a field some way from the major roadways.
It was decayed and falling down, but served as a good hiding place for the time being. It seemed she had used this place before. The ground was trampled and the scent of freshly turned hay filled the air. There were hidden things here in forgotten corners. He was positive that she knew that he had worked it out. A vampire saw much more than a human would. What worried him was why she had been here before if she was a nurse with the British Army.
When she noticed his confused look, she said, "I sometimes bring Resistance here. If things get too close in Paris and they need to hide for a night, I help get them out."
She was a vampire that moonlighted as a nurse for the British Army and the French Resistance? What the hell was she?
She took out a bottle of wine that had been hidden under a pile of hay and handed it to him. A bundle followed, clean civilian clothes that were probably meant for some future political refugee. "Best you get out of those clothes, you stink of blood."
He took a long draught of the wine, the alcohol soothing his burning throat. Taking the clothes, he went into one of the old stalls and peeled off his wet and dirty uniform. A basin of water was pushed under the door and he washed the dirt and blood away.
"Will anyone miss you?"
"What?" He jumped at her sudden question and pulled on the dark grey shirt from the bundle.
"Your CO," she explained.
"No."
"I hope you had enough sense to compel him and not rip his face off," she scolded.
"I'm not a total imbecile," he spat.
"Calm down." She held her hands up when he peered at her over the stall door. "I was just asking."
Zac snorted and pulled his boots back on, throwing his wet coat over the wall. When he came out, the woman was perched on an old bale of hay, looking at him.
"I'm going to help you," she declared.
"Why?" He had it in him already that he was a lost cause.
"Because I can and I was in the right place at the right time." She didn't seemed too put off by the circumstances of his downward spiral. Handing him the bottle of wine, she smiled and gestured for him to sit.