Jörg took a few deep breaths to settle himself, then stepped out onto the leaf litter. He heard the sounds of birds flying through the branches and small animals running across the ground. There was no sound of flowing water, so it didn’t seem there were any rivers or ponds nearby. He had been away from the front for quite a while, and right now, his nerves were winning out against that rush of adrenaline he got from fighting. He’d been living far too relaxed a life lately. This tiniest droplet of fear was creating huge ripples across his heart.
Jörg heard a high-pitched, hollow sound just as something struck him in the back. He collapsed forward and groaned, an intense pain concentrating in the middle of his spine. He knew he’d been shot, but he could still move normally. Jörg staggered to his feet, only to be shot in the chest, before another bullet tore through his head and blew him backward.
Even then, Jörg remained fully conscious and aware of his surroundings. He simply felt warm liquid spurting from his wounds. He wasn’t dead.
Jörg lay on his back, still gripping his pistol. He waited for his enemy to approach to check his pulse. He didn’t think they’d leave him here. Even if it wasn’t Fabrice, whoever had shot him would come over to make sure he was dead.
Footsteps crunched on the leaves, drawing closer. The person didn’t seem to be trying to quiet their steps, so they must be confident they had killed him. Jörg waited for his chance, keeping his eyes open. Estimating the distance separating them by sound, Jörg sprang up when the person was within range and pointed his gun at his attacker.
It wasn’t Fabrice. Unexpectedly, it was a German man. A local Fabrice had coerced over to his side with money? One of the man’s eyes was half-crushed, and a large scar dominated his face, indicating he’d probably been injured and sent home from the front. Jörg faced the man, who was standing there as stiff as a board, and fired, missing on purpose. The shot was just meant to scare him. He grabbed the frozen man by the arm and instantly drew in sustenance. He must have overdone it a little, though, because the man’s face turned completely white, as if all the blood had been drained from his body. A sharp metallic taste filled Jörg’s mouth, and it was only then he realized that by sustenance, the Count meant human blood. Just like the werewolf Milos, Jörg had turned into a monster that feasted on the blood of humans.
The man crumpled to the ground, and two more people came running out of the bushes, guns blazing. One was Fabrice. He’d brought a friend.
Jörg dropped the man whose blood he’d drunk and began to draw sustenance from the two others without touching them. It took a little bit of time, but it achieved the desired effect. The third man collapsed, still gripping his gun, and Fabrice fell where he stood.
As Jörg walked over to Fabrice with his gun raised, tiny objects the size of beans fell from Jörg’s body. The wealth of sustenance he’d drawn from the humans had helped his wounds heal faster and push the bullets out.
Unable to move, Fabrice sat with his back to the trunk of a tree and flailed his legs, kicking at the fallen leaves. He didn’t have the strength to stand but was still vividly aware of his surroundings, fear painting his eyes darker with each step Jörg took.
A plea escaped his trembling lips. “Stay back! Stop! Monster! Get away from me!”
“Calm down, Fabrice.”
“No! Don’t kill me.”
“I have no intention of killing you. Your friends aren’t dead, either. Just unconscious.”
“Liar. You drained my blood. I know you did.”
Jörg grimaced, the spoke to Fabrice, keeping his tone as calm as possible. “Listen to me. If you give me your supply route for the crops like I asked and then go back to Paris, I won’t do anything else to you. It’s that simple.”
Fabrice didn’t answer. He buried his head in his hands and began to shake.
Jörg walked over and crouched down in front of him. “No matter where you run, I’ll follow you. You’d best answer me now.”
“I didn’t want to be a soldier!” Fabrice yelled. “I’d much prefer a quiet life in my hometown. I’m done with killing and spying.”
“Then you should have done this sooner. You should’ve fled when you first began to hate the battlefield.”
“That choice doesn’t exist on the front. I was too focused on trying to stay alive.”
“People die because other people kill them. You should have started by setting down your gun. If all the soldiers fled, then the war would be over. You always had the option to never start fighting in the first place.”
“So I should have refused my duty as a soldier, like the Quakers? If I had done that, my own army would have killed me instead of the enemy. The other soldiers would’ve heaped abuse on me, and my commanding officer would have executed me for desertion.”
“That only makes it more unbelievable that you remained in such a place,” Jörg said. “Christine is anxiously waiting for you to return. So go back home. To Paris.”
The slightest hint of color returned to Fabrice’s pale face. “Really?”
Jörg nodded. “You used carrier pigeons to have someone living nearby tell you how Christine was doing. Didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“But you could only learn so much that way. You couldn’t know how she was feeling deep down. I spoke with her directly. She’s waiting for you to come home.”
“Will you really take me to Paris?” Fabrice asked, tears brimming in his eyes.
“If you let me take over the food trade here. That, and one more thing: Where were you sending the information you got in Kleinerbrunn?”
“Multiple locations. Paris, Rotterdam, as far as London…”
“How did you get the pigeons?”
“When I first came here to help on the farm, someone showed me where the pigeon lofts are.”
“Who?”
“One of the workers who brings food and goods into the prison complex. He came with a letter that had orders from the French Army.”
“I assume you used homing pigeons. Regular carrier pigeons you would have had to keep bringing back to where you were.”
“That’s right.”
“Which loft are you using?”
“One close to the prisoners’ quarters.”
“Can you take me there?”
“Right now?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t stand. Help me up.”
Jörg tucked his pistol back into his coat, exchanging it for a bottle from one of his pockets. He held it out to Fabrice. “Drink.”
“Why should I trust you?”
“It’s not poison. It’s medicine.”
There was only a tiny amount, so while it wouldn’t heal Fabrice enough to let him fight, he would be able to walk.
“Don’t get any ideas,” Jörg warned him. “If you do anything suspicious, I’ll drain your blood again.”
“What about my comrades?”
“We’ll leave them here. They’ll wake up after a little while.”
Humans lost their memories of events that happened right before they were drained of sustenance. Jörg had learned that from the Count, so he left the men where they were and started walking away. They would have already forgotten what happened here today.
Jörg found the pigeon loft where Fabrice had described it. The Frenchman’s explanation and the message containers on the birds’ legs were enough to convince him that they were carrier pigeons.
After that, Jörg ordered Fabrice to lead him to the farmwife he was closest with.
He couldn’t meet someone covered in blood, so Jörg used his magic to change his current appearance into one that was uninjured.
At the house, Fabrice introduced Jörg to the woman using the exact words he had been given, telling her that Jörg would be taking over future transactions and that the price would stay the same.
The sudden visit surprised the woman, but she quickly acknowledged the change and politely told Jörg that she looked forward to working with him. Such a response spoke of the strong trust between her and Fabrice.
“I appreciate all your hard work,” Jörg stressed, providing the farmwife encouragement. “I’ll be making regular purchases, so I hope we can build a good relationship.”
“We’d welcome anyone from the city who might want to come out here and help work the fields.”
“I’ll ask around. I’m sure there are people who would want to leave the city for a place like this.”
“Even just looking after the livestock would be a huge help. We have to do whatever we can to get more pigs.”
Once the discussion was over, Jörg took Fabrice to Erster, the bar where he’d created the portal home.
He took Fabrice’s hand and pushed the door open. Instead of being greeted by the dim interior of a bar and rows of bottles, the men found themselves engulfed in a deep darkness. Fabrice screamed, disoriented, but the scenery suddenly shifted and they emerged in a hallway of Xandra’s inn.
Fabrice looked around him in stunned silence as Jörg led him down the hall.
“How do you feel?” Jörg asked.
“Fine.”
“Good. We’ll be making the next leap soon.”
The two men arrived at the door leading to Paris and passed through.
They appeared in the square in front of the Eiffel Tower. Jörg released Fabrice’s hand, and the Frenchman backed away, turning around. “Paris,” he said through tears. “It’s really Paris.”
“Do you know the way to Christine’s house?” Jörg asked.
“Of course. I could get there with my eyes closed.”
“Excellent.”
“Am I free to go?”
“Yes.”
“When I see Christine, what should I tell her about you?”
“Tell her you met Pierre Arche,” Jörg said, “and that he helped you out with various matters. Don’t go into details. Act as if you were discharged from the army.”
“Okay.”
After that, Jörg turned himself invisible and followed Fabrice.
Fabrice walked purposefully up a familiar hill, where he stopped in front of a building and gazed up at one of the floors. Jörg recalled his first day in Paris. That day, he’d stood in the exact same spot, looking up at the exact same building.
Eventually, Fabrice lowered his gaze and saw a woman walking down the street.
When she realized who it was, Christine started running toward him.
Fabrice also broke out into a run.
The two of them hugged each other tightly in the middle of the sidewalk.
Watching them, Jörg breathed a relived sigh, then turned and walked away.