Georgia Evans - Supernatural Battle for WWII 03 by Bloody Right

Author:Bloody Right
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-One

“Tomorrow,” Rolf said, “I go to meet the escapees. I want you to come with us, Bela.”

She looked up from shoveling the heavy wet earth into Gela’s grave. Even with Rolf and Hans’s help it had been an arduous task in the bitter cold. “How far is it?”

“A good day’s travel, but you never have trouble keeping up.”

The strength from that last Vampire’s death was fading slowly, but she still had to slow her pace to keep level with the men.

“Will you come? You’ll be able to talk to them, make them understand.”

“Of course.” Why not? With Gela dead she had no roots or ties left anywhere, except her link to the woods and the earth. “I’ll come.”

They left before dawn, Bela wearing Angela’s boots and skis. Not loaned willingly, but Rachel’s boots were too large.

“You cadge and scrounge everything from us,” Angela griped.

“I’ll bring them back safely, don’t worry.”

“And when will that be?”

“As soon as they can,” Rachel replied for all of them. “The escapees will slow them down. I doubt they’re used to the woods and mountains as we are.”

Rachel stood in the cave opening, waving them on their way. Angela, no doubt, was muttering on about the loss of her boots and skis and the burden of two extra mouths to feed.

The going was fair. Three times they had to carry their skis and clamber over rocks and what looked to have been a small landslide. They seldom spoke, aware that sound carried in the clear air. Just as dark was falling, they were met by two wild-eyed partisans in dire need of a shave. And a wash, Bela noticed as they settled by the fire in their lean-to.

There was no sign of the escapees. Just two Communist partisans.

“What happened?” Bela whispered to Rolf as they settled to sleep on the ground.

“They’ll be here tomorrow,” he replied. “The Frenchman has difficulty walking. Slows them down.”

It was late afternoon the next day before they arrived, footsore and weary, the Frenchman limping. Even a thick-headed mortal could see the man needed to rest before going on.

“Sorry about being late,” the Englishman said, in atrocious German. “Jules had a rough time of it.”

They were sitting huddled in the back of the lean-to, eating cold, baked parsnips and sharing a couple of tins of bully beef the Englishman carried with him. He and a resistance worker, a bearded Dutchman called Piet, whom Bela had met before, hauled a large sack of supplies with them. Piet left almost immediately to return to his camp before dark and the Communists delved into the sack.

“Where did they get all this?” one of them asked.

The Englishman shrugged and looked at Bela. “Tell him I haven’t the foggiest idea,” he replied. “They gave it to me to carry and I said, ‘Thank you.’”

“I told them,” she replied, “but I think they wanted explosives, not food.”

He grinned at her in the dark. “Didn’t realize they’d put in an order.”

She laughed, much to the obvious disgust of the two Communists.

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