Chapter 2
But What, Exactly, Does a Succubus Do?
They found Schloss Lowenstein alight with candles and welcoming fires, despite the late hour of their return. They were far past the time for dinner, but there was food in abundance on the sideboard, and Grey and von Namtzen refreshed themselves thoroughly, interrupting their impromptu feast periodically to give particulars of the evening’s adventures to the house’s other inhabitants, who were agog with curiosity.
“No! Herr Blomberg’s mother?” The Princess von Lowen stein pressed fingers to her mouth, eyes wide in delighted shock. “Old Agathe? I don’t believe it!”
“Nor does Herr Blomberg,” von Namtzen assured her, reaching for a leg of roast pheasant. “He was most…vehement?” He turned toward Grey, eyebrows raised, then turned back to the princess, nodding with assurance. “Vehement.”
He had been. Grey would have chosen “apoplectic” as the better description, but was reasonably sure that none of the Germans present would know the term and had no idea how to translate it. They were all speaking English, as a courtesy to the British officers present, who included a captain of horse named Billman, Colonel Sir Peter Hicks, and a Lieutenant Dundas, a young Scottish officer in charge of an ordnance survey party.
“The old woman was a saint, absolutely a saint!” protested the Dowager Princess von Lowenstein, crossing herself piously. “I do not believe it, I cannot!”
The younger princess cast a brief glance at her mother-in-law, then away—meeting Grey’s eyes. The princess had bright blue eyes, all the brighter for candlelight, brandy—and mischief.
The princess was a widow of a year’s standing. Grey judged from the large portrait over the mantelpiece in the drawing room that the late prince had been roughly thirty years older than his wife; she bore her loss bravely.
“Dear me,” she said, contriving to look winsome, despite her anxiety. “As if the French were not enough! Now we are to be threatened with nightmare demons?”
“Oh, you will be quite safe, madam, I assure you,” Sir Peter assured her. “What-what? With so many gallant gentlemen in the house?”
The ancient dowager glanced at Grey, and said something about gentlemen in highly accented German that Grey didn’t quite catch, but the princess flushed like a peony in bloom, and von Namtzen, within earshot, choked on a swallow of wine.
Captain Billman smote the Hanoverian helpfully on the back.
“Is there news of the French?” Grey asked, thinking that perhaps the conversation should be guided back to more earthly concerns before the party retired to bed.
“Look to be a few of the bastards milling round,” Billman said casually, cutting his eyes at the women in a manner suggesting that the word “few” was a highly discreet euphemism. “Expect they’ll be moving on, heading for the west within a day or so.”
Or heading for Strausberg, to join with the French regiment reported there, Grey thought. He returned Billman’s meaningful look. Gundwitz lay in the bottom of a river valley—directly between the French position and Strausberg.
“So,” Billman said, changing the subject with a heavy jocularity, “your succubus got away, did she?”
Von Namtzen cleared his throat.
“I would not say that, particularly,” he said. “Herr Blomberg refused to allow the men to disturb the grave, of course, but I have men ordered to guard it.”
“That’ll be popular duty, I shouldn’t think,” said Sir Peter, with a glance at a nearby window, where even multiple thicknesses of woolen draperies and heavy shutters failed to muffle the thrum of rain and occasional distant boom of thunder.
“A good idea,” one of the German officers said, in heavily accented but very correct English. “We do not wish to have rumors fly about, that there is a succubus behaving badly in the vicinity of the soldiers.”
“But what, exactly, does a succubus do?” the Princess inquired, looking expectantly from face to face.
There was a sudden massive clearing of throats and gulping of wine, as all the men present tried to avoid her eye. An explosive snort from the dowager indicated what she thought of this cowardly behavior.
“A succubus is a she-demon,” the old lady said, precisely. “It comes to men in dreams, and has congress with them, in order to extract from them their seed.”
The princess’s eyes went perfectly round. She hadn’t known, Grey observed.
“Why?” she asked. “What does she do with it? Demons do not give birth, do they?”
Grey felt a laugh trying to force its way up under his breastbone, and hastily took another drink.
“Well, no,” said Stephan von Namtzen, somewhat flushed, but still self-possessed. “Not exactly. The succubus procures the…er…essence,” he gave a slight bow of apology to the dowager at this, “and then will mate with an incubus—this being a male demon, you see?”
The old lady looked grim, and placed a hand upon the religious medal she wore pinned to her gown.
Von Namtzen took a deep breath, seeing that everyone was hanging upon his words, and fixed his gaze upon the portrait of the late prince.
“The incubus then will seek out a human woman by night, couple with her, and impregnate her with the stolen seed—thus producing demon-spawn.”
Lieutenant Dundas, who was very young and likely a Presbyterian, looked as though he were being strangled by his stock. The other men, all rather red in the face, attempted to look as though they were entirely familiar with the phenomenon under discussion and thought little of it. The dowager looked thoughtfully at her daughter-in-law, then upward at the picture of her deceased son, eyebrows raised as though in silent conversation.
“Ooh!” Despite the late hour and the informality of the gathering, the princess had a fan, which she spread now before her face in shock, big blue eyes wide above it. These eyes swung toward Grey, and blinked in pretty supplication.
“And do you really think, Lord John, that there is such a creature”—she shuddered, with an alluring quiver of the bosom—“prowling near?”
Neither eyes nor bosom swayed him, and it was clear to him that the princess found considerably more excitement than fear in the notion, but he smiled reassuringly, an Englishman secure in his rationality.
“No,” he said. “I don’t.”
As though in instant contradiction of this stout opinion, a blast of wind struck the Schloss, carrying with it a burst of hail that rattled off the shutters and fell hissing down the chimney. The thunder of the hailstorm upon roof and walls and outbuildings was so great that for a moment it drowned all possibility of conversation.
The party stood as though paralyzed, listening to the roar of the elements. Grey’s eyes met Stephan’s; the Hanoverian lifted his chin a little in defiance of the storm, and gave him a small, private smile. Grey smiled back, then glanced away—just in time to see a dark shape fall from the chimney and plunge into the flames with a piercing shriek.
The shriek was echoed at once by the women—and possibly by Lieutenant Dundas, though Grey could not quite swear to it.
Something was struggling in the fire, flapping and writhing, and the stink of scorched skin came sharp and acrid in the nose. Acting by sheer instinct, Grey seized a poker and swept the thing out of the fire and onto the hearth, where it skittered crazily, emitting sounds that pierced his eardrums.
Stephan lunged forward and stamped on the thing, putting an end to the unnerving display.
“A bat,” he said calmly, removing his boot. “Take it away.”
The footman to whom he addressed this command came hastily, and flinging a napkin over the blackened corpse, scooped it up and carried it out on a tray—this ceremonial disposal giving Grey a highly inappropriate vision of the bat making a second appearance at breakfast, roasted and garnished with stewed prunes.
A sudden silence had fallen upon the party. This was broken by the sudden chiming of the clock, which made everyone jump, then laugh nervously.
The party broke up, the men standing politely as the women withdrew, then pausing for a few moments’ conversation as they finished their wine and brandy. With no particular sense of surprise, Grey found Sir Peter at his elbow.
“A word with you, Major?” Sir Peter said quietly.
“Of course, sir.”
The group had fragmented into twos and threes; it was not difficult to draw aside a little, under the pretext of examining a small, exquisite statue of Eros that stood on one of the tables.
“You’ll be taking the body back to the Fifty-second in the morning, I expect?” The English officers had all had a look at Private Bodger, declaring that he was none of theirs; by elimination, he must belong to Colonel Ruysdale’s 52nd Foot, presently encamped on the other side of Gundwitz.
Without waiting for Grey’s nod, Sir Peter went on, touching the statue abstractedly.
“The French are up to something; had a scout’s report this afternoon, great deal of movement among the troops. They’re preparing to move, but we don’t yet know where or when. I should feel happier if a few more of Ruysdale’s troops were to move to defend the bridge at Aschenwald, just in case.”
“I see,” Grey said cautiously. “And you wish me to carry a message to that effect to Colonel Ruysdale.”
Sir Peter made a slight grimace.
“I’ve sent one. I think it might be helpful, though, if you were to suggest that von Namtzen wished it, as well.”
Grey made a noncommittal noise. It was common knowledge that Sir Peter and Ruysdale were not on good terms. The colonel might well be more inclined to oblige a German ally.
“I will mention it to Captain von Namtzen,” he said, “though I expect he will be agreeable.” He would have taken his leave then, but Sir Peter hesitated, indicating that there was something further.
“Sir?” Grey said.
“I think,” Sir Peter said, glancing round and lowering his voice still further, “that perhaps the princess should be advised—cautiously; no need to give alarm—that there is some slight possibility…if the French were in fact to cross the valley…” He rested a hand thoughtfully upon the head of Eros, and glanced at the other furnishings of the room, which included a number of rare and costly items. “She might wish to withdraw her family to a place of safety. Not amiss to suggest a few things be put safely away in the meantime. Shouldn’t like to see a thing like that decorating a French general’s desk, eh?”
“That” was the skull of an enormous bear—an ancient cave bear, the princess had informed the party earlier—that stood by itself upon a small, draped table. The skull was covered with gold, hammered flat and etched in primitive designs, with a row of semiprecious stones running up the length of the snout, then diverging to encircle the empty eye sockets. It was a striking object.
“Yes,” Grey said, “I quite—Oh. You wish me to speak with the princess?”
Sir Peter relaxed a little, having accomplished his goal.
“She seems quite taken by you, Grey,” he said, his original joviality returning. “Advice might be better received from you, eh? Besides, you’re a liaison, aren’t you?”
“To be sure,” Grey said, less than pleased, but aware that he had received a direct order. “I shall attend to it as soon as I may, sir.” He took leave of the others remaining in the drawing room, and made his way to the staircase that led to the upper floors.
The Princess von Lowenstein did seem most taken with him; he wasn’t surprised that Sir Peter had noticed her smiles and languishings. Fortunately, she seemed equally taken with Stephan von Namtzen, going so far as to have Hanoverian delicacies served regularly at dinner in his honor.
At the top of the stair, he hesitated. There were three corridors opening off the landing, and it always took a moment to be sure which of the stone-floored halls led to his own chamber. A flicker of movement to the left attracted his eye, and he turned that way, to see someone dodge out of sight behind a tall armoire that stood against the wall.
“Wo ist das?” he asked sharply, and got a stifled gasp in reply.
Moving cautiously, he went and peered round the edge of the armoire, to find a small, dark-haired boy pressed against the wall, both hands clasped over his mouth and eyes round as saucers. The boy wore a nightshirt and cap, and had plainly escaped from his nursery. He recognized the child, though he had seen him only once or twice before; it was the princess’s young son—what was the boy’s name? Heinrich? Reinhardt?
“Don’t be afraid,” he said gently to the boy, in his slow, careful German. “I am your mother’s friend. Where is your room?”
The boy didn’t reply, but his eyes flicked down the hallway and back. Grey saw no open doors, but held out a hand to the boy.
“It is very late,” he said. “Shall we find your bed?”
The boy shook his head so hard that the tassel of his nightcap slapped against the wall.
“I don’t want to go to bed. There is a bad woman there. Ein Hexe.”
“A witch?” Grey repeated, and felt an odd frisson run down his back, as though someone had touched his nape with a cold finger. “What did this witch look like?”
The child stared back at him, uncomprehending.
“Like a witch,” he said.
“Oh,” said Grey, momentarily stymied. He rallied, though, and beckoned, curling his fingers at the boy. “Come, then; show me. I am a soldier, I am not afraid of a witch.”
“You will kill her and cut out her heart and fry it over the fire?” the boy asked eagerly, peeling himself off the wall. He reached out to touch the hilt of Grey’s dagger, still on his belt.
“Well, perhaps,” Grey temporized. “Let us go find her first.” He grasped the boy under the arms and swung him up; the child came willingly enough, curling his legs around Grey’s waist and cuddling close to him for warmth.
The hallway was dark; only a rushlight sputtered in a sconce near the farther end, and the stones emanated a chill that made the child’s own warmth more than welcome. Rain was still coming down hard; a small dribble of moisture had seeped in through the shutters at the end of the hall, and the flickering light shone on the puddle.
Thunder boomed in the distance, and the child threw his arms around Grey’s neck with a gasp.
“It is all right.” Grey patted the small back soothingly, though his own heart had leapt convulsively at the sound. No doubt the sound of the storm had wakened the boy.
“Where is your chamber?”
“Upstairs.” The boy pointed vaguely toward the far end of the hallway; presumably there was a back stair somewhere near. The Schloss was immense and sprawling; Grey had learned no more of its geography than what was necessary to reach his own quarters. He hoped that the boy knew the place better, so they were not obliged to wander the chilly hallways all night.
As he approached the end of the hall, the lightning flashed again, a vivid line of white that outlined the window—and showed him clearly that the shutters were unfastened. With the boom of thunder came a gust of wind, and one loose shutter flung back suddenly, admitting a freezing gust of rain.
“Oooh!” The boy clutched him tightly round the neck, nearly choking him.
“It is all right,” he said again, as calmly as possible, shifting his burden in order to free one hand.
He leaned out to seize the shutter, trying at the same time to shelter the boy with his body. A soundless flash lit up the world in a burst of black and white, and he blinked, dazzled, a pinwheel of stark images whirling at the back of his eyes. Thunder rolled past, with a sound so like an oxcart full of stones that he glanced up involuntarily, half-expecting to see one of the old German gods go past, driving gleefully through the clouds.
The image he saw was not of the storm-tossed sky, though, but of something seen when the lightning flashed. He blinked hard, clearing his sight, and then looked down. It was there. A ladder, leaning against the wall of the house. Well, then. Perhaps the child had seen someone strange in his room.
“Here,” he said to the boy, turning to set him down. “Stay out of the rain while I fasten the shutter.”
He turned back, and leaning out into the storm, pushed the ladder off, so that it fell away into the dark. Then he closed and fastened the shutters, and picked up the shivering boy again. The wind had blown out the rushlight, and he was obliged to feel his way into the turning of the hall.
“It’s very dark,” said the boy, with a tremor in his voice.
“Soldiers are not afraid of the dark,” he reassured the child, thinking of the graveyard.
“I’m not afraid!” The little boy’s cheek was pressed against his neck.
“Of course you are not. How are you called, young sir?” he asked, in hopes of distracting the boy.
“Siggy.”
“Siggy,” he repeated, feeling his way along the wall with one hand. “I am John. Johannes, in your tongue.”
“I know,” said the boy, surprising him. “The servant girls think you are good-looking. Not so big as Landgrave Stephan, but prettier. Are you rich? The Landgrave is very rich.”
“I won’t starve,” Grey said, wondering how long the blasted hallway was, and whether he might discover the staircase by falling down it in the dark.
At least the boy seemed to have lost some of his fear; he cuddled close, rubbing his head under Grey’s chin. There was a distinct smell about him; nothing unpleasant—rather like the smell of a month-old litter of puppies, Grey thought, warmly animal.
Something occurred to him then, something he should have thought to ask at once.
“Where is your nurse?” A boy of this age would surely not sleep alone.
“I don’t know. Maybe the witch ate her.”
This cheering suggestion coincided with a welcome flicker of light in the distance, and the sound of voices. Hastening toward these, Grey at last found the nursery stair, just as a wild-eyed woman in nightgown, cap, and shawl popped out, holding a pottery candlestick.
“Siegfried!” she cried. “Master Siggy, where have you been? What has—Oh!” At this point, she realized that Grey was there, and reared back as though struck forcibly in the chest.
“Guten Abend, Madam,” he said, politely. “Is this your nurse, Siggy?”
“No,” said Siggy, scornful of such ignorance. “That’s just Hetty. Mama’s maid.”
“Siggy? Siegfried, is it you? Oh, my boy, my boy!” The light from above dimmed as a fluttering body hurtled down the stair, and the Princess von Lowenstein seized the boy from his arms, hugging her son and kissing him so passionately that his nightcap fell off.
More servants were coming downstairs, less precipitously. Two footmen and a woman who might be a parlor maid, all in varying degrees of undress, but equipped with candles or rushlights. Evidently, Grey had had the good fortune to encounter a search party.
There was a good deal of confused conversation, as Grey’s attempt at explanation was interrupted by Siggy’s own rather disjointed account of his adventures, punctuated by exclamations of horror and surprise from the princess and Hetty.
“Witch?” the princess was saying, looking down at her son in alarm. “You saw a witch? Did you have an evil dream, child?”
“No. I just woke up and there was a witch in my room. Can I have some marzipan?”
“Perhaps it would be a good idea to search the house,” Grey managed to get in. “It is possible that the…witch…is still inside.”
The princess had very fine, pale skin, radiant in the candlelight, but at this, it went a sickly color, like toadstools. Grey glanced meaningfully at Siggy, and the princess at once gave the child to Hetty, telling the maid to take him to his nursery.
“Tell me what is happening,” she said, gripping Grey’s arm, and he did, finishing the account with a question of his own.
“The child’s nurse? Where is she?”
“We don’t know. I went to the nursery to look at Siegfried before retiring—” The princess’s hand fluttered to her bosom, as she became aware that she was wearing a rather unbecoming woolen nightgown and cap, with a heavy shawl and thick, fuzzy stockings. “He wasn’t there; neither was the nurse. Jakob, Thomas—” She turned to the footmen, suddenly taking charge. “Search! The house first, then the grounds.”
A distant rumbling of thunder reminded everyone that it was still pouring with rain outside, but the footmen vanished with speed.
The sudden silence left in the wake of their departure gave Grey a slightly eerie feeling, as though the thick stone walls had moved subtly closer. A solitary candle burned, left behind on the stairs.
“Who would do this?” said the princess, her voice suddenly small and frightened. “Did they mean to take Siegfried? Why?”
It looked very much to Grey as though kidnapping had been the plan; no other possibility had entered his mind, until the princess seized him by the arm again.
“Do you think—do you think it was…her?” she whispered, eyes dilated to pools of horror. “The succubus?”
“I think not,” Grey said, taking hold of her hands for reassurance. They were cold as ice—hardly surprising, in view of the temperature inside the Schloss. He smiled at her, squeezing her fingers gently. “A succubus would not require a ladder, surely?” He forbore to add that a boy of Siggy’s age was unlikely to have much that a succubus would want, if he had correctly understood the nature of such a creature.
A little color came back into the princess’s face, as she saw the logic in this.
“No, that’s true.” The edge of her mouth twitched in an attempt at a smile, though her eyes were still fearful.
“It might be advisable to set a guard near your son’s room,” Grey suggested. “Though I expect the…person…has been frightened off by now.”
She shuddered, whether from cold or at the thought of roving intruders, he couldn’t tell. Still, she was clearly steadier at the thought of action, and that being so, he rather reluctantly took the opportunity to share with her Sir Peter Hicks’s cautions, feeling that perhaps a solid enemy such as the French would be preferable to phantasms and shadowy threats.
“Ha, those frog-eaters,” she said, proving his supposition by drawing herself up with a touch of scorn in her voice. “They have tried before, the Schloss to take. They have never done it; they will not do it now.” She gestured briefly at the stone walls surrounding them, by way of justification in this opinion. “My husband’s great-great-great-grandfather built the Schloss; we have a well inside the house, a stable, food stores. This place was built to withstand siege.”
“I am sure you are right,” Grey said, smiling. “But you will perhaps take some care?” He let go her hands, willing her to draw the interview to a close. Excitement over, he was very much aware that it had been a long day, and that he was freezing.
“I will,” she promised him. She hesitated a moment, not quite sure how to take her leave gracefully, then stepped forward, rose onto her toes, and with her hands on his shoulders, kissed him on the mouth.
“Good night, Lord John,” she said softly, in English. “Danke.” She turned and hurried up the stairs, picking up her skirts as she went.
Grey stood for a startled moment looking after her, the disconcerting feel of her uncorseted breasts still imprinted on his chest. Then shook his head and went to pick up the candlestick she had left on the stair for him.
Straightening up, he was overtaken by a massive yawn, the fatigues of the day coming down upon him like a thousandweight of grapeshot. He only hoped he could find his own chamber again, in this ancient labyrinth. Perhaps he should have asked the princess for direction.
He made his way back down the hallway, his candle flame seeming puny and insignificant in the oppressive darkness cast by the great stone blocks of Schloss Lowenstein. It was only when the light gleamed on the puddle on the floor that the thought suddenly occurred to him: Someone had to have opened the shutters—from the inside.
Grey made his way back as far as the head of the main stair, only to find Stephan von Namtzen coming up it. The Hanoverian was a little flushed with brandy, but still clearheaded, and listened to Grey’s account of events with consternation.
“Dreckskerle!” he said, and spat on the floor to emphasize his opinion of kidnappers. “The servants are searching, you say—but you think they will find nothing?”
“Perhaps they will find the nurse,” Grey said. “But if the kidnapper has an ally inside the house—and he must…or she, I suppose,” he added. “The boy did say he saw a witch.”
“Ja, I see.” Von Namtzen looked grim. One big hand fisted at his side, but then relaxed. “I will perhaps go and speak to the princess. My men, I will have them come to guard the house. If there is a criminal within, he will not get out.”
“I’m sure the princess will be grateful.” Grey felt all at once terribly tired. “I must take Bodger—the body—back to his regiment in the morning. Oh—in that regard…” He explained Sir Peter’s wishes, to which von Namtzen agreed with a flip of the hand.
“Have you any messages for me to carry, to the troops at the bridge?” Grey asked. “Since I will be going in that direction, anyway.” One English regiment lay to the south of the town, the other—Bodger’s—to the north, between the town and the river. A small group of the Prussian artillery under Stephan’s command was stationed a few miles beyond, guarding the bridge at Aschenwald.
Von Namtzen frowned, thinking, then nodded.
“Ja, you are right. It is best they hear officially of the—” He looked suddenly uneasy, and Grey was slightly amused to see that Stephan did not want to speak the word “succubus.”
“Yes, better to avoid rumors,” he agreed, saving Stephan’s awkwardness. “Speaking of that—do you suppose Herr Blomberg will let the villagers exhume his mother?”
Stephan’s broad-boned face broke into a smile at that.
“No,” he said. “I think he would make them drive an iron rod through his own heart first. Better, though,” he added, the humor fading from his face, “if someone finds who plays these tricks, and a stop to it makes. Quickly.”
Stephan was tired, too, Grey saw; his English grammar was slipping. They stood together for a moment, silent, listening to the distant hammer of the rain, both feeling still the chill touch of the graveyard in their bones.
Von Namtzen turned to him suddenly, and put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing.
“You will take care, John,” he said, and before Grey could speak or move, Stephan pulled him close and kissed his mouth. Then he smiled, squeezed Grey’s shoulder once more, and with a quiet “Gute Nacht,” went up the stairs toward his own room.
Grey shut the door of his chamber behind him and leaned against it, in the manner of a man pursued. Tom Byrd, curled up asleep on the hearth rug, sat up and blinked at him.
“Me lord?”
“Who else?” Grey asked, made jocular from the fatigues and excitements of the evening. “Did you expect a visit from the succubus?”
Tom’s face lost all its sleepiness at that, and he glanced uneasily at the window, closed and tightly shuttered against the dangers of the night.
“You oughtn’t jest that way, me lord,” he said reproachfully. “It’s an Englishman what’s dead now.”
“You are right, Tom; I beg pardon of Private Bodger.” Grey found some justice in the rebuke, but was too much overtaken by events to be stung by it. “Still, we do not know the cause of his death. Surely there is no proof as yet that it was occasioned by any sort of supernatural interference. Have you eaten?”
“Yes, me lord. Cook had gone to bed, but she got up and fetched us out some bread and dripping, and some ale. Wanting to know all about what I found in the churchyard,” he added practically.
Grey smiled to himself, the faint emphasis on “I” in this statement indicating to him that Tom’s protests on behalf of the late Private Bodger sprang as much from a sense of proprietariness as from a sense of propriety.
Grey sat down, to let Tom pull off his boots and still-damp stockings. The room he had been given was small, but warm and bright, the shadows from a well-tended fire flickering over striped damask wallpaper. After the wet cold of the churchyard and the bleak chill of the Schloss’s stone corridors, the heat upon his skin was a grateful feeling—much enhanced by the discovery of a pitcher of hot water for washing.
“Shall I come with you, me lord? In the morning, I mean.” Tom undid the binding of Grey’s hair and began to comb it, dipping the comb occasionally in a cologne of bay leaves and hyssop, meant to discourage lice.
“No, I think not. I shall ride over and speak to Colonel Ruysdale first; one of the servants can follow me with the body.” Grey closed his eyes, beginning to feel drowsy, though small jolts of excitement still pulsed through his thighs and abdomen. “If you would, Tom, I should like you to talk with the servants; find out what they are saying about things.” God knew, they would have plenty to talk about.
Clean, brushed, warmed, and cozily ensconced in nightshirt, cap, and banyan, Grey dismissed Tom, the valet’s arms piled high with filthy uniform bits.
He shut the door behind the boy, and hesitated, staring into the polished surface of the wood as though to look through it and see who might be standing on the other side. Only the blur of his own face met his gaze, though, and only the creak of Tom’s footsteps were audible, receding down the corridor.
Thoughtfully, he touched his lips with a finger. Then he sighed, and bolted the door.
Stephan had kissed him before—kissed innumerable people, for that matter; the man was an inveterate embrasseur. But surely this had been somewhat more than the fraternal embrace of a fellow soldier. He could still feel the grip of Stephan’s hand curled around his leg. Or was he deluded by fatigue and distraction, imagining more to it than there was?
And if he were right?
He shook his head, took the warming pan from his sheets, and crawled between them, reflecting that, of all the men in Gundwitz that night, he at least was safe from the attentions of any roving succubi.