The Coldest War (48 page)

He shivered. Madeleine hugged him.

He should have taken her into his bedroom while he'd had the chance. But it had been so comforting, so normal, simply being around a woman who wasn't his sister.

God damn you, Gretel.

But he refused to give her his dying thoughts. He pushed her out of his mind.

He tightened his hold of Madeleine, pressed his face into her chestnut hair. “Thank you,” he whispered.

*   *   *

The Eidolons swarmed into Marsh, infused him, dissected him particle by particle. They peeled the thin veneer of time away from his body like the fragile and worthless skin of an onion. He was a hole, a paradox, an impossible thing within which “past” and “present” held no meaning.

He had hurled himself into the crawlspaces of the universe, and his feeble existence had no meaning beyond the whims of the Eidolons.

*   *   *

Gwendolyn knew something was wrong the moment William rushed from the house with that damnable Marsh. But she hadn't realized just how terribly wrong things could go until she stepped into the garden and gazed up at a darkening sky. For that was as wrong as wrong could be.

But William was out there, somewhere, trying to stop this. She knew that as fully as she knew anything. And that gave her hope. She refused to panic.

She retreated into the house when the wind became a gale that tore at the hem of her dress. The Twins huddled together on a settee. Gwendolyn treated them with the most confident smile she could muster.

No, she wouldn't give in to fear. But it would be easier with William at her side.

Come back soon, my love.

*   *   *

Aubrey jerked awake. The newspaper slipped from his fingers to land on the rug beside his chair. He'd drowsed off again. He hadn't been able to concentrate since William's death. The doctors called it nervous fatigue.

Viola called his name. Her voice echoed through the great house. It wasn't like her to raise her voice.

Aubrey ran upstairs. He was panting heavily by the time he found her. She was in the largest of the guest bedrooms, standing before the window, carpet samples scattered on the floor behind her. She'd gone pale.

Viola pointed across the estate, toward the glade upstream of the manor. Or where the glade would have been, had it not been embedded in a roiling black fog.

Aubrey watched darkness spread across Bestwood. He wished, not for the first time, he'd leveled the glade and sold it to developers.

*   *   *

—And Marsh hit the floor with a
thump
.

“
STOP!
” Will's dying outburst echoed in his ears.

Marsh staggered to his feet, head spinning. He doubled over and swallowed down the urge to retch. The floor lurched at random, as though an Eidolon hovered nearby.

Somewhere close, somebody bellowed, “Oy! What are you smiling at, lassie?”

The voice was vaguely familiar, but Marsh couldn't place it.

He found his footing on the third try. The darkness had receded, but now the room was empty.

No. It was a different room.

This room had a window.

Where am I?

A window covered with blackout curtains.

The kind they'd used during the war.

When am I?

It started coming back to him: Gretel. The Soviets. The Eidolons. John.

A muffled scream sliced through Marsh's train of thought. A few moments later, he distinctly heard Will say, “My God. They've given you a name.”

A rivulet of sweat trickled down Marsh's ribs.

“Son of a bitch,” he whispered.

More voices. And footsteps. Coming down the corridor.

Can't fix anything if I get shot for a Jerry spy.

Marsh pushed the blackout curtains aside, praying the window wasn't painted shut. It wasn't. He eased it open, threw one leg over the ledge, then the other. He ducked under the sash and dropped into a hedge beneath the window. He pulled the window shut and crouched under the ledge.

The sun had set. The only light came from a faint orange glow in the western sky and the window behind him. The streetlamps were dark. Deep shadows stretched across St. James' Park.

Marsh recognized the view. He'd seen it countless times.

The blackout.

It was 1940.

Again.

 

epilogue

12 May 1940
Milkweed Headquarters, London, England

“Get up.” Marsh took the girl by the elbow as Lorimer and Stephenson draped Will's arms over their shoulders and carried him out of the room.

What a fiasco. Will had lost a finger, and for what? They hadn't learned a damn thing about what the Jerries were doing at von Westarp's farm.

She paused, staring into the room where earlier Marsh had adjusted the blackout curtains. They had slipped aside again. Though it felt like the negotiation had gone on for days, it had lasted only long enough for the sun to set. Light spilled through the window onto Horse Guards Parade, and that was a violation of the blackout regulations.

Marsh pulled the prisoner aside and fixed the curtains. He took her elbow again.

“Ah,” she said, smiling.

Marsh frowned. “What?”

“It worked.”

 

Tor Books by Ian Tregillis

Bitter Seeds

The Coldest War

 

The Coldest War
is the second in Ian Tregillis's alternate-history series, the first of which,
Bitter Seeds
, won such praise as “A combination of Alan Furst's brand of historical espionage with the fantastical characters of graphic novelist Alan Moore”—
New Mexico Magazine
. Tregillis lives near Santa Fe, New Mexico, where he works as a physicist at Los Alamos Laboratory. In addition, he is a member of the George R. R. Martin Wild Cards writing collective. Visit him on the Web at
www.iantregillis.com
.

 

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products ofthe author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

THE COLDEST WAR

Copyright © 2012 by Ian Tregillis

All rights reserved.

A Tor Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

175 Fifth Avenue

New York, NY 10010

www.tor-forge.com

Tor
®
is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

e-ISBN 9781429986113

First Edition: July 2012