Alain entered the barn's wreckage cautiously. He hadn't seen anyone standing guard, but he wanted to be ready in case someone popped up.

He found Reese's bones close to where he expected. He was pretty sure Reese couldn't be brought back from being beheaded and burned, but just to be sure, he stomped the skull with his boot, breaking it into pieces. He took the jaw and a few of the larger shards and threw them as far as he could in different directions, just for safety's sake.

He moved quickly through the remaining rubble. Most of the animals had been out in the warm night air, leaving not much else but wood and hay ash, and some half-melted metal from the bailing wire and the tines of the pitchfork. To his great disappointment, there were no more human skulls, particularly not the one he'd been hoping for.

In his time as either a vampire or human, Alain had not sat as still and as quiet for as long as he did the next couple of nights, watching to make sure Vinnie did not return for the girl. He had a small amount of lamb's blood in his canteen and that held him so he did not need to hunt.

It was almost meditative as he focused on the farm and the immediately surrounding area, sitting in a tree and just watching. So intent on trying to catch any movement, any sound, it came as a surprise to him when he discovered he had another sense. Without hearing, smelling, or seeing her, he could sort of just tell how far away the girl was and in what direction. She was a pulsing presence, as if her heart were a beacon. Intrigued by this, he stilled himself further and tried to see if he could pick up more. Gradually he began picking up some of the other animals in the woods around him. The larger they were, the more strongly they registered, and each had its own sort of flavor... Human, boar, badger, hare, bird. This was another thing the Army had neglected to mention.

When Vinnie did not return after two nights, Alain became upset. Pig and sheep blood helped, but by now Vinnie would be starting to the feel the pain and need. And if he wasn't coming back for the girl, he was either stoically suffering among the trees or he had found a human to feed on. After six months of training and fighting together, Alain knew "stoic" wasn't in Vinnie's vocabulary. Vinnie was somewhere else, feeding on someone else.

Alain didn't know what he'd do now. He'd probably seek and harrass Germans until they killed him or the war ended. But before he left, he had to apologize to the girl. Even though Reese had killed the farmer, the memory of the girl holding his head in her lap and stroking his cheek broke Alain's heart every time it came back to his mind's eye.

Alain's paternal grandmother had emigrated from France when she was about the same age as the girl in the farmhouse, dragged there by a husband who dreamed of streets of gold but ended up fishing just like he'd done in Marseilles. She'd moved in with his parents to help out when Alain was three and his mother took sick. Six months later, when his mother recovered, Mémère was planted in their house too firmly to be dislodged and French was the official language inside the home. Speaking English in front of Mémère would get your ear pinched. So would trying to get out of going to church on Sundays. Alain and his sisters went to church every Sunday, Christmas, and Easter without fail.

It had been three or so years since Mémère passed away and his parents hadn't enforced the French-only rule after she was gone. He was afraid his French might be a little rusty, but as he knocked on the farmhouse door, he decided it would have to suffice.

The girl was much calmer than he expected when she opened the door. He expected fear or anger, but she just said "Oh, it's you."

She was about five-foot-four, wearing a plain dress that went halfway down her calf and covered her arms to a few inches above the elbow, an apron protecting the front of the dress. The house was cooler than the night air outside, but still warm enough for her to go barefoot. Her long, dark hair was tied up in back. She was one of the most beautiful things Alain had ever seen.

She turned away and walked back into the simple farmhouse. "You can come in if you want."

"You're not afraid to invite me in?"

She continued walking toward the stove, not even looking back. "If you wanted to kill me, you could have left me next to my father and been gone before the neighbors arrived. Instead you drew water and worked to save my home."

Alain stepped into the house, not knowing why. She was giving him a serious case of the heebie-jeebies. He expected her to be angry, frightened, perhaps even a bit crazed. Being calm and matter of fact just made no sense to him.

The farmhouse was small, Two small bedrooms off a large great room that encompassed a sitting area, kitchen, and dining table. The house was at least two hundred years old, if not older. It smelled of accumulated cooking odors, of soap, of minerals from the well, of root vegetables in the cellar, and of old pipe tobacco.

"He was going to die soon anyway." In his reverie, Alain hadn't noticed her sit down at the small dining table. She was seated sideways in one of the chairs, an arm on the table, one resting in her lap. "My father. The doctor gave him six months back before the Nazis came. He hung on for over three years, but it was getting bad. Your friends probably did him a kindness by ending his pain."

Alain watched her composure flake away as unspoken thoughts crossed her mind. "I only wish he hadn't died scared." She turned in her seat, lay her head in her arms on the table and began to sob.

He had no idea what to do. He knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to sweep her up in his arms like they were in some movie and tell her everything would be alright now that he was here. But he hadn't come to romance her. He hadn't even noticed how pretty she was the night he rescued her... and helped get her barn burned down... but she'd thrown the lamp... Alain stopped. She'd lost her father and barn because he hadn't stopped Reese and Vinnie sooner.

He walked over to her and put a hand on her shoulder. He didn't pat or squeeze. He just lay it there gently to try and give her some strength, some reassurance. She responded by turning in her seat, wrapping her arms around his waist, and crying against his stomach, her tears wetting his shirt. He stood there, letting her cry, and didn't make a sound.

---

She was on her second cup of a tisane she made from some local herbs and flowers, and her third shot of brandy. She sat in her father's chair in the sitting area, her legs folded up under her. The sitting area was composed of two comfortable chairs set up near the fireplace, side tables beside each one. On the wall opposite the fireplace was a rough-hewn bookcase where framed pictures were displayed in front of rows of books on upper shelves, while lower shelves held brandy and liquers.

A few wall sconses held oil lamps, about half of which were lit, casting a warm glow around the room, but not bright. It was sort of like being in front of a dying fireplace, though the fireplace was not lit on such a warm night.

Her name was Marie, he discovered. She'd been near the end of her second year at university, studying to be a teacher, when the Nazis invaded. Her mother and stepfather in Paris had paid to have her smuggled out to her father, feeling she'd be safer out in the forests where there was nothing of any importance to the Nazis.

"This village had a vampire, you know," she said out of nowhere as if she'd just suddenly remembered. She sipped at her tea, found it too weak, and added another splash of brandy. "My father told me the story when I was a little girl."

"800 years ago, there was a priest named Lucien who had lost his way, grown corrupted and sinful. This weakened him and let him fall prey to a vampire who must have thought it a perverse joke to turn a 'man of God' into an undead beast."

"When Lucien awoke as a vampire, he thought it must be a punishment from God, and to repent for his sins, he swore never to drink blood, even if it meant great suffering or even death. He believed God had let the vampire change him as a test. He believed it was God giving him a chance to prove himself righteous and save his own soul."

"For six nights he suffered, each night worse than the last, but on the seventh day he was relieved. God took away his hunger and took away his pain, but God left him the strength of a vampire. He pledged to use that strength to do good and became the protector of the village. He kept it safe from marauders and robbers, even kept our livestock safe from wolves. Eventually the people trusted him so much, they made him mayor and all the town council meetings were held after dark for his comfort. For 100 years, our crops came in, our livestock thrived, and the town was safe."

"What happened after 100 years," Alain asked.

"It was the time of the Inquisition and the Church finally came to investigate the tales it had heard of a vampire. He could have run off, but he knew the priests would have burned the village for embracing him. He bargained with them to be forgiving of the villagers. In exchange he let them lead him quietly and peacefully to the village's center where the priests made all the villagers watch as he was staked and burned. He forgave the priests just before they drove the stake into his heart."

Alain sipped at his tea. "Do you believe the story is true? That he never drank blood?"

"Perhaps," she said.

Pieces were falling into place in Alain's mind. The Army gave them blood on the sixth night. If the story was true and the Army had let them go all night, they would have woken up free of their addiction the next evening. They gave them blood just in time to keep them hooked, and he was pretty sure they knew that was the case.

He stood up from his chair and walked out the door into the night air. He wanted to yell, scream, break something. But he didn't want to fly into a rage in front of Marie. He just looked up at the moon, taking deep breaths and clenching and unclenching his fists. There was so little the Army had told him, and half of it seemed to be guesses or lies.

Maybe that part of the story wasn't true. The vampire had protected their livestock, but no one said he was 100% effective. It was possible a lamb disappeared now and again. Maybe he had his own flock. Perhaps he could have mixed the lamb's blood with brandy and salt, possibly some anticoagulant herbs like cloves, or even garlic, to preserve and extend it so he would only have to take a lamb every month or so. If it looked like he never took blood at all, it would help him maintain the image of a redeemed sinner. If he told the villagers he would just feed on lambs and not them, they would always wonder what might happen to them if he ran out of lambs.

Then again, it could really be true. But why would Hell allow a good vampire to retain its powers? Maybe that was part of the deal. Vampires couldn't exist if God didn't allow it, so maybe God gave vampires the free will to choose between good and evil just like mortals. Maybe. If he did stop blood for a week, what was the worst that could happen? Death? Eternal torture? He was probably in for them already. And if he fed to avoid them, what happened when he ran out of lambs?

He sensed Marie in the doorway and turned to her. "I want to try it."

"No blood for seven days," she asked. He nodded.

---

Alain pulled the zipper of the duffel bag to chest level and looked up at Marie, standing 6 feet above him. "Remember. Do not come back and dig me up. If all is well, I will have the strength to get out myself. If it is not, you will not be safe around me."

Marie nodded. She wasn't happy about this. She'd offered to let him stay in her father's room while he did this, but he'd refused. Having a warm source of blood so close by might make it too tough to resist the cravings. Having six feet of dirt on top of him and the thought of all the pain and effort required to dig out... it still might not stop him, but it would be harder than walking over to the next bedroom. Combined with his will power, he hoped it would be enough for him to see it through.

He zipped the duffel the rest of the way and Marie began the slow, methodic process of shoveling the dirt back into an unmarked grave in the woods.