Prologue New York City, U.S.A. March 9th, 1940 New York City. Center of the universe. He stood on the corner at Sixth Avenue and Thirty-sixth Street and looked north. Night had long since fallen but the lights of this extraordinary city still burned. People milled about in fancy dress searching for more of the nightlife now that the evening's shows had all let out. It was still early in 1940 but the Depression was long since over. Prohibition was over. In Europe a dark cloud hung over every nation. The German invasion of Poland the previous September had prompted France and Britain to declare war; but there had been little action in Europe since then. Still, it was inevitable. War would come. Its specter loomed ever larger, ever more imminent in Europe. But here in America there was a pride and a confidence that was unlike anything he had ever seen. Were they ignorant, these Americans or simply arrogant? Whatever the answer one thing was dear to him: with its vibrant color and electric crackle of life America had become the new empire, and none of the European nations neither the home of Hitler nor his critics was truly aware of it yet. As he watched the people walk past, the men in their striped suits and bowlers, the women in their expensive dresses and wraps, he wondered if even these Americans quite understood the shift in the world that had come since the Great War had devastated Europe twenty years before, With a snicker, he shook his head. Why go to America? the love of his life had asked. He had led her to the window and drawn back the curtains to reveal the gray pallor of an anxious London below. "Have a look, pet," he had told her. "Do the poor sods down there look like they're havin' even a bit o' fun? They're so grave and frumpy these days, it's almost enough to make me pity them before they bleed. Let's have a little fun, shall we?" The savage smile that played at the comers of her lips then enticed him, and he fell upon her there in the wan light from a cloud shrouded moon. They made love with a furious abandon and she hurt him, tearing at the skin on his back with her talons. Even now he shivered at the memory of that delicious pain. New York had been everything they had dreamed. Parties and music and young debutantes flush with red life and exuberance. A hunter's paradise. Four months later she was bored. "You'd think living forever would give the girl a bit of patience," he whispered to himself as he stood in the cool breeze that swept down Sixth Avenue, as if someone were there to appreciate the irony in his voice. The wind blew again. He was exposed where he stood on the comer, and he turned up his collar to stave off the chill. With a quick tug he set his hat more firmly on his head; it had once belonged to a gray haired gentleman who had not wanted to part with it. There were only two small drops of blood staining the brim. At that moment the object of his loitering appeared on the opposite comer. Adrienne Montclaire was a devious old bitch with the face of an eighteen-year-old and the heart of a killer. He admired her for it but trusted her not at all. Her blond hair flew behind her, much longer than the cultivated bob so fashionable among Manhattan's female population. With the wind pasting her scarlet cloak to her body, Adrienne had a sultry vitality that their kind so rarely exhibited. She looked so very alive. Just a short way down the block she crossed the street and went into a restaurant and pub called Keen's Chophouse. He watched to be certain she had not been followed. Their meeting was to be private. No observers. Well, none other than the humans, who would have no idea what they were seeing. Two minutes after Miss Montclaire entered Keen's, he followed. The door swung open before him and he descended a few steps to the foyer. Smoke billowed around him. Keen's was famous among New York's elite for its steak, its wood and brass atmosphere, and for the thousands of corncob pipes that hung from hooks on the ceiling. Each pipe had a number and each number corresponded to one of the restaurant's regular patrons. Theodore Roosevelt had dined here and there was his pipe to prove it. Buffalo Bill Cody had left a pipe behind when he died. The roar of men speaking of their fortunes, blathering about their businesses or their wives or mistresses, about baseball or the tensions in Europe; it would have been amusing if not for the cloud of smoke. He was grateful that he did not have the burden of needing to breathe. The maitre'd snapped to attention as he removed his bowler. "May I help you, sir?" "I'm to meet Miss Montclaire for dinner," he replied. The man stood a little straighter, chin a little higher, though whether the reaction had to do with respect for Adrienne Montclaire or the dignity he had found most Americans associated with his accent, he could not say. "Right this way, sir." Adrienne's table was at the back of the restaurant against the wall opposite the entry. A private booth, though not so private that other patrons would not send curious glances at the young man dining with one of the city's most notoriously wealthy debutantes. She smiled as he approached, her teeth perfectly white. "Hello, William," she said, voice as raspy as he recalled, eyes dancing with sinister intent. Miss Montclaire offered her hand and he took it, held it up to be kissed. The maitre'd hurried away as he sat across from her. "Adrienne. Lovely to see you. How long has it been?" "Thirty-five years, William. You're as handsome as ever." "And you as ravishing, love," he replied. "But let's skip the niceties, eh? You know bloody well I don't use that name anymore." A petulant pout reformed her thick red lips. But it was insincere. "You know I hate that sobriquet of yours. Spike. Wherever did you pick up such a crude nickname?" He grinned at that, his thin face appearing almost skeletal in the dim light and the smoke. "Let's just say I used to work on the railroad." A silent moment passed between them, and Adrienne's expression was grave. At length she sat up a bit straighter, but remained silent. A waiter came and they ordered drinks. He was back swiftly, but when he departed she only looked at her drink "Are you going to tell me why you wanted to see me, or am I meant to guess?" she asked, a bit curt. Spike sipped from a pint of warm beer. Not quite like home but not bad either. His gaze darted around, glancing at the other patrons, wondering if anyone nearby was not what he appeared to be, if there was anyone else there who would understand what they were speaking of enough to benefit from it. Eventually he decided there was nothing to be done for it. "I want to do something for Drusilla," he said "Are you still with that cow?" Adrienne asked, playful and cruel as a kitten. Spike narrowed his eyes, gave her a look that told her another such remark would cost her her life. Adrienne only smiled obtusely, pushed her luxurious hair away from her face, and tilted her head as she regarded him. "How can I help, William?" "She's been a bit, well, bored lately. I've set my heart upon a gift for her, and I believe that you know where I could find it." Even before he spoke the words, he could see awareness in her eyes. She knew what he was after. "Freyja's Strand," he confirmed in a low voice. She frowned. "You're insane." "Now come on, love. It's dear old William you're talking to. Don't tell me you don't know where it is, because I know better. Always been a bit of a hobby for you, hasn't it, keeping track of such things? I want the necklace of the Brisings for Dru, and I'll have it, with or without your help." "A grand quest for your lover, then?" she teased. "How romantic." "Something like that," Spike snarled. Adrienne regarded him steadily. "And how am I to benefit from this information; a bit of knowledge which, as I'm certain you know, could get me killed?" "Do you still hold a grudge against the Master?" Spike asked, well aware of the answer. She froze. Stared at him with profound suspicion. "Nest? You're going to tell me where to find Nest if I tell you where to find Freyja's Strand?" "Exactly." He watched her turn the offer over and over in her mind. When the moment of her decision arrived, he saw that there as well. But he had known from the start what Adrienne would say. He had made her, after all. "The demon Skrymir has it," she revealed. With a grunt, Spike furrowed his brow. "You know of him, then?" "Heard of the bloke, yeah. Who hasn't? Wasn't sure if he was real, or still alive if he was." "Oh, he's real," Adrienne told him. Her smile was even more condescending than her tone. "He has been alive since the time the necklace of the Brisings was forged by the gods of the North country." "I don't believe in gods. Not of any country." Spike sniffed. "As you will. Whatever those creatures were, they were as real as the trinket you seek. I can tell you how to reach Skryrnir, but he will not relinquish it to you. Your journey will be hard and will gain you nothing." Satisfied, Spike leaned back into his chair and gazed levelly at Adrienne. "I'll make a bargain with you, girl. You tell me how to find the crusty old bastard, and I'll worry about getting the bloody necklace from him." Her eyes grew stormy a moment, but then the storm passed The lineage behind Spike was long, but the Master was a part of it. Adrienne had tried, once upon a time, to use that bloodline to become a part of the Master's circle, the Brethren of Aurelius. He had spurned her. Hurt her. Left her to die in the sun. But she had escaped, and she had been hunting him ever since. It would not be long, Spike knew, before Adrienne discovered the Master's whereabouts on her own. For now though he turned her ignorance to his advantage. She told him how to find Skrymir's lair. Though they had no map between them, her instructions were very precise. He committed them to memory. As she spoke, he watched those lovely full lips move, remembering why he had turned her in the first place. Not for love, of course. He loved no one but Drusilla. But those lips had their attractions. "Now, where do I find Nest?" she demanded. Spike smiled. "All right then, pet. I'm a bit parched yet. Just give us a moment." He held up a hand to gesture to the waiter, who had been keeping a respectful distance. The waiter noticed and began to approach, unaware that the signal had not truly been meant for him. In the foyer of the restaurant a woman screamed and began to faint, her skirts flying up in revelatory fashion. Her black tresses cascaded across her pale features and she convulsed on the floor, tearing obscenely at her breast. "Dear God, she's having a fit!" the maitre'd shouted, and ran to kneel by her. Every single patron turned from their dining partners and their red and bloody meat to stare in fascination at the scene unfolding near the entry way. All save Spike. Adrienne glanced away only for a moment Long enough for Spike to withdraw the long, thin, tapered wooden stake from inside his sleeve. She began to turn back toward him just as he thrust it across the table. Her perfect lips formed a stunned little 0 as it plunged into her chest and punctured her heart She exploded in a cloud of ash and dust. It smelled of damp wood and spices. He paid for their drinks, stood, and walked up to the foyer. The maitre'd nearly fell backward, so shocked was he when the contorting woman simply sat up, grinning madly. "There were bleeding children in my wine," she said, her smile impossibly wide; the smile of a hungry tiger. "I was choking on them. But I'm better now." Spike bent to help her to her feet, dusted her off, and kissed her full on the mouth. "Off we go, then, love." They went out together, all the patrons of Keens staring after them. Outside, with the cold wind still blowing, they ran together, laughing wildly. "She told you, didn't she?" Drusilla asked. "The birdy whispered in your ear?" "That she did, love. That she did. We're off to Norway? Drusilla paused on the sidewalk, an almost comical expression of concern on her features. "Ooh, Spike, are you sure it's safe? There will be war, you know. A real one, not all this posturing and chest beating. Any day now. I had a vision of tin soldiers on fire, and the sky was raining babies. I told you, remember?" "Don't give it another thought, poodle: Spike said happily. He pressed his face to her cheek, then nuzzled into the nape of her neck, nipping her there with his teeth. "You're the cream in my tea, Dru. Always. My sweet one is going to have her heart's desire, and that is simply that. "If it's to be war, all right then. Let's go to war." Chapter One The Atlantic Ocean March 19th Spike stood on the deck of the Aberdeen, cigarette clenched between his lips, and leaned perhaps too much against the rail. It was twilight, and the last of the sun's rays lit the tips of the waves on the western horizon. The ocean was rough and beautiful, ephemeral turbulence on the surface belying the eternal calm below. The boredom was killing him. The engines rumbled loudly below the thrumming deck, their smell inescapable for anyone who actually had to breathe. In the dining room each night Spike and Drusilla sat and ate the slop that was served to them. They did not have to eat for sustenance. On this trip, however, if they dined with others aboard the ship it was for the sake of appearances only and almost not worth the trouble. Monotony The same faces passed by on the deck each night Three British airmen returning home to do their duty for His Majesty. A young lady and her governess en route via England to an elite Paris boarding school. The filthy crewmen and anxious looking stewards. The fat American woman whose pinched features threatened at any moment to explode in a torrent of abuse poured upon her bespectacled, quavering husband. He represented an American firm that hoped to introduce new techniques in steel welding and shipbuilding to the British for the war. Apparently no one had explained to him that the British were not bloody likely to be taking advice from the Yanks, if anyone. Nearly every one of them had been the object of his homicidal fantasies during the voyage. Most had escaped unscathed. It would not do to have the truth about his and Drusilla's nature revealed to a passenger ship full of humans already on edge because of the outbreak of war. Particularly not in the middle of the Atlantic. Spike took a long drag on his cigarette, the ember at its tip glowing in the dark, and leaned out across the rail to stare down at the water churned up by the Aberdeen's passing. "Careful there, mate. This old girl's in good shape, but the rail might not hold" The voice was gruff, British, and by now familiar. It belonged to Jack Norton, one of the grimy men responsible for keeping the old vessel's engine running He often walked the deck to stretch his legs after a shift below and was among the very few living souls on board that Spike had no immediate urge to kill. Smoke drifted in twin streams from Spike's nostrils, quickly sucked away into the cold spring night. "I can think of worse things, Jack A little bit of a dip, some chaos aboard ship, 'man overboard,' all that. It'd be a bloody joy about now. How do you do this all the time without going out of your mind with the boredom?" Norton stroked his gray mustache, unmindful of his dirty hands. Who says I'm not out of me mind?" he said, expression quite serious. "Tell the truth, lad, it don't really bother me. I'm down below, me mind on me work. Don't have much time to think about it." The crewman paused, studying Spike closely. "You and the missus have a fight?" Spike frowned. "I don't think I like that question." "No offense, sir," Norton replied, unaffected by Spike's apparent annoyance. "It's only that yer on yer honeymoon here, ain'tcha? Makin' yer way home. You've spent near every waking moment in yer compartment, celebratin' like." "Well, that's what newlyweds do, isn't it?" Spike snapped. "We've come out for meals and walks around the deck and the like." "Aye. But this is the first time I've heard ye sayin' how bored you are. None of my business to be sure, but I've a feeling if I was on me honeymoon with that pretty bird o' yours, I wouldn't be bored, or at least I wouldn't act it. Just a friendly bit of advice, as me ol' mum used to say. worth what you make of it." The impulse to kill Jack Norton just then was quite strong Spike resisted it. Instead he took another puff of his cigarette ,felt the burning in his throat, and then snorted plumes of smoke back into the air. He shook his head "So you don't think I should go for a swim, Jack? That's what you're saying?" "That's what I'm saying," Norton agreed "I expect you knew that, but we're all feeling a bit dodgy these days, aren't we? What with the U-boats prowling about down there . . ." He gestured toward the water. ". . . and three people lost on this trip already? Spike raised an eyebrow. 'Three?" Norton glanced about to make sure no one else was within listening distance. "The captain don't want us talking about such things with the passengers, but aye, the count's up to three now. The first one was that doctor from New York Hastings was his name I think Same night one of the nightwatch went missing. A piece of the rail give way. He were up there watching for subs, so he might have gone over by accident. Might have." "But then in the storm last night. . ." "Aye," Norton said gravely As if on cue, the fat American woman and her rat like husband ambled by on the deck, out for an evening stroll. Many of the passengers stayed below decks as much as possible, uncomfortable with the roll of the ocean and the openness around them. Not this pair. The woman visibly flinched as she walked through the trail of smoke from Spike's cigarette. She turned up her nose as she paused to regard him. *Pardon me, sir, if I might inquire? What manner of tobacco is it that creates such an awful stench?" Norton grumbled something under his breath and tried to diminish his large frame somehow. He was uncomfortable around passengers other than Spike. Only the stewards were meant to have contact with them. For his part, Spike pinched the cigarette in his fingers, put it to his lips and drew in a lungful of smoke. He did not need to breathe, but could duplicate the process at will. With a devilish grin, he exhaled smoke into the woman's face. Her husband blinked behind his glasses as his wife began to cough. "It's Turkish," Spike told her. "A bit exotic for you, dear, but you should get 'round to that part of the world sometime. Like as not they'd slit your throat for being such an obnoxious cow." The woman had the imagination to glance at her husband as if he might have the temerity to offer some retort He seemed frozen, rooted to the spot, and managed only to look flustered and fiddle with his spectacles as if he were warming up for some tart rejoinder. None was forthcoming however, His wife marched away in a huff and her mate followed as though she held his leash. Spike turned his attention back to Norton who was staring at him with an expression of amazement. "You were saying?" "Now see here," Norton said stuffily. "I may only be one of the blokes stoking the engines 'round here, but it isn't proper for you to speak to a woman that way." "Spare me." Spike sighed "You'd like to see her over-board next, I'd wager. You were telling me about last night" The crewman seemed about to chide him again but then chuckled and shook his head. He glanced about once more, then slipped into the conspiratorial tone he had been using before the Americans had approached "Coulda been the storm, right enough. But Webley, the man went over last night, had eleven years at sea. Not the kind of man ye expect to fall overboard, even in a real guster." "So that makes three," Spike noted. "But if they weren't accidental, then what? Does the captain think you've got a killer on board?" "Worse," Norton said, hi voice barely a growl. "Nazi spies." Spike brightened "Oh, right! Now there's a bit of excitement? "Keep it down, mate. You'll have me in a fix if anyone finds out I let it slip." "Not to worry, Jack. Ol' Spike can keep a secret," he reassured the man. With a grin, he flicked his still burning cigarette overboard and watched it spin down into the raging sea. "Do a chap a favor though. Give us a shout if you hear any more, right? If there is a Nazi spy on board, I'd like to get a few licks in myself. Break a few bones for His Majesty? Norton's expression became grave, his jaw set grimly, "Will do. sir." They said their good-byes and Spike shoved his hands in his pockets and went back below decks. He bumped into an older British couple, the Bracketts, he thought he recalled, and nodded an amiable enough greeting. Not much farther along, he came to his stateroom. When he pushed the door open, Spike found Drusilla brushing her long raven hair and singing softly to herself. A violent little lullaby whose lyrics were never once the same. She turned to pout at him. "You were gone too long, Spike. Hurt my feelings. The ocean hissed and I was afraid at first. Then I grew angry and it slunk away." Spike went to Drusilla and kissed her silent. Then he stroked her face lovingly as he regarded her. "The bloody fools think they've got spies on board, Dru Think there are Nazis killing the crew." "Spies!" she exclaimed, her eyes flashing. "How exciting." As he often was when around her, Spike was overcome suddenly with the intensity of his feelings for Drusilla. He stared at her, glared even, almost angered by how deeply she affected him. Lights seemed to dance in her eyes, and the corners of her mouth turned up in a mischievous, seductive smile. Overwhelmed, he kissed her again, harder this time, and ran his hands over her body. His tongue flickered into her mouth, and Drusilla bit it hard enough to draw blood. Spike hissed with the tiny pain, but did not withdraw. He felt her curves beneath his hands. His fingers trailed up to her throat and he untied the little bow that held her shift in place. It slid down her pale body, alabaster skin veined with blue ice. They made love in a brutal frenzy on the floor next to the corpse of Webley the steward, whose dead eyes watched with blank jealousy. Later they drank of him again. In the small hours of the morning, the lovers slipped out together to dump his body over the side and into the tumultuous waters below. The submarine sliced the rough ocean surface, the light of the moon gleaming off the imposing armor of its conning tower. Kurt Raeder sat deep within its bowels and wished for a shower. Not only that, but he wanted every other member of the crew of U-28B to have one as well He sat with the submarine's other petty officers in their quarters and ate what passed for food after four days at sea. The four men sat in silence on the lower bunks in the U-room, heads bowed to avoid striking them on the metal frames above. A grim air of disappointment mixed with their stink to contaminate the entire vessel. A convoy had passed within forty nautical miles of them and they had missed it. U-29 and U-5 had reached it in time and done a great deal of damage but they had been out of the action. They had sunk only one vessel-a merchant ship-since the outbreak of war. "Damned convoy," Petty Officer Walther grumbled, dropping his spoon into the slop in his bowl. 'What is the sense of a convoy of ships? They make a larger target traveling together. I have never understood it." Kurt frowned. "It is a big ocean. Ships traveling together are less likely to run across one of our patrols and even if they do they have armed escort. It is all about the odds." He might have said more but the others all glanced at him distastefully and then went back to their meals. Jaw set angrily, Kurt put down his bowl. He ought to have known better than to respond to such a question. It proved Walther's ignorance but attempting to correct one of the other petty officers was fruitless. Kurt's uncle was Grand Admiral Erich Raeder, commander in chief of the German navy. Kurt could have had any job on the ocean, but he chose to serve under it. U-boat crewmen were valiant and clever. Their clandestine operations required courage and stealth and were vital to the Fuhrer's plans. Uncle Erich had attempted to dissuade him, but Kurt was steadfast. Submarine service would be everything he had ever imagined. Or so he had thought. He lived, now, in a Type VIIA U-boat; crammed into the steel cylinder with forty-five other men. From outside, the sub was the size and shape of a passenger train car. Within, however, the size was revealed to be an illusion. The vessel's interior space was filled with machinery; it was one long gangway along which the men moved during shift changes. Even the captain had only a desk hidden by a curtain. There was no privacy aboard a ship like this. No room to move save to sleep or do the job that he had been. sent to do. Nobody washed or changed his clothes. When the U-boat was submerged the toilets did not work. The stink of men and oil and mold was thick enough to choke on. Kurt had chosen this. He might not even have regretted it, for there were benefits as well The things he had imagined about U-boat service were true, For other subs. But U-28B had sunk a single merchant ship, nothing more glorious than that. And the other men hated him because he was so obviously their intellectual superior and because his uncle was Grand Admiral Raeder. The others all dropped their spoons. Mealtime was over. Kurt's shift would begin soon. It was still night above and he and others on his shift would shepherd the boat through the night and into the dawn hours until the captain awoke. By then they would turn for home. A day for rest and refueling, and then out to sea again. It had not turned out to be all he had dreamed but Kurt would not allow himself to become further discouraged. He would do his job and speak to his uncle about advancement. If word spread and bitterness trailed in his wake, so be it. He realized that the only way for him to prove his worth was as a captain with a U-boat of his own to command. "Your turn, Raeder," Walther grunted. Kurt made no response as he picked tip the bowls and spoons from the table in the middle of the corridor. The others folded down the table's leaves. With them up, no one would be able to maneuver along the passage. Kurt carried the bowls toward the galley, squeezing through other crewmen's quarters and past the captain's desk on his way. Before he reached his destination he heard shouts echoing down the passage all the way from the command center. A target had been sighted Kurt grinned even as the submarine-which had been running on the surface to conserve time and fuel-began to dive. He stumbled with the pitch of the U-boat but regained his footing before he dropped any of the bowls. As U-28B dove he rushed to the galley, shoving men aside, and dumped the bowls in a sink. Quick as he was able, he maneuvered back along the ship's single corridor until he reached the command center. His clothes were always damp aboard U-28B, but now they were damp with sweat as well The sweat not of fear but of anticipation. Within the command center all was now silent. The chief stood motionless between the men of the bridge watch. In the small space between the periscope shaft and the interior wall of the conning tower, the commander sat on the periscope saddle, feet on the controls that would rotate the entire mechanism, hands on the levers that would raise or lower it. The periscope motor hummed. The periscope rose. The commander spun around the shaft on the saddle as the men watched quietly. "There," he whispered. "A passenger ship under British flag." "A passenger ship, Commander? Shall we move on?" The commander froze. Took his eye away from the rubber ring of the periscope to turn slowly and glare at the chief, "Move on, Haupt? We're at war. The Reich does not move on. We have only one vessel sunk to our credit Now that we have this opportunity in front of us, I won't return to port with that on our log." "But, sir, if the ship has no military use-" His words were ignored At his post, Kurt Raeder allowed himself a tiny smile. Men like Chief Haupt did not understand blitzkrieg, did not realize what war meant to the Reich. The commander put his eye to the periscope again When he spoke, his words were guttural and low. Precise. They were obviously lies for the benefit of those with a conscience about such things, but no one would question him. It was his vessel to command, after