Von Namtzen opened his mouth to answer, but was forestalled. Karolus glanced suddenly to the side, nostrils flaring. Then he flung up his head with a great harrumph!of startlement, nearly hitting Grey in the face. At the same moment, Tom Byrd uttered a high, thin scream, dropped the rope, and ran.

The big horse dropped his hindquarters, slewed round, and took off, leaping a small stone angel that stood in his path; Grey saw it as a looming pale blur, but had no time to worry about it before it passed beneath the stallion’s outstretched hooves, its stone mouth gaping as though in astonishment.

Lacking reins and unable to seize the halter rope, Grey had no recourse but to grip the stallion’s mane in both hands, clamp his knees, and stick like a burr. There were shouts and screams behind him, but he had no attention to spare for anything but the wind in his ears and the elemental force between his thighs.

They bounded like a skipping cannonball through the dark, striking the ground and rocketing upward, seeming to cover leagues at a stride. He leaned low and held on, the stallion’s mane whipping like stinging nettles across his face, the horse’s breath loud in his ears—or was it his own?

Through streaming eyes, he glimpsed light flickering in the distance, and realized they were heading now for the village. There was a six-foot stone wall in the way; he could only hope the horse noticed it in time.

He did; Karolus skidded to a stop, divots of mud and withered grass shooting up around him, sending Grey lurching up onto his neck. The horse reared, came down, then turned sharply, trotted several yards, and slowed to a walk, shaking his head as though to try to free himself of the flapping rope.

Legs quivering as with ague, Grey slid off, and with cold-stiff fingers, grasped the rope.

“You big white bastard!” he said, filled with the joy of survival, and laughed. “You’re bloody marvelous!”

Karolus took this compliment with tolerant grace, and shoved at him, whickering softly. The horse seemed largely over his fright, whatever had caused it; he could but hope Tom Byrd fared as well.

Grey leaned against the wall, panting until his breath came back and his heart slowed a bit. The exhilaration of the ride was still with him, but he had now a moment’s heed to spare for other things.

At the far side of the churchyard, the torches were clustered close together, lighting the fog with a reddish glow. He could see the digging party, standing in a knot shoulder-to-shoulder, all in attitudes of the most extreme interest. And toward him, a tall black figure came through the mist, silhouetted by the torch glow behind him. He had a moment’s turn, for the figure looked sinister, dark cloak swirling about him—but it was, of course, merely Captain von Namtzen.

“Major Grey!” von Namtzen called. “Major Grey!”

“Here!” Grey shouted, finding breath. The figure altered course slightly, hurrying toward him with long, stilted strides that zigged and zagged to avoid obstacles in the path. How in God’s name had Karolus managed on that ground, he wondered, without breaking a leg or both their necks?

“Major Grey,” Stephan said, grasping both his hands tightly. “John. You are all right?”

“Yes,” he said, gripping back. “Yes, of course. What has happened? My valet—Mr. Byrd—is he all right?”

“He has into a hole fallen, but he is not hurt. We have found a body. A dead man.”

Grey felt a sudden lurch of the heart.

“What—”

“Not in a grave,” the captain hastened to assure him. “Lying on the ground, leaning against one of the tombstones. Your valet saw the corpse’s face most suddenly in the light of his lantern, and was frightened.”

“I am not surprised. Is he one of yours?”

“No. One of yours.”

“What?” Grey stared up at the Hanoverian. Stephan’s face was no more than a pale oval in the dark. He squeezed Grey’s hands gently and let them go.

“An English soldier. You will come?”

He nodded, feeling the cold air heavy in his chest. It was not impossible; there were English regiments to north and to south of the town, no more than an hour’s ride away. Men off duty would often come into town in search of drink, dice, and women. It was, after all, the reason for his own presence here—to act as liaison between the English regiments and their German allies.

The body was less horrible in appearance than he might have supposed; while plainly dead, the man seemed quite peaceful, slumped half sitting against the knee of a stern stone matron holding a book. There was no blood nor wound apparent, and yet Grey felt his stomach clench with shock.

“You know him?” Stephan was watching him intently, his own face stern and clean as those of the stone memorials about them.

“Yes.” Grey knelt by the body. “I spoke to him only a few hours ago.”

He put the backs of his fingers delicately against the dead man’s throat—the slack flesh was clammy, slick with rain, but still warm. Unpleasantly warm. He glanced down, and saw that Private Bodger’s breeches were opened, the stuff of his shirttail sticking out, rumpled over the man’s thighs.

“Does he still have his dick, or did the she-thing eat it?” said a low voice in German. A faint, shocked snigger ran through the men. Grey pressed his lips tight together and jerked up the soggy shirttail. Private Bodger was somewhat more than intact, he was glad to see. So were the diggers; there was an audible sigh of mass relief behind him.

Grey stood, conscious all at once of tiredness and hunger, and of the rain pattering on his back.

“Wrap him in a canvas; bring him…” Where? The dead man must be returned to his own regiment, but not tonight. “Bring him to the Schloss. Tom? Show them the way; ask the gardener to find you a suitable shed.”

“Yes, me lord.” Tom Byrd was nearly as pale as the dead man, and covered with mud, but once more in control of himself. “Will I take the horse, me lord? Or will you ride him?”

Grey had forgotten entirely about Karolus, and looked blankly about. Where had he gone?

One of the diggers had evidently caught the word “horse,” and understood it, for a murmur of “Das Pferd”rippled through the group, and the men began to look round, lifting the torches high and craning their necks.

One man gave an excited shout, pointing into the dark. A large white blur stood a little distance away.

“He’s on a grave! He’s standing still! He’s found it!”

This caused a stir of sudden excitement; everyone pressed forward together, and Grey feared lest the horse should take alarm and run again.

No such danger; Karolus was absorbed in nibbling at the soggy remnants of several wreaths, piled at the foot of an imposing tombstone. This stood guard over a small group of family graves—one very recent, as the wreaths and raw earth showed. As the torchlight fell upon the scene, Grey could easily read the name chiseled black into the stone.

BLOMBERG, it read.

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.”