Eternal: More Love Stories With Bite Read Online Free
Author: Anthology
Tags: Juvenile Fiction, Fantasy & Magic
remind all of you to be polite, to use your knowledge of the modem era to interact appropriately with the public, and to conduct yourselves as representatives of this school. Although I would once have thought it unnecessary to add this, last year's drive proved me wrong, so I will reiterate: it is completely unacceptable to kill humans in order to take their rubber goods. This is not in the spirit of the drive. Let's have none of it this time."
The assembly broke out into excited chatter—after a few months of relative isolation up in the Massachusetts hills, most of them were eager to get back out in the world and try their newfound knowledge about the way life was lived now. Patrice felt less of a charge than the others; with Charlie away at war, she hardly cared about being out and about. Better to stay here, to bury herself in schoolwork and try to forget the nagging question of what she was going to do when Charlie came home.
Then Mrs. Bethany's aide shouted out, "Mail call!"—and Patrice's name came first.
Smiling, she grabbed for the envelope, expecting another of Charlie's long letters from "Somewhere in Europe," as the soldiers always wrote to protect troop locations from becoming publicly known. He was a good correspondent, writing often, sharing funny stories about his fellow soldiers, his prayers for her well-being, his faith that this was a just and noble fight, and sometimes, when he had to, his reactions to the bloodshed he'd seen. When he did that, he always apologized for shocking her; she always wrote back that nothing he endured could shock her, because it was a part of him. She didn't add that she'd shed more blood than he could imagine.
But the letter wasn't from Charlie. It was from Charlie's mother.
* * * *
"He's a prisoner of war." Patrice paced back and forth in Mrs. Bethany's carriage-house office. "Apparently he was captured in the Battle of the Bulge. Now he's at the Stalag VII-A camp in Bavaria, Germany."
Mrs. Bethany watched impassively. Probably she thought Patrice ridiculous, but Patrice didn't care.
"At first I was just glad he hadn't been killed," she continued, "but Mrs. Jackson says he's sick. You know as well as I do what war is. How captives are treated. And the Nazis think black men are lower than animals. Even the common people in Germany don't have the necessities of life anymore, so what are the chances Charlie will get the medicine he needs?"
"And what do you propose to do about this?" Mrs. Bethany steepled her hands over her desk.
Patrice hadn't really thought about it until that moment, but she knew instantly. The promise she'd made to herself months before returned more strongly, blotting out everything that had held her back before: no Nazi was going to kill Charlie Jackson.
"I'm taking a leave of absence from school."
"This can't be as simple as a mortal love," Mrs. Bethany said. Maybe she was so divorced from her old human life that she couldn't even understand how Patrice felt anymore. Though there was that silhouette on her desk—an image of a human man who must have died 150 years ago. "Do you think it's your duty to go to the battlefield, Miss Devereaux? Or do you, too, desire easy blood?"
Patrice imagined the Nazi soldier standing between her and Charlie, then imagined ripping that soldier open, draining him dry. "Both, Mrs. Bethany."
One corner of Mrs. Bethany's mouth lifted in a wry smile. "Then godspeed, Miss Devereaux."
* * * *
Bavaria, Germany
Six Weeks Later
A harsh voice rang out, "Hier, Kommandant!"
Patrice huddled in a small gap at the base of an oak tree, cold with sweat. Flashlights swept through the forest, their beams scissored by the trunks of the trees that made up this vast forest. Although she was no more than a mile or two from Stalag VII-A, Patrice felt as though she might as well still have been halfway across the world from that POW camp, and from Charlie.
Getting here hadn't been easy. Pleasure travel to Europe
The assembly broke out into excited chatter—after a few months of relative isolation up in the Massachusetts hills, most of them were eager to get back out in the world and try their newfound knowledge about the way life was lived now. Patrice felt less of a charge than the others; with Charlie away at war, she hardly cared about being out and about. Better to stay here, to bury herself in schoolwork and try to forget the nagging question of what she was going to do when Charlie came home.
Then Mrs. Bethany's aide shouted out, "Mail call!"—and Patrice's name came first.
Smiling, she grabbed for the envelope, expecting another of Charlie's long letters from "Somewhere in Europe," as the soldiers always wrote to protect troop locations from becoming publicly known. He was a good correspondent, writing often, sharing funny stories about his fellow soldiers, his prayers for her well-being, his faith that this was a just and noble fight, and sometimes, when he had to, his reactions to the bloodshed he'd seen. When he did that, he always apologized for shocking her; she always wrote back that nothing he endured could shock her, because it was a part of him. She didn't add that she'd shed more blood than he could imagine.
But the letter wasn't from Charlie. It was from Charlie's mother.
* * * *
"He's a prisoner of war." Patrice paced back and forth in Mrs. Bethany's carriage-house office. "Apparently he was captured in the Battle of the Bulge. Now he's at the Stalag VII-A camp in Bavaria, Germany."
Mrs. Bethany watched impassively. Probably she thought Patrice ridiculous, but Patrice didn't care.
"At first I was just glad he hadn't been killed," she continued, "but Mrs. Jackson says he's sick. You know as well as I do what war is. How captives are treated. And the Nazis think black men are lower than animals. Even the common people in Germany don't have the necessities of life anymore, so what are the chances Charlie will get the medicine he needs?"
"And what do you propose to do about this?" Mrs. Bethany steepled her hands over her desk.
Patrice hadn't really thought about it until that moment, but she knew instantly. The promise she'd made to herself months before returned more strongly, blotting out everything that had held her back before: no Nazi was going to kill Charlie Jackson.
"I'm taking a leave of absence from school."
"This can't be as simple as a mortal love," Mrs. Bethany said. Maybe she was so divorced from her old human life that she couldn't even understand how Patrice felt anymore. Though there was that silhouette on her desk—an image of a human man who must have died 150 years ago. "Do you think it's your duty to go to the battlefield, Miss Devereaux? Or do you, too, desire easy blood?"
Patrice imagined the Nazi soldier standing between her and Charlie, then imagined ripping that soldier open, draining him dry. "Both, Mrs. Bethany."
One corner of Mrs. Bethany's mouth lifted in a wry smile. "Then godspeed, Miss Devereaux."
* * * *
Bavaria, Germany
Six Weeks Later
A harsh voice rang out, "Hier, Kommandant!"
Patrice huddled in a small gap at the base of an oak tree, cold with sweat. Flashlights swept through the forest, their beams scissored by the trunks of the trees that made up this vast forest. Although she was no more than a mile or two from Stalag VII-A, Patrice felt as though she might as well still have been halfway across the world from that POW camp, and from Charlie.
Getting here hadn't been easy. Pleasure travel to Europe
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