Reinhardt proved difficult to find the next morning. He wasn't on the training ground. Nor was he in the mess, the machine shop, the library, the ice house, the gymnasium, the laboratories, the briefing rooms. And it wasn't Sunday, meaning Reinhardt wasn't breakfasting with the doctor.
Klaus returned to the farmhouse to check Reinhardt's room again. He found Gretel sitting on the stairs above the second-floor landing.
“Have you seen Reinhardt?” Klaus asked.
“He's in there,” she said, nodding at Heike's door.
“Really?”
“Truly.”
“How long has he been in there?”
“Thirty-seven minutes.” She paused. “Thirty-eight.”
Klaus lifted his hand to knock, but Gretel said, “I wouldn't.” He looked at her. “He'll be out momentarily.”
And he was. Reinhardt emerged from Heike's room, smiling to himself as he buckled his belt. The smile disappeared when he saw Klaus and his sister waiting outside. His pale eyes widened in alarm. But he straightened his uniform, regained his composure, and went downstairs without saying a word.
Gretel called after him. “Reinhardt.”
Reinhardt paused between the first and second floors, his back to them.
“Happy birthday,” she said.
Reinhardt trotted down the stairs.
Reinhardt had left Heike's door ajar. Klaus knocked. “Heike? Are you all right?” No answer. He knocked harder. The door swung open.
Heike lay sprawled on the bed, naked from the waist down. Her skin had a bluish tint. She stared at the ceiling, unblinking. She'd been dead for hours.
We have the power to annihilate the Jerries
Floorboards squeaked underfoot as he paced. He looked around the table, glaring at each person in turn. Six people had been summoned for this meeting in Stephenson's office. In addition to Marsh and the old man himself, Lorimer was there, as were Will, Hargreaves, and Webber.
Nobody met his eyes. Not even Stephenson. Marsh knew that his passion made them uneasy, as though they were made witness to things better left private. They treated him like a ghost. Like something that shouldn't be seen. It had been that way since Agnes ...
Meaningful glances ricocheted through the trio of warlocks. They were a secretive lot. Even Will kept his own counsel more often than not these days.
All eyes turned to the warlocks. Seated together side by side, they looked like an illustration of the Riddle of the Sphinx. Will, with the dark bags beneath his bloodshot eyes, was morning's infant. Webber's eyes had long ago sunk into his skull; along the way one of them had become a colorless marble. He was the middle-aged man of noon. And Hargreaves, who'd lost more than an eye when fire ruined the left side of his face, was the old man of evening. It was like gazing upon a capsule summary of one man's life.
Marsh cracked his knuckles while waiting for a response. The bristles of a beard tickled the backs of his fingers when he pressed them to his jaw. It surprised him. He tried to remember how long it had been since he'd last shaved, but couldn't.
Will opened his mouth as if to speak, hesitantly, but didn't say anything until Hargreaves gave him the nod.
“It's more complicated than that, Pip.”
“Complicated? We're at war. Defeating the enemy is our one and only job,” Marsh said. “I fail to see why this is so difficult for you to comprehend.”
Lorimer said, “Moment ago you said 'annihilate.' Grinding them into paste isn't the same as defeating them.”
“They're annihilating
Stephenson pointed at Marsh. “You. Sit.”
Marsh tossed the chair upright. “This isn't bloody advanced maths,” he muttered, taking his seat again.
Stephenson looked at Will and the other warlocks. “You three. The man has a point.”
Will waited for another nod before answering again. Ever since he had taken it upon himself to recruit the others, he'd been something of a liaison for them. But Marsh had never seen him act so deferentially to them. “There are rules that limit what we can do. Certain actions that must never be undertaken.”
“Such as using the Eidolons to kill,” said Webber. The sound of his voice was surprising, almost alarming, in its normality. Marsh had never before heard the man speak English. Only Enochian. He wondered if warlocks ever spoke Enochian to each other, rather than to the Eidolons.
“What kind of shite is this?” said Lorimer. “You lot did exactly that in the Channel.”
Hargreaves spoke for the first time. “Bite your ignorant tongue and choke on it, Scotsman. We did no such thing.” The heat-glazed skin around the side of his mouth wrinkled in unpleasant patterns when he spoke. His voice wasn't quite so normal as Webber's. Enochian had etched itself into the soft tissues of his throat.
“Eat shit, you plug-ugly—”
“The Eidolons didn't kill those men,” Will interrupted. “They altered the weather. Changed the wind and the sea. After that, events followed their natural course.” Looking at Marsh, he concluded, “But the important point is that no man died through the
Stephenson took a long drag on his cigarette. The smoke swirled up to join the growing cloud over the table. “That seems a rather academic distinction.”
“Oh, it's not, sir. The Eidolons want blood. We mustn't give it to them.”
Stephenson frowned. “Why blood?”
“Because blood,” said Will, “is a map.”
Lorimer: “What the hell does that mean?”
“Consider this,” said Will. “What do we know about the Eidolons? Very little, but for two things. One: they are omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent. And two: they don't like us. Our existence ... offends them in some alien way we can't hope to understand.” Will shrugged. “They're beings of pure volition. Perhaps they're offended by the notion that anything as profoundly limited as we are could also express volition.”
Marsh thought back to the sensation of overwhelming malice he'd felt, the first time he'd experienced the presence of an Eidolon, the day he'd severed Will's finger.
“How is it we're still here?” he asked.
“Exactly!” Will nodded vigorously, pointing at Marsh. “That's precisely the point. They want to erase us. And yet, they haven't. Why? Because they can't
Marsh thought this through. Furrowed brows told him that Lorimer and Stephenson were doing likewise. The other warlocks looked bored and irritated.
“It's a problem of demarcation,” said Marsh.
“Yes. Imagine I told you all our problems could be solved by squashing one particular ant in Britain. How would you find it?”
“This is all fascinating, I'm sure,” said Stephenson, “but what does this have to do with my question? What
