Rainbows in Your Eyes

Carpathian Mountains, 1945

The door of the caravan in which Fox Sullivan had set up as his surgery burst open, letting in a spattering of rain. “Close the door, please,” he ordered mildly. Once he would have wheeled in fury on whoever was letting germs into his sterile operating theatre, but that time was long past. For the past fifteen years, he and Warrick Synclaire, his lover, had lived in the Carpathian Mountains with the vista of travelers who at one time had summered on Synclaire land in Kent. Now he made do as best he could.

Warrick ducked in out of the rain and shook off stray drops. “How is he, Fox?”

“He’ll survive, although it will take a while for his hands and feet to recover.”

“I can believe that. He’ll probably need to shift a few times. He’d run the skin off his pads by the time Djordji found him and carried him here.”

Fox wasn’t surprised by the words his lover used. He’d learned Warrick was a shifter—the local inhabitants called them werewolves—years before, although he needed the light of the full moon in order to turn into his wolf form, unlike shifters who’d been born that way. Fox had to smile to himself. If it came to that, he was a shifter himself, and on those occasions when he needed to shake loose the fidgets, he’d shift into his fox form and dash across the countryside.

However, there had been times, before this dreadful war had started, when he and his lover had shifted and made love in the moonlight.

Fox rose to wrap his arms around Warrick in a brief hug. Times were perilous, and as little as he cared to admit it, the German threat was always near, and he never wanted to take his lover for granted.

Warrick tipped up Fox’s chin. “I’m getting you all wet.”

“No matter.” Still, Fox released him when Warrick stepped back. Even though they’d been together all these years—they’d shared digs back in Canada, before Warrick insisted on returning to Thorny Walk, his home in Kent—Warrick had never been a demonstrative lover. In bed, however…Fox smiled for a moment before pushing the arousing memories aside. This was hardly the time. “What’s the news? Do we have any idea where Vasil is?”

“Vasil never arrived at the meeting point,” a strained voice whispered. “I had no choice but to continue on.”

Fox whirled to look down at his patient, who he’d given enough morphine to knock out an elephant for a week. “How are you conscious?”

“Never mind that,” Warrick ordered. “What do you mean Vasil never arrived?”

“What I said. Pavel wasn’t at the point where I was to meet him either.”

“That’s why you made such a long, dangerous journey?”

“I had no choice. The news had to be delivered.”

“You were supposed to relay it to Pavel?” Warrick asked.

“I was. At the Hungary border.”

“That means you covered more than three hundred miles.”

“It had to be done.”

And it was no wonder his paws—his hands and feet—were in such sorry shape.

“Fox, we must know what’s been going on.” Warrick intended to question Fox’s patient, and Fox understood why. For long stretches, they’d heard nothing.

“Then be quick about it. This shifter grows tired.”

“What news do you bring, shifter?”

It took the shifter a moment to battle through the fog of the morphine, but finally he was able to huff out, “The Monster is dead.”

Fox felt his heart lurch. This war had been going on for so long, and as Syeira, the wise woman, had foretold, they’d lost so many.

“How can this be true?” Warrick raised a quick hand when the shifter bared his teeth. “I’m not questioning your veracity. The allies haven’t yet reached Berlin.”

And of course Warrick would be aware of that; Fox’s lover worked closely with the resistance.

“From what I could learn, he took a cyanide capsule. When it didn’t seem to work fast enough, he shot himself in the head.” The shifter’s lips curled back to reveal abnormally long, sharp canine teeth. “Or perhaps the pain was more than he expected and could bear.” He sank down onto his cot. “S-sorry,” he panted. “S-so tired.”

“Dammit,” Warrick snarled.

Fox’s fingers tightened into a fist. He had to agree. Even this late in the war, the SS were still trying to wipe their kind from the face of Terra. “And you said there was no sign of Vasil?”

The dark shifter was so exhausted he could barely shake his head. “No, and I d-daren’t wait.”

“We’ll have to go on the assumption we’ve lost both Pavel and Vasil.” A frown darkened Warrick’s handsome features. “And they call us monsters. Might it be too much to hope the bastard’s death was long and painful?” In spite of the fact Warrick was the son of a baronet, he did tend to have a bloodthirsty streak.