The First Attack

A carriage awaited as evening began to settle and street lamps were lit. Once aboard we headed for Cornavin Station. 

"There we will board the Chemins de fer de Paris à Lyon et à la Méditerranée." 

I found Miss. Gerehardt's French with a Scots accent was quite charming and for the moment my mind and body felt calm and at peace. 

Our arrival at Cornavin caused me to exhale and a shudder passed through me. As if she sensed it Miss. Gerehardt took my arm. 

"All will be well, Thaddeus." 

A porter shifted our meagre luggage from the carriage to a trolley and we followed him onto the platform. The crowd of people and the noise began to erode my feelings of calm and Miss. Gerehardt gave my arm a reassuring squeeze. Her acute sensitivity to my anxiety touched me. To distract myself further from the noise and chaos around me I studied the great engine. A great, black beast of iron, it's fiery breath, its flanks slick with coal‑smoke and dew. A dragon forged by men, it hissed and sighed as though impatient for flight. 

Soon we boarded and were escorted to our adjoining berths, she had left no detail unplanned. Within, velvet seats beckoned with their deep crimson embrace, polished mahogany reflected the lamplight in warm glows, and brass fittings caught the eye like constellations. The air was thick with the perfume of coal smoke. The porter stowed our three small trunks overhead. It seemed less a conveyance than a moving salon, a theatre of progress upon wheels. I felt, stepping inside, that I had crossed into a liminal hall- half temple, half machine- where the rituals of travel were enacted with dignity and smoke.

Later Miss. Gerehardt ordered a simple meal to our cabin. 

"I felt a crowded dining car might be a little too much. I also procured this..." 

She held up a bottle of Madiera as the train lurched gently toward the long night’s journey, its wheels beating a steady hymn against the rails. In the dim carriage light she uncorked the bottle- the old fortified wine, amber and enduring, carried like a relic across centuries. She poured with deliberate grace. I accepted my share, my nerves still feeling raw from trial and fracture. Yet the ritual steadied me: the warmth of the wine, the companionship of its offering, the rhythm of the train carrying us toward Gare du Nord. It was no cure, no miracle- we both knew that- only a placebo dressed in dignity. But in that moment, the bottle became a threshold vessel. Each sip was less about medicine than about guardianship, less about healing than about endurance, her gesture was a fortification.

...........

My lungs burning, my mind swimming in the residue of chloroform, I forced myself to reconcile the immediate scene that had played out before me; the dark compartment, a fight, then sudden quiet and the terror of the Strigoi; revealed to be Miss. Gerehardt, with the blood of my assailant staining her mouth and chin. She had bravely confronted him and taken a huge bite out of his arm. I had been spared, thanks to her savagery, but the details of the attack were still a chemical blur. My mind began to clear and her voice became familiar. 

"Valkyrie?" 

"Yes, it is me and no, I'm not a Strigoi, even though I may have acted so." She used the cuff of her nightdress to wipe more of the blood away. I noticed her expression, a touch of exasperation and perhaps even a flicker of dry amusement. 

    The train Inspector arrived, pushing his way through the gawking crowd of passengers disturbed by the commotion. 

"Gott in Himmel!!" he cried, surveying the dishevelled berth, the blood spatter, and Valkyrie's furious, bloody face. He immediately ushered the passengers away and slammed the door shut.

Miss. Gerehardt, still panting, turned her blazing eyes from the Inspector and back to me. 

"Valkyrie?" I asked again, my mind fully clearing. 

"Yes, it is me," she confirmed. 

"The assailant?" I choked out, pushing myself upright, the last vestige of chloroform clinging to my lungs. 

"Gone," she stated, her voice tight but composed. "He was professional, quick, and left a nasty stain on my evening wear." She eyed the dark blood on her silk cuff. "He wore a steward's uniform, but it was ill-fitting and too new. A disguise." 

"We must contact the authorities..." 

"We do not need the police, Thaddeus. Not now. We need rest." she said, gripping my trembling hand. 

She rose and spoke to the train Inspector in fluent German tinge with her rolling Scots burr. He nodded accent and left the berth. 

"I told him you had suffered a severe medical episode and needed complete rest. I also asked for a bottle of whisky." 

"Yes, my nerves could do with some." 

"Not for you! For me! I need to sterilize my mouth!" At this we both laughed and the tension eased.

 "Dear Valkyrie, I fear I have failed you again." 

"Nonsense, Thaddeus!" 

A knock at the door and the Inspector had returned with the bottle of whisky. Valkyrie thanked him and apologised for the night's disturbance. He gave a stiff bow and left.

"Allow me a few minutes to change and clean my mouth out." she said. 

She returned shortly, this time a robe over her clean nightdress and sat beside me. She noticed something. She reached for my luggage and retrieved a glass phial and a pair of tweezers. She carefully picked up a small piece of blood covered flesh and placed it in the phial with a triumphant smile. I could not restrain my own smile of triumph.

"The attack confirms what you already knew: the Zealot is singular, desperate, and too arrogant to delegate the first strike," she explained, her focus absolute. "But a man with a fresh, bleeding wound and a piece of himself lost to my teeth." She help up the phial. "Will not risk exposure to the police, nor will he attempt another messy attack on a public train tonight. He has been humiliated, and he needs time to heal and recalculate. The fight will not be on this journey, Thaddeus. The fight will be at Caisteal Inbhir Lòchaidh. The cost of this single failure forces his hand. Now, you must trust my analysis and rest. I need you to be whole when we get home." 

She bid me lie back down. 

"I have preparations to make. The fight is paused, but not ended."

It was not until we arrived at Gare du Nord, where the train guard- duty bound- had felt compelled to notify the Parisian police, that the full measure of the plot became clear. An Inspector, accompanied by a pathologist, examined the berth and the lock. He did not dismiss Miss Gerehardt's story of a struggle and a bite. Instead, his finger traced the line lock. He noted a faint sheen of oil. 

"Defeated by a master key," Miss. Gerehardt translated, "and lubricated to suppress the sound. This was not a common thief, but a meticulous artisan." 

The Zealot's superiority, which had almost killed me, was confirmed by the very authority Miss. Gerehardt had hoped to avoid.

go to chapter 3- The Fortress and the Mind