Fondest regards to you all, my readers! I am so happy to be sharing "Chasing Phantoms" with you, I've been a long time fan of "Inglourious Basterds" and have always wanted to attempt a fanfic. This is my second fanfic and my second publication (check out my Avengers/Greek Mythology crossover 'Avenging Olympus'). I hope you enjoy and please do not hesitate to review, your feedback is important to me. Without further ado, I am proud to present "Chasing Phantoms"!
Once upon a time, in Nazi occupied France…
The sharp scent of smoke mingled with the lazy morning breeze that wafted through the French countryside. Jean Montmartre halted his chore of splitting logs to glance up and survey the serene farmlands that surrounded his village. The sun was just rising over the horizon, the sky a fiery masterpiece of color. Mist rose from the dew covered grass, the sun piercing its veil to make the droplets on the grass sparkle like diamonds. Jean's dark eyes narrowed, focusing on a plume of smoke rising in the distance; black twisted fingers trailing across the vibrant sky. Jean swiped the trickling sweat from his brow, coughing absently as more smoke wafted over him with the breeze. A rapport of gunfire echoed across the hills, followed by the lilting wail of a distant scream. Jean's brow furrowed as he scanned the tree line, his eyes growing wide as he beheld a line of men winding amidst the shadows of the oaks. Gray uniforms betrayed them. Shouldering his ax, Jean sprinted from the small grove he had been in and leapt onto the broad back of his horse. Glancing one final time at the steady stream of soldiers, he dug his heels into the horse's side and made for the village of Verte Branche at a desperate gallop. As he neared the town, a pair of dairy farmers rushed out of their sheds.
"German soldiers!" Jean called, "Spread the word!"
The men bolted off, knocking on doors and calling over fences; Jean reined his mount through the center street, scattering cats and dairy goats. In the distance, the Lalaurie manor stood watch over the village; its dark shadow falling over the farmland like the silhouette of some angry god. Jean's stallion's hooves clattered over the cobblestone drive; a face appeared in the window. Jean swung off the horse's sweaty back and bounded up the front stoop to the regal door of the manor. The master of the house, Jacque Lalaurie, stepped onto the porch, regarding his visitor with wary eyes.
"Jean. I am surprised to see you. Daphne is upstairs, should I go fetch her?"
"No, Monsieur Lalaurie." Jean tried to slow his rushed breathing, "You must get out of here. Clear out the home. German soldiers."
The elegant man spun on his heel, gesturing for the young farmer to follow. Jean stepped into the cool darkness of the manor's foyer, all around him nervous eyes glanced up from sorrowful faces.
"Monsieur Lalaurie, where is Daphne?" Jean inquired.
"She's in her room, boy." Monsieur Lalaurie set to work helping the Jewish refugees to pack their things, speaking with an eerie calm in his voice. "You must go now, try to escape across the meadow. Run and do not look back."
Jean paused at the base of the grand staircase. Forty-six Jewish men, women, and children had sought sanctuary within the walls of this grand house, for so long it had been the only place safe from the murderous clutches of Colonel Hans Landa and the German army. Until today. Pushing those dark thoughts away, Jean rushed up the stairs to his betrothed. The loud crash of shattering glass echoed in the west wing of the house. Jean raced down the hall, the Oriental rug swallowing his heavy footfalls.
"Daphne!" He called out, "Daphne, mon cherie, are you alright?"
Jean threw the door to her chambers open to find the slight form of his lover and promised, Daphne, hunched over a shattered crystal vase. At her feet, the delicate blue rug was stained with scarlet.
"Daphne?" Jean ventured tentatively.
She gasped and whipped about to face him, as if ripped from a trance. Blood dripped over her fingers from a nasty array of gashes on her palm. With a sigh Jean stepped forward, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. He knelt before her, assessing the scattered pieces of the vase, several of which were speckled with red.
"Did you break that vase, Daphne?" Jean whispered gently, looking up into her face.
Daphne stared blankly out the window.
Jean looked again to her hand, tenderly removing tiny shards of glass from the wound. "You've got to be more careful, bijou."
"I'm sorry. I did not know it would cut me." Daphne's voice was hollow and distant.
Jean pursed his lips in thought, before softly kissing Daphne's wrist. He stood and wrapped his arms around her, feeling her body melt into his as the tears finally came. Jean buried his face in her wild mane of raven curls as she sobbed against his shirt. Daphne was "fille ensorcelee de la nuit", a bewitched child of the night. She was always… stirring. Seeing and hearing things that were not there, doing things that could not be explained. Jean had loved her from the moment he had first seen her. A pale beauty, with a face carved by Aphrodite herself; Monsieur Lalaurie had seen her educated at the finest schools in Paris. She had learned to dance and play music, of languages and literature. Daphne Lalaurie was molded in the manner befitting a French noblewoman, but she was, nonetheless, haunted by the demons of her mind. Jean stroked her back as her sobs quieted; she seemed so small and delicate in his arms.
Daphne snuggled against Jean's strong chest, feeling safe in his arms. She tiptoed her fingers over his stomach, up to his shoulder. Men are so big and strong, how did they not scare themselves with their own power?
Daphne kissed Jean's shoulder and neck, smiling against his skin. "You could break me in half, mon ami."
Jean's chuckle echoed deep in his chest, "I could never hurt you, Daphne. You are my heart."
Daphne grinned and pressed her ear to his chest, hearing the murmur of his voice dance to the drum of his heartbeat. The smiled melted away from her face.
"Jean, why would you want to marry me?"
"What do you mean, Daphne?"
Her voice was steady, "Because, Jean, despite my fortune and my education. I am not worthy of your trust. I can barely be left to my own designs without causing some sort of uproar. Not a good wife for a gentle man like you."
Jean cupped her delicate face in his hand, stroking her cheeks as he lifted her chin to look him in the face. "I know, Daphne. You are tortured. I do not know why. But, I love you and want to protect you from all things, including yourself."
Daphne leaned in and kissed him gently. She felt his arms lock around her tightly; Daphne raked her fingers through his dark hair. Here she would always be safe. Jean broke the kiss and looked into her misty grey eyes. Eyes the color of smoke. Reality came crashing back down; Jean gripped Daphne's shoulders, leaning in close to make sure he was understood.
"Daphne, Landa and his men are on their way. I need you to get far away from here."
Daphne's eyes widened with horror as Jean grabbed her by the arm and roughly led her out of the room. "What about my father?"
"He and I are going to cover the manor, while these people escape." Jean gestured over the railing where the house was a hive of activity. "They are fleeing across the meadow."
"Should I go with them?" Daphne asked, clinging to Jean in fear.
"No!" Jean snapped, spinning her to face him, "You go to the trees."
The pair wound through the horde of people and exited the manor. Jean pulled Daphne down the steps of the manor towards the hitch where his mount was tied. The big black horse lifted his head, nickering a friendly hello to his master. Jean lifted Daphne onto the stallion's wide back, gripping her hand tightly.
"Listen to me, Daphne. Ride for the woods. Don't look back and don't stop. You don't come back here until all is quiet, do you understand?" Jean's voice was hard, his eyes were desperate.
Tears slid down Daphne's face, but she nodded her head.
Jean pulled her face down to his, kissing her hard, squeezing her thigh almost too tightly. A whimper escaped Daphne's lips.
"Jean, what's going to happen to you?"
Jean broke the kiss but did not pull away, his breathing heavy as he pressed his forehead to hers, "I'm needed here. Don't worry, we'll find each other again."
Daphne's voice was heavy with tears, "Jean, I'm scared."
Jean's coffee colored eyes scanned her face. Memorizing every line, the curve of her lip, that shocking gray of her eyes. A lump caught in his throat, but he quickly swallowed it, smiling benevolently.
He patted the ebony rump of the large draught horse, "This is Ghost. He'll take care of you." Jean moved to the stallion's bridle, turning his head for Daphne to see, "Look he has one blue eye and one brown, which means he sees both angels and demons. He can keep an eye out."
Daphne laughed, "That's just superstition."
Jean raised an eyebrow in mock surprise, "Hey, you won't be laughing when Ghost warns you that the Devil himself is coming." Jean pointed down, "Now look at his feet. He's got three white stockings and one black one."
"Doesn't that mean that he's a mount for evil?" Daphne smirked.
Jean furrowed his brow, "Maybe. But I think that's what makes him so steady in the night. He never stumbles or spooks. He's quiet."
Ghost tossed his head and stomped his hooves impatiently. Jean stared up into Daphne's face, trying to find the words to say. A gunshot rang out and the shouts of men and the splintering of wood filled the air. Jean grabbed Daphne's face and kissed her again.
"Remember, my love, don't look back. I love you." Jean slapped Ghost's haunch and the stallion bolted away, Daphne clinging to the reins for dear life.
Jean watched her ride away, tears shining in his eyes. Monsieur Lalaurie stepped onto the porch, two large rifles in his hands. He tossed one to Jean, shouldering the other. The two men turned and made for the village without another word.
Daphne watched the ground as it raced by, swallowed up by Ghost's long strides. The distant forest was growing closer, dark and foreboding. A deep ache burned in Daphne's chest; she didn't want to ride away, she wanted to stay with Jean. Everything in her body screamed for her to turn around and ride back to him. Daphne glanced to her left, watching the steady line of refugees pour from the back door of her lovely home. They ran in clumps of four or five across the field, burdened with what few belongings they had. They were fleeing just as she was, hell bent on some destination unknown to her. The crack of a gunshot echoed, one of the fleeing shadows fell. Another shot, another dead. Daphne watched in horror as the stream of people grew thinner, more and more falling. The others began to toss their belongings, dashing like panicked sheep across the field. More shots, more men and women fell. Spurred by her own fear, Daphne bent low over Ghost's neck, whipping the reins back and forth across his withers to urge him on faster. The world rushed by in a blur. Daphne closed her eyes, and lay her head against Ghost's sweating neck. Gunshots and screams mingled with the fast drum of Ghost's hooves. Shadows passed and then there was darkness. Daphne opened her eyes, surprised by the darkness of the trees that rushed by. She pulled Ghost to a slow walk, his labored breathing the only sound. Daphne looked over her shoulder and wondered if it was all over. Two gunshots, followed by a woman's cry assured her it was only just beginning. Daphne looked ahead at the labyrinth of trees before her; all she could do now was walk on and wait.
Meanwhile across the Atlantic…
"Every man under my command owes me one hundred Nazi scalps! And I want my scalps!"
The small band of soldiers that had come to call themselves the "Basterds" stood at attention. But the grins on their faces and the ferocious light in their eyes betrayed their bloodlust. This was the team the Lieutenant had been waiting for. He nodded to his associate.
"At ease!" Sergeant Donny Donowitz boomed.
Lieutenant Aldo Raine turned to his trusted friend and fellow soldier, "Donny, are you ready to go across the big water?"
"Oh yeah." Sergeant Donowitz quipped with a wide grin, "I been waitin' for a chance to get my hands on the fuckers."
Aldo smiled, turning on his heel to go back into the warehouse he called their home base. Donny was right on his heels. Aldo surveyed the map that lay across a large table, chewing on his bottom lip as he thought.
"Right there." He muttered, more to himself than to Donny. "That's where the Basterds are gonna see some action."
Donny's eyes went to where Lieutenant Raine's finger was pointing. France. Donny felt a stirring somewhere deep in his gut. It was a stirring he had only ever had felt twice. The first time, was when he had gone up to bat for the Boston minor leagues. The second time had been when, in a drunken rage, he'd killed a man last October.