Magda backed away from the threat in Iuliu's voice. He had always been such a placid fellow. What had gotten into him?
She turned and walked around the inn. Now more than ever she needed to be with Glenn. But he was nowhere in sight. Nor was he at his usual spot in the brush where he watched the keep.
Glenn was gone.
Worried and despondent, Magda walked back to the inn. As she stepped up to the door she saw a hunched figure limping up from the village. It was a woman and she appeared to be hurt.
"Help me!"
Magda started toward her but Iuliu appeared at the doorway and pulled her back. "You stay here!" he told Magda gruffly, then turned toward the injured woman. "Go away, Ioan!"
"I'm hurt!" she cried. "Matei stabbed me!"
Magda saw that the woman's left arm hung limp at her side, and her clothing—it looked like a nightgown—was soaked with blood on the left side from shoulder to knee.
"Don't bring your troubles here," Iuliu told her. "We have our own."
The woman continued forward. "Help me, please!"
Iuliu stepped away from the door and picked up an apple-sized rock.
"No!" Magda cried and reached to stay his arm.
Iuliu elbowed her aside and threw the rock, grunting with the force he put behind it. Fortunately for the woman his aim was poor and the missile whizzed harmlessly past her head. But its message was not lost on her. With a sob, she turned and began hobbling away.
Magda started after her. "Wait! I'll help you!"
But Iuliu grabbed her roughly by the arm and shoved her through the doorway into the inn. Magda stumbled and fell to the floor.
"You'll mind your business!" he shouted. "I don't need anyone bringing trouble to my house! Now get upstairs and stay there!"
"You can't—" Magda began, but then saw Iuliu step forward with bared teeth and a raised arm. Frightened, she leaped to her feet and retreated to the stairs.
What had come over him? He was a different person! The whole village seemed to have fallen under a vicious spell—stabbings, killings, and no one willing to give the slightest aid to a neighbor in need. What was happening here?
Once upstairs, Magda went directly to Glenn's room. It was unlikely he could have returned without her spotting him, but she had to check.
Still empty. Where was he?
She wandered about the tiny room. She checked the closet and found everything as it had been yesterday—the clothes, the case with the hiltless sword blade in it, the mirror. The mirror bothered her. She looked over to the space above the bureau. The nail was still in the wall there. She reached behind the mirror and found the wire still intact. Which meant it hadn't fallen from the wall; someone had taken it down. Glenn? Why would he do that? .
Uneasy, she closed the closet door and left the room. Papa's cruel words of the morning and Glenn's unexplained disappearance were combining to make her suspicious of everything. She had to hold herself together. She had to believe that Papa would be all right, that Glenn would come back to her soon, and that the people in the village would return to their former gentle selves.
Glenn . . . where could he have gone? And why? Yesterday had been a time of complete togetherness for the two of them, and today she couldn't even find him. Had he used her? Had he taken his pleasure with her and now abandoned her? No, she couldn't believe that.
He had seemed greatly disturbed by what Papa had told him this morning. Glenn's absence might have something to do with that. Still, she felt he had deserted her.
As the sun sank closer to the mountaintops, Magda became almost frantic. She checked his room again—no change. Disconsolately, she wandered back to her own room and to the window facing the keep. Avoiding the silent nest, her eyes ranged the brush along the edge of the gorge, looking for something, anything that might lead her to Glenn.
And then she saw movement within the brush to the right of the causeway. Without waiting for a second look to be sure, Magda ran for the stairs. It had to be Glenn! It had to be!
Iuliu was nowhere about and she left the inn without any trouble. As she approached the brush, she spied his red hair among the leaves. Her heart leaped. Joy and relief flooded through her—along with a hint of resentment for the torment she had been through all day.
She found him perched on a rock, watching the keep from the cover of the branches. She wanted to throw her arms around him and laugh because he was safe, and she wanted to scream at him for disappearing without a word.
“Where have you been all day?" Magda asked as she came up behind him, trying her best to keep her voice calm.
He answered without turning around. "Walking. I had some thinking to do, so I took a walk along the floor of the pass. A long walk."
"I missed you."
"And I you." He turned and held out his arm. "There's room enough here for two." His smile was not as wide or as reassuring as it could have been. He seemed strangely subdued, preoccupied.
Magda ducked under his arm and hugged against him. Good . . . it felt good within the carapace of that arm.
"What's worrying you?"
"A number of things. These leaves for instance." He grabbed a handful from the branches nearest him and crumbled them in his fist. "They're drying out. Dying. And it's only April. And the villagers . . ."
"It's the keep, isn't it?" Magda said.
"It seems that way, doesn't it? The longer the Germans stay in there, the more they chip away at the interior of the structure, the further the evil within spreads. Or so it seems."
"Or so it seems," Magda echoed him.
"And then there's your father . . ."
"He worries me, too. I don't want Molasar to turn on him and leave him"—she could not say it; her mind refused to picture it—“like the others."
"Worse things can happen to a man than having his blood drained."
The solemnity of Glenn's tone struck her. "You said that once before, on the first morning you met Papa. But what could be worse?"
"He could lose his self."
"Himself?"
"No. Self. His own self. What he is, what he has struggled all his life to be. That can be lost. "
"Glenn, I don't understand."
And she didn't. Or perhaps didn't want to. There was a faraway look in Glenn's eyes that disturbed her.
"Let's suppose something," he said. "Let's suppose that the vampire, or moroi, or undead, as he exists in legend—a spirit confined to the grave by day, rising at night to feed on the blood of the living—is nothing more than the legend you always thought it to be. Suppose instead that the vampire myth is the result of ancient taletellers' attempts to conceptualize something beyond their understanding; that the real basis for the legend is a being who thirsts for nothing so simple as blood, but who feeds instead on human weakness, who thrives on madness and pain, who steadily gains strength and power from human misery, fear, and degradation."
His voice, his tone, made her uncomfortable.
"Glenn, don't talk like that. That's awful. How could anything feed on pain and misery? You're not saying that Molasar—"
"I'm just supposing. "
"Well, you're wrong," she said with true conviction. "I know Molasar is evil, and perhaps insane. That's because of what he is. But he's not evil in the way you describe. He can't be! Before we arrived he saved the villagers the major had taken prisoner. And remember what he did for me when those two soldiers attacked me." Magda shivered with the awful memory. "He saved me. And what could be more degrading than rape at the hands of two Nazis? Something that feeds on degradation could have had a small feast at my expense. But Molasar pulled them off me and killed them."
"Yes. Rather brutally, I believe, from what you told me."
Queasily, Magda remembered the soldiers' gurgling death rattles, the grinding of the bones in their necks as Molasar shook them.
"So?"
"So he did not go completely unappeased."
"But he could have killed me, too, if that would
have given him pleasure. But he didn't. He returned me to my father."
Glenn's eyes pierced her. "Exactly!"
Puzzled by Glenn's response, Magda faltered, then hurried on.
"And as for my father, he's spent the last few years in almost continual agony. Completely miserable. And now he's cured of his scleroderma. It's as if he never had it! If human misery nourishes Molasar, why has he not let my father remain ill and in pain and feed on that? Why cut off a source of 'nourishment' by healing my father?"
"Why indeed?"
"Oh, Glenn!" she said, clutching him. "Don't frighten me any more than I already am! I don't want to argue with you—I've already had such an awful time with my father. I couldn't bear to be at odds with you, too!"
Glenn's arm tightened around her. "All right, then. But think on this: Your father is healthier now in body than he has been for many years. But what of the man within? Is he the same man you came here with four days ago?"
That was a question that had plagued Magda all day—one she didn't know how to answer.
"Yes . . . No . . . I don't know! I think he's just as confused as I am right now. But I'm sure he'll be all right. He's had a shock, that's all. Being suddenly cured of a supposedly incurable, steadily crippling disease would make anyone behave strangely for a while. But he'll get over it. You wait and see."
Glenn said nothing, and Magda was glad of that. It meant that he, too, wanted peace between them. She watched the fog form along the floor of the pass and start to rise as the sun ducked behind the peaks. Night was coming.
Night. Papa had said that Molasar would rid the keep of Germans tonight. That should have given her hope, but somehow it seemed terrible and ominous to her. Even the feel of Glenn's arm around her could not entirely allay her fear.
"Let's go back to the inn," she said at last.
Glenn shook his head. "No. I want to see what happens over there."
"It could be a long night."
"It might be the longest night ever," he said without looking at her. "Endless."
Magda glanced up and caught a look of terrible guilt passing over his face. What was tearing him up inside? Why wouldn't he share it with her?
TWENTY-SIX
"Are you ready?"
The words did not startle Cuza. After seeing the last dying rays of the sun fade from the sky, he had been anticipating Molasar's arrival. At the sound of the hollow voice, he rose from the wheelchair, proud and grateful to be able to do so. He had waited all day for the sun to go down, cursing it at times for being so slow in its course across the sky.
And now the moment was finally here. Tonight would be his night and no one else's. Cuza had waited for this. No one could take it from him.
"Ready!" he said, turning to find Molasar standing close behind him, barely visible in the glow of a single candle on the table. Cuza had unscrewed the electric bulb overhead. He found himself more comfortable in the wan flicker of the candle. More at ease. More at home. More at one with Molasar. "Thanks to you, I'm able to help. "
Molasar's expression was neutral. "It took little to heal the wounds caused by your illness. Had I been stronger, I could have healed you in an instant; in my relatively weakened condition, however, it took all night.”
"No doctor could have done it in a lifetime—two lifetimes!"
"Nothing!" Molasar said with a quick, deprecating gesture of his right hand. "I have great powers for bringing death, but also great powers for healing. There is always a balance. Always. "
He thought Molasar's mood uncharacteristically philosophical. But Cuza had no time for philosophy tonight.
"What do we do now?"
"We wait," Molasar said. "All is not yet ready."
"And after—what?" Cuza could barely contain his impatience. "What then?"
Molasar strolled to the window and looked out at the darkening mountains. After a long pause, he spoke in a low tone.
"Tonight I am going to entrust you with the source of my power. You must take it, remove it from the keep, and find a safe hiding place for it somewhere up in those crags. You must not let anyone stop you. You must not allow anyone to take it from you."
Cuza was baffled. "The source of your power?" He racked his memory. "I never heard of the undead having such a thing."
"That is because we never wished it to be known," Molasar said, turning and facing him. "My powers flow from it, but it is also the most vulnerable point in my defenses. It allows me to exist as I do, but in the wrong hands it can be used to end my existence. That is why I always keep it near me where I can protect it."
"What is it? Where—"
"A talisman, hidden now in the depths of the subcellar. If I am to depart the keep, I cannot leave it behind unprotected. Nor can I risk taking it with me to Germany. So I must give it over for safekeeping to someone I can trust."
He moved closer and Cuza felt a chill steal over his skin as the depthless black of Molasar's pupils fixed on him. But he forced himself to stand his ground.
"You can trust me. I'll hide it so well that even a mountain goat will be hard pressed to find it. I swear!"
"Do you?" Molasar moved even closer. Candlelight flickered off his waxy face. "It will be the most important task you have ever undertaken."
"I can do it—now," Cuza said, balling his fist and feeling strength rather than pain in the movement. "No one will take it away from me."
"It is unlikely that anyone will try. And even if someone does, it is doubtful anyone alive today would know how to use it against me. But on the other hand, it is made of gold and silver. Should someone find it and try to melt it down . . ."
A twinge of uncertainty plucked at Cuza. "Nothing can stay hidden forever."
"Forever is not necessary. Only until I have finished with Lord Hitler and his cohorts. It need remain safe only until I return. After that I shall again take charge of its protection."
"It will be safe!" Cuza's self confidence flowed back into him. He could hide anything in these hills for a few days. "When you return it shall be waiting for you. Hitler gone—what a glorious day that will be! Freedom for Romania, for the Jews. And for me—vindication!"
" ‘Vindication'?"
"My daughter—she does not think I should trust you."
Molasar's eyes narrowed. "It was not wise to discuss this with anyone, even your own daughter."
"She is as anxious to see Hitler gone as I am. She simply finds it hard to believe that you are sincere. She's being influenced by the man I fear has become her lover.”
"What man?"
Cuza thought he saw Molasar flinch, thought the pallid face had grown a shade paler.
"I don't know much about him. His name is Glenn and he seems to have an interest in the keep. But as to—"
Cuza suddenly felt himself jerked forward and upward. In a blur of motion, Molasar's hands had shot out, grasped the fabric of his coat, and lifted him clear off the floor.
“What does he look like?" The words were harsh, forced through clenched teeth.
"He—he's tall!" Cuza blurted, terrified by the enormous strength in the cold bands just inches from his throat, and the long yellow teeth so near . . . "Almost as tall as you, and—"
"His hair! What about his hair?"
"Red!"
Molasar hurled him away, sending him tumbling across the room, rolling and skidding helplessly, bruisingly along the floor. And as he did, a guttural sound escaped Molasar's throat, distorted by rage but recognizable to Cuza as—
“Glaeken!"
Cuza thudded against the far wall of the room and lay dazed for a moment. As his vision slowly cleared, he saw something he had never expected to see in Molasar's face: fear.
Glaeken? Cuza thought, crouching, afraid to speak. Wasn't that the name of the secret sect Molasar had mentioned two nights ago? The fanatics who used to pursue him? The ones he had built the keep to hide from?
He watched Molasar go to the window and stare out toward the village, his expression un
readable. Finally, he turned again toward Cuza. His mouth was set in a tight, thin line.
"How long has he been here?"
"Three days—since Wednesday evening." Cuza felt compelled to add: "Why? What's wrong?"
Molasar did not answer immediately. He paced back and forth in the growing darkness beyond the candlelight—three steps this way, three steps that way, deep in thought. And then he stopped.
"The Glaeken sect must still exist," he said in a hushed voice. "I should have known! They were always too tenacious, their zeal for world domination too fanatical for them to die out! These Nazis you speak of . . . this Hitler . . . it all makes sense now. Of course!"
Cuza felt it might be safe to rise. "What makes sense?"
"The Glaeken always chose to work behind the scenes, using popular movements to hide their identity and their true aims." Molasar stood there, a towering shadow, and raised his fists. "I see it now. Lord Hitler and his followers are just another façade for the Glaeken. I've been a fool! I should have recognized their methods when you first told me about the death camps. And then that twisted cross these Nazis have painted on everything—how obvious! The Glaeken were once an arm of the Church!"
"But Glenn—"
"He is one of them! Not one of their puppets like the Nazis, but one of the inner circle. A true member of the Glaeken—one of its assassins!"
Cuza felt his throat constrict. "But how can you be sure?"
"The Glaeken breed their assassins true to a certain form: always blue eyes, always faintly olive skin, always red hair. They are trained in every method of killing, including ways of killing the undead. This one who calls himself Glenn means to see that I never leave my keep!"
Cuza leaned against the wall, reeling at the thought of Magda in the arms of a man who was part of the real power behind Hitler. It was too fantastic to believe! And yet it all seemed to fit. That was the real horror—it all fit.
No wonder Glenn had been so upset at hearing him say he was going to help Molasar rid the world of Hitler. It also explained Glenn's unceasing efforts to cast doubt on everything Molasar had told him. And it explained, too, why he had instinctively come to loathe the red-haired man. The monster was not Molasar—it was Glenn! And no doubt at this very moment Magda was with him! Something had to be done!
Adversary Cycle 01 - The Keep Page 30