“Is there anything special about this building? Anything we should know.”
Guillaume shrugged. “There were always rumors. People talked, as people are wont to do. Some said it was built on an ancient ruin, from Roman times. That’s where it got its name. But others said it was even older, and that the runes that marked its foundations were in no language that anyone—even the professors at the University—recognized.”
My eyes met Henry’s, and I saw an old fire burning within them. “Sounds like just the place,” he said, “for a Thule Society coven. We’re close now, girl. Close indeed.”
“Well, gentlemen,” Margot said, “perhaps the time for talking has passed, no?”
“My thoughts exactly,” I said. “Lead the way, Guillaume.”
We crept around the perimeter of the university, following the curving outer wall as it swept around those hallowed halls of learning. What we sought was a classroom of sorts as well. One where young men were indoctrinated into a society that sought the destruction of all things mankind holds holy. The Thule are not unlike many of the cults—both ancient and of recent vintage—that worship the old gods. Their particular catechism holds that the German people were created by the Old Ones as a master race, one meant to rule all others. It is as baseless and insane as any of the perversities that their ilk peddle to the weak-minded and the desperate, the hungry for power and those who would rule over others. Whatever a victim’s sickness, the Thule and societies like them offer the cure. And thus they all march on to their destruction—and ours as well.
It wasn’t long before we had finished our circuit. We hadn’t seen another soul, and now the gothic-style castle of the Roman Court loomed above us. It seemed just as Guillaume had described it—utterly abandoned. The front door was chained, and hanging from the chain was a heavy padlock. I could hear Henry sigh.
“Locked up tight,” he said.
“They didn’t take Dr. Weston through the front.” Guillaume whispered. “Come on.”
We followed him around the side of the massive structure. Sure enough, there was a side door hanging half open that made a mockery of the security at the front.
“Eureka.”
Guillaume gently pushed the door, and I was surprised that it opened without a sound. A black maw loomed before us. We’d brought flashlights, but to that point, we hadn’t dared to use them.
“What do you think?” I asked.
“I don’t think there’s any danger in it,” Henry said. “Something tells me that if they’ve got Carter inside, he’s not on the main floor, if you catch my meaning. Still, let’s stay as inconspicuous as possible. One flashlight.”
He stepped into the darkness. When he turned the flashlight on, it didn’t so much obliterate the night as cut it in half. A heavy shroud still hung over everything that did not fall within the beam.
“Now what?” Guillaume asked.
“We look for something unusual, something out of place. It’s the foundation of this building that’s important. Remember that. That’s where they’ll be. We just have to find a way down there. Margot,” Henry said, “you stay just outside the doorway and keep watch. If anyone else approaches, warn us and then hide. You probably shouldn’t have come, and I don’t want you getting into any more trouble.”
I thought she might protest. Instead, she simply nodded and moved to her post. Good girl. The rest of us fanned out. We were in the main chamber, a common area of sorts, with a great fireplace at one end and bookshelves on every wall. Some of the shelves were barren, while others were filled to overflowing with texts of every sort. I walked along, examining them in the dim light.
Most were military texts, histories of war, strategy, tactics, an exegesis on epic blunders in battle. There was also general philosophy, some mathematics texts, a copy of Tocqueville’s Democracy in America. But it was one book in particular that caught my eye. It was a massive volume, a complete history of Germany, from ancient times up until the unification wars of the late nineteenth century. And unlike every other book in the library, it was completely devoid of dust. I smiled triumphantly, grasped the book, and pulled. I fully expected a latch to click, a door to open, a wall to slide away. Something dramatic.
Instead, nothing.
The book came away so easily that I almost fell when it ended up in my hands. Defeated, I slid it back into its place.
“Look at this!” Guillaume whispered, a little too loud for comfort. Henry and I hurried over as he pointed at the floor. At first we saw nothing, but the dust in front of this particular wall was different from everywhere else. There were no footprints or any obvious evidence that anyone had passed through, but something had disturbed the dust ever so slightly, leaving an unmistakable swept pattern. It was a subtle clue, indeed, and I was impressed with Guillaume for noticing.
Henry ran his hand along the wall, feeling every crevice in the bricks. He stopped when his finger trailed over a small hole. He shined his flashlight at the spot, and then it was obvious.
This wasn’t a wall; it was a door.
“That’s a keyhole,” I said.
“Yes,” Henry muttered. “But where’s the key?”
It took me only a moment. I spun on my heel, walking back to the shelf of books. I removed the history of Germany, and this time I opened it. Sure enough, in a depression cut into the pages within lay a small key.
“Fantastic!” Henry almost shouted. “Bring it here.”
He took the key from me, sliding it into the hole in the wall. He didn’t even have to turn it. There was a click, and the panel popped slightly away from the wall. I returned the key to the book and slid it back in place. Maybe we could get out without being noticed after all.
Beyond the door was a ruin. A pile of rubble formed a rudimentary staircase down, while the rough-hewn, solid-stone ceiling showed that this structure—whatever its purpose and original design—was carved from the living rock. Modernity clashed with the ancient, as wires were strung along the wall, electric lanterns that hung at regular intervals casting a pale light over the cave. Nor were the walls themselves bare. As we descended, they grew thick with runes from the time of Arminius and perhaps even further back into the mists of the past. It was little wonder the Thule held this place as holy.
We proceeded with caution now. Whatever we sought, it was close. The air was thicker, warmer. It stank of humanity. Then we turned a corner and saw it.
We were standing on the second level of a great stone circle, a temple of titanic slabs of granite. Stonehenge might be its nearest cousin, though this place was complete, without the decay that centuries of exposure to the elements can wreak on even the hardiest of rock. It was a splendid find and would have been more so were it not for the garish banners that hung from every corner, black flags bearing yet more bastardized runes of lost antiquity, painted in a brilliant red. And lucky were we that we emerged on the second level and not the first. Otherwise, we would most certainly have been seen.
For Erich Zann stood in the middle of that great circle. And before him, in a chair with his arms spread wide behind him and one leg crossed over a knee—the image of perfect repose—sat my father.
Chapter 15
Journal of Carter Weston
July 24, 1933
I write this from the Alsace, on the border between France and the Ruhr Valley. That I ever left accursed Germany is a miracle, one worked by the hands of my oldest friend, Henry Armitage, and my dearest daughter, though I wonder if now she regrets my liberation.
This extraordinary day began with a rude awakening. A soldier barged into my room well after the midnight hour. It was not the first such late-night disturbance during my captivity, and thus it surprised me little. But there was something in the soldier’s demeanor, something in his eyes, that said this time was different. When I saw Zann waiting for me in the central chamber of the ancient, Theodic temple, I knew that bizarre happenings were afoot.
“Why Dr. Zann, to what do I owe this unexpect
ed honor? I always took you for more of the early-to-bed type.”
Zann smiled flatly, that same icy sneer he always seemed to bear.
“I’m considering moving you, professor, but before I do, I wanted to talk to you one more time, here, in this most sacred place.”
He walked around the stone circle, trailing his hands along the columns and their deep-set runes, caressing them almost lovingly. In fact, it might have been the tenderest moment of Zann’s life.
“Don’t you hear them, professor? The ancients? Calling to you? Whispering their secrets? Asking you for your help?”
“I hear only you, Dr. Zann,” I said. “Yours is pretty much the only voice I hear these days. And I tire of it.”
The grin faded. “And so it shall continue, my friend, until you give me what I want.”
“I’ve heard that threat before, too.”
“And I made good on it, did I not? You are here, aren’t you?”
“But not for long, it seems. Tell me, if you love this place so much, why would you leave it? Getting too hot for you in Berlin? Somebody find out something they shouldn’t have? About your little group, maybe? The government onto your cult, perhaps? Illegal, is it not? Occult dabblings were all well and good when you were in the wilderness, but in power? Well, then they can be quite the embarrassment. Not good for the Reich at all.”
I relished the discomfort evident in Zann, for it was unusual to see him not in control.
“The Reich,” he said, “has its eyes on this world, which I suppose, is fitting. It prepares for a thousand years of dominance, and it is even ready for whatever comes after. Did you know that all the new buildings in Germany are now being designed to make striking and impressive ruins? So that the glory of Germany will live forever, at least in memory? Quaint, isn’t it? But I have my eyes on a higher goal. An eternal one. One that never fades, never decays.”
“Then maybe you have a new torture chamber prepared for me? Going to beat the truth out of me? I’d like to see you try.”
Zann simply glared. I wondered, as I often did, if I had pushed him too far. It was true I wasn’t bound and Zann, visibly at least, was unarmed. But with only a word he could have me killed, shot down then and there. That he hadn’t done so already was a testament to how much he wanted the answers he believed I possessed. Still, unstable men can be unpredictable—and dangerous.
“Dr. Weston,” Zann began, “it seems always that you are full of questions, but so rarely full of answers.”
I laughed, and the sound of it seemed to pain him. “Must be the professor in me.”
“And there is the contradiction, or so it seems to me.” Zann pulled a chair from in front of one of the stone pillars and sat down. “One does not see the things you have seen, learn the things you have learned, without wanting to know more. Help me, and those truths will be ours.”
“You have the book, Dr. Zann. You can read it as well as I. What do you need me for?”
“I can read it, yes. But the book has secrets that would take decades to unfold. Decades that you have had. The book has chosen me, Dr. Weston. It speaks to me now. And yet even when you knew that it was a crime against nature to keep it, when you knew that it was not yours to possess, you refused to deliver it to me. In the past, men who have refused to relinquish Incendium Maleficarum have met with, how shall we say, unusual ends. And yet you live. It must have allowed you this respite for a reason. You must have a purpose as yet unfulfilled. I believe I know what that purpose is. You are destined to help me. The unknown calls to you. I know that it does.”
I just shook my head. “There’s nothing ‘unknown’ in what you want to do, nor is there anything altogether unique about it. It’s been tried before. Dozens, even hundreds of times. Throughout history. Stupid, foolish men such as yourself who seek to control things they do not understand.”
Zann grimaced. “You misjudge me, doctor,” he said, false hurt dripping from his voice. “I am neither stupid nor a fool. I seek only what all great men seek—a brighter, better day.”
“Then perhaps you are simply insane.”
Now Zann laughed, and, yes, there was a touch of madness in it.
“Tell me, professor, you are a Christian, are you not?”
“I am.”
“Ah, and what does your faith seek? What is its purpose, its goal?”
“The salvation of mankind. Quite the opposite of yours.”
“Ah, perhaps, perhaps.” Zann leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, the smirk still in place. “But I would argue your premise, professor. The salvation of mankind? No, the destruction of mankind. That is what your god offers. The salvation of a select few, yes. The ones that follow him. And when your Christ returns? What is it that he has promised?”
“‘But the day of the Lord will come as a thief in the night,’” I quoted, “‘in which the heavens shall pass away with a great noise, and the elements shall melt with fervent heat, the earth also and the works that are therein shall be burned up.’ Yes, Dr. Zann, I know my scripture.”
“Then you know that we are not different, you and I. Except I do not seek the destruction of the earth; I seek its fulfillment. I do not seek the promise of eternal life, but its reality. Here, at the side of this world’s true masters, those who ruled in the long ago, and those who will rule again.”
“And how many would you kill to make it so? How many have you killed already? So that you and a chosen few can have your salvation?”
“Dr. Weston,” Zann said, his smile quivering at the edge of his mouth, “you and I both know that the world is made of means and ends, of those who rule and those who serve. Salvation, after all, is for the elect. For men such as you, and me. To resist is a useless gesture. They will return. You know it as well as I. The only question is whether we will share in the cup of their victory, or whether it will be our blood that fills it.”
“I wonder what your father would say about that.”
Zann laughed again, but this time, it was genuine. It was probably the first honest emotion I’d seen him express.
“My father? What would you know of him?”
“I’ve heard enough,” I said. “Enough to know that he was a great man.”
“A great man,” Zann spat. “Yes, I suppose you would think that. Let me tell you something about my father. One of my more vivid memories of him…I must have been five years old, if that. He was sitting in an upstairs room of our house, staring out the window. Our home, it sat on the banks of the Rhine River. Beautiful country. And he was gazing over the waters. I didn’t know what he was thinking. I was only a child, but even at that tender age I knew well not to disturb my father when he was working. So I stood on the threshold of the room, hidden behind the door. But I could see him. He had his Stradivarius in his arms. Mein Gott, that violin was worth a fortune. It was two hundred years old if it was a day. He had it there, one hand on its neck, the other on his bow. Of course I thought nothing of it at the time but looking back—if Runge had been there, what a painting he could have made. The genius at work. The artist, deep in thought. That’s what my father was, you know? A musical force of nature. And there he was, ready to play. That’s how I would like to remember him. Yet, I don’t even have that, do I?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“No, you wouldn’t, would you? Do you know why I remember that image of my father so well? Because he left, the next day. He took his violin—and nothing else—and just went. Abandoned us, my mother and me. It didn’t take us long to burn through the savings we had, substantial though they were. My mother, foolishly, tried to keep the house. She just couldn’t accept that he wasn’t coming back. That what we had was all we would ever have. From the Rhine to the slums of Berlin. That was the path I took. And I swore then that I would know what happened to him. I swore that I would track him down. I’m not sure what would have happened if I had found him. I’m not sure what I would have done.”
“But you didn’t find him.”
Zann smiled mirthlessly, and for a moment, I felt sorry for him.
“No, no, I never found him. Which is not to say that I didn’t come as close as any man ever will. I tracked his every step. From the train station in Mainz, where he bought a ticket to Paris. And from there to the neighborhood of Rue d’Auseil—which, I tell you, is impossible to find even with a good guide and the best map of the city one can buy.”
“I know,” I said, astonished. “I have looked for it myself, but never successfully.”
“Yes, well, perhaps destiny led me there. I even located the peaked garret that he lived in until his disappearance. I stood where he must have stood, and I stared out over the city of Paris from his window, over the high wall that marks the border of Rue d’Auseil, and I must have looked to anyone watching like my father did, all those years ago.”
I saw it then, as Zann’s eyes were locked on some memory in the long ago. I saw the pain he had suffered, and even then, in that underground dungeon, I wondered if I might be able to reach him yet.
“But, doctor,” I said, “you must know what your father did? You must know what he accomplished?”
“Oh, I’ve heard the story. I found him, the French student, the one who published the tale of my father’s last days.”
“Then you know that he stood in the breech, that it was only his music that kept the Old Ones at bay?”
“I know that he played, and I know that he dueled with another, one who would have opened the gate with his song, one who would have restored the Old Ones to their glory. Yes, professor, I know that. And it was then, when I discovered the truth, that I vowed that I would undo what my father had done. That I would throw open the door. That I would be restored to my rightful place in this world. Not a servant. But the master.”
“So you would sacrifice the innocent, millions of them, for power?”
Zann’s demeanor changed; his smile grew wider, his eyes, more fierce. It was as if he had caught me in something, as if I had said something that was to my own detriment. I shuddered, wondering what I had given him.
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