The Keep

  Magda stood before him and searched for another option. She could not find one. And although she was repelled by it, Papa’s scheme did offer a glimmer of hope. Was she being too hard on Molasar? Did he seem so evil because he was so different, so implacably other? Could he be more of an elemental force than something consciously evil? Wasn’t Major Kaempffer a better example of a truly evil being?

  She had no answers. She was groping.

  “I don’t like it, Papa,” was all she could say.

  “No one said you should like it. No one promised us an easy solution—or any solution at all, for that matter.” He yawned. “And now I’d like to go back to my room. I need sleep for tonight’s encounter. I’ll require all my wits about me if I’m to strike a bargain with Molasar.”

  “A deal with the devil,” Magda said, her voice falling to a quavering whisper. She was more frightened than ever for her father.

  “No, my dear. The devil in the keep wears a black uniform with a silver death’s head on his cap, and calls himself a Sturmbannführer.”

  Magda reluctantly had returned him to the gate, then watched until he was wheeled back into the tower. She turned and hurried toward the inn in a state of confusion. Everything was moving too quickly for her. Her life until now had been filled with books and research, melodies, and black music notes on white paper. She was not cut out for intrigue. Her head still spun with the monstrous implications of what she had been told.

  She hoped Papa knew what he was doing. Instinctively, she had opposed his planned liaison with Molasar until she had seen that look on Papa’s face. A spark of hope had glimmered there, a shining fragment of the old zest that had once made his company such a pleasure. Papa saw a chance to do something rather than just sit in his wheelchair and have things done to him. He desperately needed to feel he could be of some use to his people…to anybody. She could not rob him of that.

  As she approached the inn, Magda felt the chill of the keep finally slip away. She strolled around the building in search of Glenn, thinking he might be taking the morning sun at the rear. He was not outside, nor was he in the dining alcove when she passed. She went upstairs and stopped at his door, listening. Still no sound from within. He hadn’t struck her as a late riser; perhaps he was reading.

  She raised her hand to knock, then lowered it. Better to run into him around the inn than come looking for him—he might think she was chasing him.

  Back in her room she heard the plaintive cheeping of the baby birds and went to the window to look at the nest. She could see their four tiny heads straining up from the nest, but the mother wasn’t there. Magda hoped she hurried back—her babies sounded terribly hungry.

  She picked up her mandolin but after a few chords put it down again. She was edgy, and the constant noise of the baby birds was making her more so. With a sudden surge of determination, she strode out into the hall.

  She rapped twice on the wooden door to Glenn’s room. No answer, no sound of movement within. She hesitated, then gave way to impulse and lifted the latch. The door swung open.

  “Glenn?”

  The empty room was identical to her own; in fact she had stayed in this room on the last trip she and Papa had made to the keep. Something was wrong, though. She studied the walls. The mirror—the mirror over the bureau was gone. A rectangle of whiter stucco marked its former spot on the wall. It must have been broken since her last visit and never replaced.

  Magda stepped inside and walked in a slow circle. This was where he stayed, and here was the unmade bed where he slept. She felt excited, wondering what she would say if he came back now. How could she explain her presence? She couldn’t. She decided she’d better leave.

  As she turned to go, she saw that the closet door was ajar. Something glittered from within. It was pressing her luck, but how much could a quick peek hurt? She pulled the door open all the way.

  The mirror that was supposed to hang over the bureau lay propped up in the corner of the closet. Why would Glenn take down the mirror? Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe it had fallen off the wall and Iuliu had yet to rehang it. She noted a few items of clothing in the closet and something else: A long case of some sort, nearly as long as she was tall, stood in the other corner.

  Curious, Magda knelt and touched its leather surface—rough, warped, puckered. Either very old or poorly cared for. She could not imagine what could be in it. A quick look over her shoulder assured her that the room was still empty, the door still open, and all quiet in the hallway. It would take only a second to release the catches on the case, peek inside, reclose it, then be on her way. She had to know.

  Feeling the delicious apprehension of a naughty, inquisitive child exploring a forbidden area of the house, she reached for the three brass clasps; they grated as she opened them, as if they had sand in their works. The hinges made a similar sound as she swung the cover open.

  At first Magda did not know what it was. The color was blue, a deep, dark, steely blue; the object was metal, but what type of metal she could not say. Its shape was that of an elongated wedge—a long, tapering piece of metal, pointed at the top and very sharp along both its beveled edges. Like a sword.

  That was it! A sword! A broadsword. Only there was no hilt to this blade, only a thick, six-inch spike at its squared-off lower end, which looked like it was designed to fit into the top of a hilt. What a huge, fearsome weapon this would make when attached to its hilt!

  Her eyes were drawn to the markings on the blade—it was covered with odd symbols. Not merely etched into the shiny blue surface of the metal, they were carved into it. She could slip the tip of her little finger along the grooves. The symbols were runes, but not like any she had ever seen. She was familiar with Germanic and Scandinavian runes, which went back to the Dark Ages, back as far as the third century. But these were older. Much older. They possessed a quality of eldritch antiquity that disturbed her, seeming to shift and move as she studied them. This broadsword blade was old—so old she wondered who or what had made it.

  The door to the room slammed closed. “Find what you’re looking for?”

  Magda jumped at the sound, causing the lid of the case to snap closed over the blade. She leaped to her feet and turned around to face Glenn, her heart thumping with surprise—and guilt.

  “Glenn, I—”

  He looked furious. “I thought I could trust you! What did you hope to find in here?”

  “Nothing…I came looking for you.”

  She did not understand the intensity of his anger. He had a right to be annoyed, but this—

  “Did you think you’d find me in the closet?”

  “No! I…”

  Why try to explain it away? It would only sound lame. She had no business being here. She was in the wrong, she knew it, and she felt terribly guilty standing here after being caught in the act. But it wasn’t as if she had come here to steal from him. As she felt her own anger begin to grow at the way he was overreacting, she found the will to meet his glare with her own.

  “I’m curious about you. I came in to talk with you. I—I like to be with you, and yet I know nothing about you.” She tossed her head. “It won’t happen again.”

  She moved toward the hall, intending to leave him with his precious privacy, but she never reached the door. As she passed between Glenn and the bureau, he reached out and gripped her shoulders, gently but with a firmness that was not to be denied. He turned her toward him. Their eyes locked.

  “Magda…” he began, then he was pulling her to him, pressing his lips against hers, crushing her against him.

  Magda experienced a fleeting urge to resist, to pound her fists against him and pull away, but this was mere reflex and was gone before she could respond to it, engulfed in the heat of desire that surged over her. She slipped her arms around Glenn’s neck and pulled closer to him, losing herself in the enveloping glow. His tongue pushed through to hers, shocking her with its audacity—she hadn’t known anyone kissed like this—and jolting her with the pleasu
re it gave. Glenn’s hands began to roam her body, caressing her buttocks through the layers of her clothes, moving over her compressed breasts, leaving tingling trails of warmth wherever they went. They rose to her neck, untied her kerchief and hurled it away, then came to rest on the buttons of her sweater and began opening them. She didn’t stop him. Her clothes had shrunken on her and the room had grown so hot…she had to be rid of them.

  There came a brief moment then when she could have stopped it, could have pulled back and retreated. With the parting of the front of her sweater a small voice cried out in her mind—Is this me? What’s happening to me? This is insane! It was the voice of the old Magda, the Magda who had faced the world since her mother’s death. But that voice was swept away by another Magda, a stranger, a Magda who had slowly grown amid the ruins of everything the old Magda had believed in. A new Magda, awakened by the vital force that burned white-hot within the man who now held her. The past, tradition, and propriety had lost all meaning; tomorrow was a faraway place she might never see. There was only now. And Glenn.

  The sweater slipped from her shoulders, then the white blouse. Magda felt fire where her hair brushed the bare skin of her upper back and shoulders. Glenn pushed the tight bandeau down to her waist, allowing her breasts to spring free. Still holding his lips to hers, he ran his fingertips lightly over each breast, zeroing in on the taut nipples and tracing tiny circles that caused her to moan deep in her throat. His lips finally broke from hers, sliding along her throat to the valley between her breasts, from there to her nipples, each in turn, his tongue making little wet circles over the dry ones his fingers had drawn. With a small cry she clutched the back of his head and arched her breasts against his face, shuddering as waves of ecstasy began to pulsate from deep within her pelvis.

  He lifted her and carried her to the bed, removing the rest of her clothes while his lips continued to pleasure her. Then his own clothes were off and he was leaning over her. Magda’s hands had taken on a life of their own, running over him as if to be sure that he was real. And then he was on her and slipping into her, and after the first jab of pain he was there and it was wonderful.

  Oh, God! she thought as spasms of pleasure shot through her. Is this what it’s like? Is this what I’ve been missing all these years? Can this be the awful act I’ve heard the married women talking about? It can’t be! This is too wonderful! And I haven’t been missing anything because it never could be like this with any man but Glenn.

  He began to move inside her and she matched his rhythm. The pleasure increased, doubling and redoubling until she was sure her flesh would melt. She felt Glenn’s body begin to stiffen as she felt the inevitability within her. It happened. With her back arched, her ankles hooked on either side of the narrow mattress, and her knees wide in the air, Magda Cuza saw the world swell, crack, and come apart in a blazing burst of flame.

  And after a while, to the accompaniment of her spent body’s labored breathing, she watched it fall together again through the lids of her closed eyes.

  They spent the day on that narrow little bed, whispering, laughing, talking, exploring each other. Glenn knew so much, taught her so much, it was as if he were introducing her to her own body. He was gentle and patient and tender, bringing her to peaks of pleasure time and time again. He was her first—she didn’t say so; she didn’t have to. She was far from his first—that, too, required no comment, and Magda found it didn’t matter. Yet she sensed a great release within him, as if he had denied himself for a long time.

  His body fascinated her. The male physique was terra incognita to Magda. She wondered if all men’s muscles were so hard and so close to the skin. All of Glenn’s hair was red, and there were so many scars on his chest and abdomen; old scars, thin and white on his olive skin. When she asked about them, he told her they were from accidents. Then he quieted her questions by making love to her again.

  After the sun had dipped behind the western ridge, they dressed and went for a walk, arm in arm, stretching their limbs, stopping every so often to embrace and kiss. When they returned to the inn, Lidia was putting supper on the table. Magda realized she was famished and so they both sat down and helped themselves, Magda trying to do her best to keep her eyes off Glenn and concentrate on the food, feeding one hunger while another grew. A whole new world had been opened to her today and she was eager to explore it further.

  They ate hurriedly and excused themselves the instant they were finished, like schoolchildren hurrying out to play before dark. From the table it was a race to the second floor, Magda ahead, laughing, leading Glenn to her room this time. Her bed. As soon as the door closed behind them they were pulling at each other’s clothes, throwing them in all directions, then clutching each other in the growing dark.

  As she lay in his arms hours later, fully spent, at peace with herself and the world as never before, Magda knew she was in love. Magda Cuza, the spinster bookworm, in love. Never, anywhere, at any time, had there been another man like Glenn. And he wanted her. She loved him. She hadn’t said so. She felt she should wait until he said it first. It might not be for a while, but that was all right. She could tell he felt it too, and that was enough.

  She snuggled more closely against him. Today alone was enough for the rest of her life. It was almost gluttonous to look forward to tomorrow. Yet she did. Avidly. Surely no one had ever derived so much pleasure from body and emotions as she had today. No one.

  Tonight she went to sleep a different Magda Cuza than the one who had awakened in this very bed this morning. It seemed so long ago…a lifetime ago. And that other Magda seemed like such a stranger now. A sleepwalker, really. The new Magda was wide awake and in love. Everything was going to be all right.

  Magda closed her eyes. Faintly, she heard the cheeping of the baby birds outside the window. Their peeps were fainter than this morning and seemed to have taken on a desperate quality. But before she could wonder about what might be wrong, she was asleep.

  He looked at Magda’s face in the dark. Peaceful and innocent. The face of a sleeping child. He tightened his arms around her, afraid she might slip away.

  He should have kept his distance; he had known that all along. But he had been drawn to her. He had let her stir the ashes of feelings he had thought long dead and gone, and found live coals beneath. And then this morning, in the heat of his anger at finding her snooping through his closet, the coals had burst into flame.

  It was almost like fate. Like kismet. He had seen and experienced far too much to believe that anything was truly ordained to be. There were, however, certain…inevitabilities. The difference was subtle, yet most important.

  Still, it was wrong to let her care when he didn’t even know if he would be walking away from here. Perhaps that was why he had been driven to be with her. If he died here, at least the taste of her would be fresh within him. He couldn’t afford to care now. Caring could distract him, further reducing his chances of surviving the coming battle. And yet if he did manage to survive, would Magda want anything to do with him when she knew the truth?

  He drew the cover over her bare shoulder. He did not want to lose her. If there were any way to keep her after all this was over, he would do everything he could to find it.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  THE KEEP

  Friday, 2 May

  2137 hours

  Captain Woermann sat before his easel. It had been his intention to force himself to blot out that shadow of the hanging corpse. But now, with his palette in his left hand and a tube of pigment in his right, he found himself unwilling to change it. Let the shadow remain. It didn’t matter. He would leave the painting behind anyway. He wanted no reminders of this place when he departed. If he departed.

  Outside, the keep lights were on full force, the men on guard in pairs, armed to the teeth and ready to shoot at the slightest provocation. Woermann’s own weapon lay on his bedroll, holstered and forgotten.

  He had developed his own theory about the keep, not one he took seriously,
but one that fit most of the facts and explained most of the mysteries. The keep was alive. That would explain why no one had seen what killed the men, and why no one could track it down, and why no one had been able to find its hiding place despite all the walls they had torn down. It was the keep itself doing the killing.

  One fact was left dangling by this explanation, however. A major fact. The keep had not been malevolent when they had entered, at least not in a way one could sense. True, birds seemed to avoid nesting here, but Woermann had felt nothing wrong until that first night when the cellar wall had been broached. The keep had changed then. It had become bloodthirsty.

  No one had fully explored the subcellar. There really didn’t seem to be any reason to. Men had been on guard in the cellar while a comrade had been murdered above them, and they had seen nothing coming or going through the break in the floor. Maybe they should explore the subcellar. Perhaps the keep’s heart lay buried in those caverns. That’s where they should search.

  No…that could take forever. Those caverns could extend for miles, and frankly he didn’t want to search them. It was always night down there. And night had become a dread enemy. Only the corpses were willing to stay.

  The corpses…their dirty boots and smudged shrouds still bothered Woermann at the oddest times. Like now. And all day long, ever since he had overseen the placement of the last two dead soldiers, those dirty boots had trudged unbidden into his thoughts, scattering them, smearing them with mud.

  Those dirty, muddy boots. They made him uncomfortable in a way he could not pin down.

  He continued to sit and stare at the painting.

  Kaempffer sat cross-legged on his cot, a Schmeisser across his knees. A shiver rippled over him. He tried to still it but didn’t have strength. He had never realized how exhausting constant fear could be. He felt as if he were back in Auschwitz—but as a prisoner.