"I came here to be with you," Magda said, stung. Why was he angry with her?
"I did not ask you to come! I did not want you here before, and I do not want you here now!"
"Papa, please!"
He pointed a gnarled finger at the opening in the wall.
"Leave, Magda! I have too much to do and too little time in which to do it! The Nazis will soon be storming in here asking me why two more of their men are dead and I will have no answer! I must speak to Molasar before they arrive!"
"Papa—"
"Go!"
Magda stood and stared at him. How could he speak to her this way? She wanted to cry, wanted to plead, wanted to slap some sense into him. But she could not. She could not defy him, even before Molasar. He was her father, and although she knew he was being brutally unfair, she could not defy him.
Magda turned and rushed past the impassive Molasar into the opening. The slab swung closed behind her and she was again in darkness. She felt in her waistband for the flashlight—gone! It must have fallen out somewhere.
Magda had two alternatives: return to Papa's room and ask for a lamp or a candle, or descend in the dark.
After only a few seconds she chose the latter. She could not face Papa again tonight. He had hurt her more than she had ever known she could be hurt. A change had come over him. He was somehow losing his gentleness, and losing the empathy that had always been part of him. He had dismissed her tonight as though she were a stranger. And he hadn't even cared enough to be sure she had a light with her!
Magda bit back a sob. She would not cry! But what was there to do? She felt helpless. And worse, she felt betrayed.
The only thing left was to leave the keep. She began her descent, relying on touch alone. She could see nothing, but knew that if she kept her left hand against the wall and took each step slowly and carefully, she could make it to the bottom without falling to her death.
As she completed the first spiral, Magda half expected to hear that odd scraping sound through the opening into the subcellar But it did not come. Instead, there was a new sound in the dark—louder, closer, heavier. She slowed her progress until her left hand slid off the stone of the wall and met the cool air flowing through the opening. The noise grew as she listened.
It was a scuffling sound, a dragging, fulsome, shambling sound that set her teeth on edge and dried her tongue so it stuck to the roof of her mouth. This could not be rats . . . much too big. It seemed to come from the deeper darkness to her left. Off to the right, dim light still seeped down from the cellar above, but it did not reach to the area where the sound, was. Just as well. Magda did not want to see what was over there.
She groped wildly across the opening and, for a mind-numbing moment, could not find the far edge. Then her hand contacted cold, wonderfully solid stone and she continued downward, faster than before, dangerously fast, her heart pounding, her breath coming in gulps. If the thing in the subcellar was coming her way, she had to be out of the keep by the time it reached the stairwell.
She kept going down, endlessly down, every so often looking back over her shoulder in an instinctive and utterly futile attempt to see in the darkness. A dim rectangle beckoned to her as she reached the bottom. She stumbled toward it, through it, and out into the fog. She swung the slab closed and leaned against it, gasping with relief.
After composing herself, Magda realized that she had not escaped the malevolent atmosphere of the keep by merely stepping outside its walls. This morning the vileness that permeated the keep had stopped at the threshold; now it extended beyond the walls. She began to walk, to stumble through the darkness. It was not until she was almost to the stream that she felt she had escaped the aura of evil.
Suddenly from above came faint shouts, and the fog brightened. The lights in the keep had been turned up to maximum. Someone must have found the two newly dead bodies.
Magda continued to move away from the keep. The extra light was no threat, for none of it reached her. It filtered down like sunshine viewed from the bottom of a murky lake. The light was caught and held by the fog, thickening it, whitening it, concealing her rather than revealing her. She splashed carelessly across the stream this time without pausing to remove her shoes and stockings—she wanted to be away from the keep as quickly as possible. The shadow of the causeway passed overhead and soon she was at the base of the wedge of rubble. After a brief rest to catch her breath, she began to climb until she reached the upper level of the fog. It filled the gorge almost completely now, leaving only a short unprotected distance to the top. A few seconds of exposure and she would be safe.
Magda pulled herself up over the rim and ran in a half-crouch. As she felt the brush enfold her, her foot caught on a root and she fell headlong, striking her left knee on a stone. She hugged the knee to her chest and began to cry, long, wracking sobs far out of proportion to the pain. It was anguish for Papa, relief at being safely away from the keep, a reaction to all she had seen and heard there, to all that had been done to her, or almost done to her.
"You've been to the keep."
It was Glenn. She could think of no one she wanted more to see at this moment. Hurriedly drying her eyes on her sleeve, she stood—or tried to. Her injured knee sent a knifing pain up her leg and Glenn put out a hand to keep her from falling.
"Are you hurt?" His voice was gentle.
"Just a bruise."
She tried to take a step but the leg refused to bear her weight. Without a word, Glenn scooped her up in his arms and began carrying her back to the inn.
It was the second time tonight she had been carried so. But this time was different. Glenn's arms were a warm sanctuary, thawing all the cold left by Molasar's touch. As she leaned against him she felt all the fear ooze out of her. But how had he come up behind her without her hearing him? Or had he been standing there all along, waiting for her?
Magda let her head rest on his shoulder, feeling safe, at peace.
If only I could feel this way forever.
He carried her effortlessly through the front door of the inn, through the empty foyer, up the stairs, and into her room. After depositing her gently on the edge of the bed, he knelt before her.
"Let's take a look at that knee."
Magda hesitated at first, then drew her skirt up over her left knee, leaving the right one covered and keeping the rest of the heavy fabric tight around and between her thighs. In the back of her mind was the thought that she should not be sitting here on a bed exposing her leg to a man she hardly knew. But somehow . . .
Her coarse, dark-blue stocking was torn, revealing a purpling bruise on the kneecap. The flesh was swollen, puffy. Glenn stepped over to the near side of the dresser and dipped a washcloth into the water pitcher, then brought the cloth over and placed it on her knee.
"That ought to help," he said.
"What's gone wrong with the keep?" she asked, staring at his red hair, trying to ignore, and yet reveling in, the tingling warmth that crept steadily up her thigh from where his hand held the cloth against her.
He looked up at her. "You were there tonight. Why don't you tell me?'"
"I was there, but I can't explain—or perhaps I can't accept—what's happening. I do know that Molasar's awakening has changed the keep. I used to love that place. Now I fear it. There's a very definite . . .wrongness there. You don't have to see it or touch it to be aware of its presence, just as sometimes you don't have to look outside to know there's bad weather coming. It pervades the very air . . . seeps right into your pores. "
"What kind of 'wrongness' do you sense in Molasar?"
"He's evil. I know that's vague, but I mean evil. Inherently evil. A monstrous, ancient evil who thrives on death, who values all that is noxious to the living, who hates and fears everything we cherish." She shrugged, embarrassed by the intensity of her words. "That's what I feel. Does it make any sense to you?"
Glenn watched her closely for a long moment before replying. "You must be extremely sensitive to have f
elt all that. "
"And yet . . ."
"And yet what?"
"And yet tonight Molasar saved me from the hands of two fellow human beings who should have by all rights been allied with me against him."
The pupils in Glenn's blue eyes dilated. "Molasar saved you?"
"Yes. Killed two German soldiers"—she winced at the memory—"horribly . . . but didn't harm me. Strange, isn't it?"
"Very." Leaving the damp cloth in place, Glenn slid his hand off her knee and ran it through the red of his hair. Magda wanted him to put it back where it had been, but he seemed preoccupied. "You escaped him?"
"No. He delivered me to my father."
She watched Glenn mull this, then nod as if it made some sort of sense to him.
"And there was something else."
"About Molasar?"
"No. Something else in the keep. In the subcellar . . . something moving around in there. Maybe it was what had been making the scraping noise earlier."
"Scraping noise," Glenn repeated, his voice low.
"Rasping, scraping . . . from far back in the subcellar.”
Without a word, Glenn rose and went to the window. Motionless, he stood staring out at the keep.
"Tell me everything that happened to you tonight—from the moment you stepped into the keep until the moment you left. Spare no detail. "
Magda told him everything she could remember up to the time Molasar deposited her in Papa's room. Then her voice choked off.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing. "
"How was your father?" Glenn asked. "Was he all right?"
Pain gathered in her throat. "Oh, he was fine." In spite of her brave smile, tears started in her eyes and began to spill onto her cheeks. Try as she might to will them back, they kept coming. "He told me to get out . . . to leave him alone with Molasar. Can you imagine that? After what I went through to reach him, he tells me to get out!"
The anguish in her voice must have penetrated Glenn's preoccupied state, for he turned away from the window and stared at her.
"He didn't care that I had been assaulted and almost raped by two Nazi brutes . . . didn't even ask if I was hurt! All he cared was that I had shortened his precious time with Molasar. I'm his daughter and he cares more about talking to that . . . that creature!"
Glenn stepped over to the bed and seated himself beside her. He put his arm around her back and gently pulled her against him.
"Your father's under a terrible strain. You must remember that."
"And he should remember he's my father!"
"Yes," Glenn said softly. "Yes, he should." He swiveled half around and lay back on the bed, then tugged gently on Magda's shoulders. "Here. Lie down beside me and close your eyes. You'll be all right."
With her heart pounding in her throat, Magda allowed herself to be drawn nearer to him. She ignored the pain in her knee as she swung her legs off the floor and turned to face him. They lay stretched out together on the narrow bed, Glenn with his arm under her, Magda with her head in the nook of his shoulder, her body almost touching his, her left hand pressed against the muscles of his chest.
Thoughts of Papa and the hurt he had caused her washed away as waves of sensation crashed over and through her. She had never lain beside a man before. It was frightening and wonderful. The aura of his maleness engulfed her, making her mind spin. She tingled wherever they made contact, tiny electric shocks arcing through her clothing . . . clothing that was suffocating her.
On impulse, she lifted her head and kissed him on the lips. He responded ardently for a moment, then pulled back.
"Magda—"
She watched his eyes, seeing a mixture of desire, hesitation, and surprise there. He could be no more surprised than she. There had been no thought behind that kiss, only a newly awakened need, burning in its intensity. Her body was acting of its own accord, and she was not trying to stop it. This moment might never come again. It had to be now. She wanted to tell Glenn to make love to her but could not say it.
"Someday, Magda," he said, seeming to read her thoughts. He gently drew her head back down to his shoulder. "Someday. But not now. Not tonight."
He stroked her hair and told her to sleep. Strangely, the promise was enough. The heat seeped out of her, and with it all the trials of the night. Even worries about Papa and what he might be doing ebbed away. Occasional bubbles of concern still broke the surface of her spreading calm, but they became progressively fewer and farther between, their ripples smaller and more widely spaced. Questions about Glenn floated by: who he really was, and the wisdom, let alone the propriety, of allowing herself to be this close to him.
Glenn . . . he seemed to know more about the keep and about Molasar than he was admitting. She had found herself talking to him about the keep as if he were as intimately familiar with it as she; and he had not seemed surprised about the stairwell in the watchtower's base, or about the opening from the stairwell into the subcellar, despite her offhand references to them. To her mind there could be only one reason for that: He already knew about them.
But these were niggling little qualms. If she had discovered the hidden entrance to the tower years ago, there was no reason why he could not have found it, too. The important thing now was that for the first time tonight she felt completely safe and warm and wanted.
She drifted off to sleep.
TWENTY-TWO
As soon as the stone slab swung shut behind his daughter, Cuza turned to Molasar and found the bottomless black of the creature's pupils already fixed on him from the shadows. All night he had waited to cross-examine Molasar, to penetrate the contradictions that that odd red-haired stranger had pointed out this morning. But then Molasar had appeared, holding Magda in his arms.
"Why did you do it?" Cuza asked, looking up from his wheelchair.
Molasar continued to stare at him, saying nothing.
"Why? I should think she'd be no more than another tempting morsel for you!"
"You try my patience, cripple!" Molasar's face grew whiter as he spoke. "I could no more stand by now and watch two Germans rape and defile a woman of my country than I could stand idly by five hundred years ago and watch the Turks do the same. That is why I allied myself with Vlad Tepes! But tonight the Germans went further than any Turk ever dared—they tried to commit the act within the very walls of my home!" Abruptly, he relaxed and smiled. "And I rather enjoyed ending their miserable lives."
"As I am sure you rather enjoyed your alliance with Vlad. "
"His penchant for impalement left me with ample opportunities to satisfy my needs without attracting attention. Vlad came to trust me. At the end, I was one of the few boyars he could truly count on. "
"I don't understand you."
"You are not expected to. You are not capable of it. I am beyond your experience."
Cuza tried to clear away the confusion that smudged his thoughts. So many contradictions . . . nothing was as it should be. And hanging over it all was the unsettling knowledge that he owed his daughter's safety, and perhaps her life, to one of the undead.
"Nevertheless, I am in your debt. "
Molasar made no reply.
Cuza hesitated, then began leading up to the question he most wanted to ask. "Are there more like you?"
"You mean undead? Moroi? There used to be. I don't know about now. Since awakening, I've sensed such reluctance on the part of the living to accept my existence that I must assume we were all killed off over the last five hundred years."
"And were all the others so terrified of the cross?"
Molasar stiffened. "You don't have it with you, do you? I warn you—"
"It's safely away. But I wonder at your fear of it." Cuza gestured to the walls. "You've surrounded yourself with brass-and-nickel crosses, thousands of them, and yet you panicked at the sight of the tiny silver one I had last night."
Molasar stepped to the nearest cross and laid his hand against it.
"These are a ruse. See how high the
crosspiece is set? So high that it is almost no longer a cross. This configuration has no ill effect on me. I had thousands of them built into the walls of the keep to throw off my pursuers when I went into hiding. They could not conceive of one of my kind dwelling in a structure studded with 'crosses.' And as you will learn if I decide I can trust you, this particular configuration has special meaning for me."
Cuza had desperately hoped to find a flaw in Molasar's fear of the cross; he felt that hope wither and die. A great heaviness settled on him. He had to think! And he had to keep Molasar here—talking! He couldn't let him go. Not yet.
"Who are 'they'? Who was pursuing you?"
"Does the name Glaeken mean anything to you?"
"No. "
Molasar stepped closer. "Nothing at all?"
"I assure you I never heard the word before." Why was it so important?
"Then perhaps they are gone," Molasar muttered, more to himself than to Cuza.
"Please explain yourself. Who or what is a Glaeken?"
"The Glaeken were a fanatical sect that started as an arm of the Church in the Dark Ages. Its members enforced orthodoxy and were answerable only to the Pope at first; after a while, however, they became a law unto themselves. They sought to infiltrate all the seats of power, to bring all the royal families under their control in order to place the world under a single power—one religion, one rule."
"Impossible! I am an authority on European history, especially this part of Europe, and there was never any such sect!"
Molasar leaned closer and bared his teeth. "You dare call me a liar within the walls of my home? What do you know of history? What did you know of me—of my kind—before I revealed myself? What did you know of the history of the keep? Nothing! The Glaeken were a secret brotherhood. The royal families had never heard of them, and if the later Church knew of their continued existence, it never admitted it."
Cuza turned away from the blood stench of Molasar's breath. "How did you learn of their existence?"
"At one time, there was little afoot in the world that the moroi were not privy to. And when we learned of the Glaeken's plans, we decided to take action." He straightened with obvious pride. "The moroi opposed the Glaeken for centuries. It was clear that the successful culmination of their plans would be inimical to us, and so we repeatedly foiled their schemes by draining the life from anyone in power who came under their thrall. "
Adversary Cycle 01 - The Keep Page 24
