by G S Eli
Mila turned back. At first, he could not see her, for the glare of the sun was in his eyes. Squinting through the light, he spotted her blue eyes. He knew she was struggling to find the right words to say. He felt it deep within his soul.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
He responded with a simple, “Me, too.” Then he escaped from the crumbling castle.
Epilogue
The smog’s not so bad up close, Mila thought as he surveyed the rubber factory. I guess it used to just come straight up and then land on us.
He sat in the driver’s seat of Sabina’s BMW. It was just before the break of dawn. The top was down, and he stared into the golden sky. He’d been parked right across the small road that entered the back gate of the factory all night, waiting for sunrise. It had been weeks since the events at the castle. From his hideout in Berlin, he kept tabs on what happened to Casey and Jack through the news headlines. The official word was that John Winthorp, chief financial officer of Christina Richards Inc., had graciously offered to fund the reconstruction of Wewelsburg Castle, which was devastated earlier that month by what meteorologists were calling a freak tornado. Winthorp had also made major contributions to the German Art Society. There were unsubstantiated rumors that two American teenagers were held in connection with the unexplained catastrophe at the castle but were later released.
Mila’s own escape from Paderborn had been more difficult. He had to talk the doctors into letting Sabina out of the hospital early; he was honestly amazed when they released her. Once she was out, they bartered with the baker below Sabina’s ruined apartment for some fast cash, agreeing to give her all the insurance money Sabina had coming, plus the deed to her burned-down flat. Then they headed to Berlin. The plan was to travel on to Romania to meet up with the rest of the family. But, before that, Mila had two things to take care of.
First, he tracked down his classic bike. Sure enough, it was for sale at Ludwig’s shop. Second, he had to find Petre, Stephan, Rosa, and of course, Simon. When he received no information from the police or immigration, he realized that the authorities had never taken them in. Mila knew that Simon had been caught by some of Strauss’s thugs and interrogated—how else would they have found them on the train so quickly? Realizing this, Mila’s intuition told him there was only one place those neo-Nazi goons would have taken him: the rubber factory. And perhaps Petre, Stephan, and Rosa would be there.
He waited until just before the sunrise and headed to the back gate. He reached into the pocket of his black motorcycle jacket, a new acquisition thanks to the baker’s cash advance. Mila usually wasn’t a sucker for flash, but when Sabina saw this black leather jacket with red accents, she insisted “it’s a magician’s jacket!” He pulled out his favorite toy, the lock pick concealed within his keychain, and jimmied the lock with ease. Once on the other side, he walked right through the yard unnoticed. The back door was just a few feet away from him when he noticed the security keypad to enter the building.
Mila stared at the pad a moment, hesitating. This code better be legit, or I’m screwed, he thought. He’d obtained the pass code by bribing a factory worker at Schmidt’s, using money he picked from the worker’s own pocket. That doesn’t really count as stealing, he rationalized.
He punched in the numbers—two, five, eight, zero, four, five, six—which formed the sign of the holy cross on the keypad. The lights blinked for a moment as the old system processed the code. Mila held his breath, then exhaled with relief as the electronic locks clicked open.
He knew from the worker that the factory had a security room, complete with a holding cell. The man also insisted they only kept one person on guard at night. Mila stepped into a hallway and came to a four-way intersection.
He closed his eyes, breathed deep, and let his instincts show him the way. Turning slowly to his right, he opened his eyes in time to see the guard stepping into a restroom, completely oblivious to his presence.
Perfect, Mila thought.
He slipped down the hallway and turned in the direction the guard had come from. It took him no time to find the security room. Inside, he found Simon sitting slumped in his holding cell.
The mischievous pickpocket leapt to his feet when he spotted Mila.
“Bre, what are you doing here?” Simon exclaimed.
“Getting you out! Where’s Stephan and Rosa? They with you?”
“No, Petre and them got away when they caught me.”
Where could they be? Mila wondered. Returning to the task at hand, he took hold of the gate.
“It’s locked. The guard’s got the key,” Simon said.
“Please,” Mila boasted as he drew out his multi-tool and opened its set of lock picks once again.
Wasting no time, Mila broke the cheap security lock, and Simon was free. “Come on, he’ll be back any minute,” Mila said as he led Simon out.
They headed back the way Mila had come from, but Simon stopped him. “This way’s quicker,” he said as he threw open the cafeteria door.
They hurried past the rows of tables and chairs into the kitchen. “There,” Simon said, pointing to a door at the far side.
Just when freedom was within reach, they came face to face with a second guard as he emerged from the kitchen’s walk-in pantry, with his arms loaded with snacks. Damn it, Mila thought, the guy at Schmidt’s must not have known what he was talking about.
The guard dropped his food and reached for his baton. Mila prepared to run, but Simon had a different idea. He seized a butcher knife from a nearby table and swung it like a sword at the guard’s head.
The man tried to dodge, but the blow sliced off the top of his ear. The guard dropped his weapon and crumpled to the ground, clutching his head and screaming in pain.
Mila seized Simon’s wrist as he prepared to take another swing. He calmly pushed Simon aside and reached out toward the man. As he touched the wound, he felt a faint warmth in his fingertips. When he pulled his hand away, the injury was gone, the ear healed as if it had never been cut.
The guard put a hand up and gingerly felt the side of his own face, confused and stunned. Mila was no less shocked.
“What’d you do?” Simon demanded.
“I don’t know!” Mila replied.
The voice of another guard shouted from the cafeteria, “Halt!”
Mila and Simon sprinted out of the factory. They hopped into Sabina’s “BROOM STICK” before speeding away. Simon let out a sigh of relief as they raced down the highway. “What the hell just happened?” he shouted over the roar of the rushing wind.
“Drabarimos,” Mila replied. “Magic.”
They rode for a moment, not speaking, listening to the sounds of the road. It didn’t take long for Simon to realize where they were headed.
“I don’t think we can stay in Berlin for long,” Simon said.
“We won’t. We’re going to Romania. I’ve just gotta get a few things.”
“Yoi, dalé! The hell if I’m going back to Romania!” Simon exclaimed. He continued his rant all the way down the road. “We could go to Italy! Or how about America? You speak good English. Or Austria! Beautiful mountains in Austria.” He went on and on, suggesting every place they could go other than Romania.
Ignoring him, Mila pulled to a stop outside Ludwig’s barter and junk shop. He parked the car and got out. “Did Stephan tell you where they were headed?” he asked Simon.
“No, they escaped while Strauss’s thugs were interrogating me. I’m sorry, Mila.”
“Stay here,” Mila said. “Don’t make any more trouble.”
Mila headed into the shop as Simon yelled after him, “Hey, where you goin’?”
“Just gotta pick something up.”
The door chimed as he stepped in. Ludwig sat behind the counter. He was reading a Whistleblower comic, not bothering to look up and see who had walked in. “Can I help
you?” he asked, never lifting his eyes from the comic.
“Whistleblower, huh? I didn’t think you were the type,” Mila said to the wheeler and dealer.
Ludwig looked up to see who was talking, surprised to see Mila. “Apparently, it’s all the rage,” he responded in shock. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“Not really,” Mila said. “You didn’t think I’d come back for my property?”
“You see, that’s the thing Mila, it’s no longer your property.”
“I’m sure we could come to some kind of arrangement,” Mila said, approaching the greedy shop owner.
“I don’t know about that. I kind of like the bike, and I had to add a few more details. You know, cost me a lot of money,” Ludwig said sarcastically. “But I might part with it for a thousand. It’s a classic, you know.”
“It is classic. You gotta love classics,” Mila said as he reached the counter. “Speaking of old things, you’ve been wheeling and dealing with Roma people for what, 20 years now?” Mila said, staring into Ludwig’s eyes.
“Something like that. They’re good negotiators, but not better than me,” Ludwig replied with a smirk.
“That’s true. You’re the best. Let me ask you, though, in all that time did any of the Roma you dealt with carry any mystical gifts?” Mila asked.
“What, like a Gypsy spell? I don’t believe in that crap,” Ludwig said. “Look—one thousand, or get out!”
“I would, but the thing is, I’d hate to tell Officer Belz about all the stolen goods you get from the trucks that come from Romania,” Mila said while staring into Ludwig’s eyes.
“Wait, how do you know about that?” Ludwig asked, confused and a bit startled.
“Or I’d hate to have to tell your wife about the pretty blonde bartender you play around with when she is at home with the kids,” Mila went on.
“Now hold on a minute, Mila!” Ludwig yelled.
“What’s her name?” Mila asked as he gazed into the sky, conjuring Aunt Nasta. “Suzan, but you call her lemon drop. Pretty corny if you ask me.”
“OK, OK. I don’t know what you’re doing or how you know this, but I think 200 is fair, and we keep all this to ourselves. What do you say, Mila? Friends?”
Mila put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a wad of euros. He placed 100 euros on the counter. on top of the Whistleblower comic, then slid it over. “I think this will be enough,” he said. “You know, since we’re friends.”
Ludwig grabbed the notes, placed them in his pocket, then pulled out the motorbike’s keychain. “It’s out back,” he said.
Mila grabbed his keychain and strode out the door.
As he headed out, he noticed a white pigeon outside, perched on the windowsill, looking in. It nodded its head, as if gesturing to something.
Mila looked down and saw a shelf full of newspapers by the door. His eyes were drawn to a stack of The Times of Berlin. He skimmed the headlines and spotted the words “Record-Breaking Sale: The Dead Undead Sold at Auction.”
Mila picked up the newspaper and began to read.
“At Sotheby’s Auction House today in London, John Winthorp, recently returned from Berlin, won the bidding on a rare draft of The Dead Undead. This unique manuscript of an early version of Bram Stoker’s Dracula was only recently discovered in a literary archive and may be the earliest draft still in existence …”
Mila skimmed down to a picture with the caption, “John Winthorp, husband to the late Zoe Richards, and his niece Casey Richards, heir to the Christina Richards estate.” The photo showed a well-kempt middle-aged man in a stylish, white linen shirt, with a neatly trimmed beard, gelled black hair, and an unnaturally tan complexion. He held an auction paddle and receipt high in the air, obviously boasting. Next to him stood Casey, looking like she didn’t really want to be there. In the corner of the photo, far in the background, Mila could just barely make out the lupine face of a German Shepherd.
Mila’s stomach began to churn. A feeling came over him that he’d never experienced before. It could best be described as fear mixed with purpose. He stepped outside and secured the motorcycle’s kickstand before hopping on and riding over to Simon.
“I got it! We’ll go to France! L’argent, s’il vous plaît?” Simon whined.
Mila smiled. “How about London?”
The End
