The Keep

Magda felt a stab of anger. What was he doing out there? That was her spot. He had no right to take it. She wished she had the courage to go out there and tell him to leave, but she did not. She did not fear him, actually, but he moved too quickly, too decisively. This Gle

But she could observe him. She could set herself up behind him and see what he was up to while keeping her eye on Papa's window. Maybe she'd learn why he was here. That was the question that nagged her as she padded down the stairs, through the darkened foyer, and out onto the road. She crept toward a large rock not too far behind him. He would never know she was there.

"Come to reclaim your vantage point?"

Magda jumped at the sound of his voice—he had not even looked around!

"How did you know I was here?"

"I've been listening to your approach ever since you left the i

There it was again—that smug self-assurance.

He turned and gestured to her. "Come up here and tell me why you think the Germans have the keep lit up like that in the wee hours. Don't they ever sleep?"

She held back, then decided to accept his invitation. She would stand at the edge there, but not too close to him. As she neared, she noted he smelled worlds better.

"They're afraid of the dark," she said.

"Afraid of the dark." His tone had gone flat. He did not seem surprised by her reply. "And just why is that?"

"A vampire, they think."

In the dim light filtering across the gorge from the keep, Magda saw his eyebrows rise. "Oh? Is that what they've told you? Do you know someone in there?"

"I've been in there myself. And my father's in there right now." She pointed to the keep. "The lowermost window in the watchtower is his—the one that's lit." How she hoped he was all right.

"But why would anyone think there's a vampire about?"

"Eight men dead, all German soldiers, all with their throats torn open."

His mouth tightened into a grim line. "Still ... a vampire?"

"There was also a matter of two corpses supposedly walking about. A vampire seems to be the only thing that could explain all that's happened in there. And after what I saw—"

"You saw him?" Gle

Magda retreated a step. "Yes."

"What did he look like?"

"Why do you want to know?" He was frightening her now. His words pounded at her as he leaned closer.

"Tell me! Was he dark? Was he pale? Handsome? Ugly? What?"

"I—I'm not even sure I can remember exactly. All I know is that he looked insane and ... and unholy, if that makes any sense to you."

He straightened. "Yes. That says much. And I didn't mean to upset you." He paused briefly. "What about his eyes?"

Magda felt her throat tighten. "How did you know about his eyes?"

"I know nothing about his eyes," he said quickly, "but it's said they are the windows to the soul."

"If that's true," she said, her voice lowering of its own volition to a whisper, "his soul is a bottomless pit."

Neither of them spoke for a while, both watching the keep in silence. Magda wondered what Gle

"One more thing: Do you know how it all began?"

"My father and I weren't here, but we were told that the first man died when he and a friend broke through a cellar wall."

She watched him grimace and close his eyes, as if in pain; and as she had seen hours earlier, his lips again formed the word "Fools" without speaking it aloud.

He opened his eyes and suddenly pointed to the keep. "What's happening in your father's room?"

Magda looked and saw nothing at first. Then terror clutched her. The light was fading. Without thinking, she started toward the causeway. But Gle

"Don't be a fool!" he whispered harshly in her ear. "The sentries will shoot you! And if by some chance they held their fire, they'd never let you in! There's nothing you can do!"

Magda barely heard him. Frantically, wordlessly, she struggled against him. She had to get away—she had to get to Papa! But Gle

Finally, his words sank in: She could not get to Papa. There was nothing she could do.

In helpless, agonized silence, she watched the light in Papa's room fade slowly, inexorably to black.

EIGHTEEN

The Keep

Thursday, 1 May

0217 hours

Theodor Cuza had waited patiently, eagerly, knowing without knowing how he knew that the thing he had seen last night would return to him. He had spoken to it in the old tongue. It would return. Tonight.

Nothing else was certain tonight. He might unlock secrets sought by scholars for ages, or he might never see the morning. He trembled, as much with anticipation as with fear of the unknown.

Everything was ready. He sat at his table, the old books piled in a neat stack to his left, a small box full of traditional vampire banes within easy reach to his right, the ever-present cup of water directly before him. The only illumination was the cone of light from the hooded bulb directly overhead, the only sound his own breathing.

And suddenly he knew he was not alone.

Before he saw anything, he felt it—a malign presence, beyond his field of vision, beyond his capacity to describe it. It was simply there. Then the darkness began. It was different this time. Last night it had pervaded the very air of the room, growing and spreading from everywhere. Tonight he watched it invade by a different route—slowly, insidiously seeping through the walls, blotting them from his view, closing in on him.

Cuza pressed his gloved palms against the tabletop to keep them from shaking. He could feel his heart thumping in his chest, so loud, so hard, he feared one of the chambers would rupture. The moment was here. This was it!

The walls were gone. Darkness surrounded him in an ebon dome that swallowed the glow from the overhead bulb—no light passed beyond the end of the table. It was cold, but not so cold as last night, and there was no wind.

"Where are you?" He spoke in Old Slavonic.

No reply. But in the darkness, beyond the point where light would not go, he sensed that something stood and waited, taking his measure.

"Show yourself—please!"

There was a lengthy pause, then a thickly accented voice spoke from the dark.

"I can speak a more modern form of our language." The words derived from a root version of the Daco-Romanian dialect spoken in this region at the time the keep was built.

The darkness on the far side of the little table began to recede. A shape took form out of the black. Cuza immediately recognized the face and the eyes from last night, and then the rest of the figure became visible. A giant of a man stood before him, at least six and a half feet tall, broad shouldered, standing proudly, defiantly, legs spread, hands on hips. A floor-length cloak, as black as his hair and eyes, was fastened about his neck with a clasp of jeweled gold. Beneath that Cuza could see a loose red blouse, possibly silk, loose black breeches that looked like jodhpurs, and high boots of rough brown leather.

It was all there—power, decadence, ruthlessness.

"How do you come to know the old tongue?" said the voice.