F. Paul Wilson - The Keep

"Yes. Rather brutally, I believe, from what you told me."

Queasily, Magda remembered the soldiers' gurgling death rattles, the grinding of the bones in their necks as Molasar shook them. "So?"

"So he did not go completely unappeased."

"But he could have killed me, too, if that would have given him pleasure. But he didn't. He returned me to my father."

Glenn's eyes pierced her. "Exactly!"

Puzzled by Glenn's response, Magda faltered, then hurried on.

"And as for my father, he's spent the last few years in almost continual agony. Completely miserable. And now he's cured of his scleroderma. It's as if he never had it! If human misery nourishes Molasar, why has he not let my father remain ill and in pain and feed on that? Why cut off a source of 'nourishment' by healing my father?"

"Why indeed?"

"Oh, Glenn!" she said, clutching herself to him. "Don't frighten me any more than I already am! I don't want to argue with you—I've already had such an awful time with my father. I couldn't bear to be at odds with you, too!"

Glenn's arm tightened around her. "All right, then. But think on this: Your father is healthier now in body than he has been for many years. But what of the man within? Is he the same man you came here with four days ago?"

That was a question that had plagued Magda all day—one she didn't know how to answer.

"Yes ... No ... I don't know! I think he's just as confused as I am right now. But I'm sure he'll be all right. He's just had a shock, that's all. Being suddenly cured of a supposedly incurable, steadily crippling disease would make anyone behave strangely for a while. But he'll get over it. You wait and see."

Glenn said nothing, and Magda was glad of that. It meant that he, too, wanted peace between them. She watched the fog form along the floor of the pass and start to rise as the sun ducked behind the peaks. Night was coming.

Night. Papa had said that Molasar would rid the keep of Germans tonight. That should have given her hope, but somehow it seemed terrible and ominous to her. Even the feel of Glenn's arm around her could not entirely allay her fear.

"Let's go back to the inn," she said at last.

Glenn shook his head. "No. I want to see what happens over there."

"It could be a long night."

"It might be the longest night ever," he said without looking at her. "Endless."

Magda glanced up and caught a look of terrible guilt passing over his face. What was tearing him up inside? Why wouldn't he share it with her?

TWENTY-SIX

"Are you ready?"

The words did not startle Cuza. After seeing the last dying rays of the sun fade from the sky, he had been anticipating Molasar's arrival. At the sound of the hollow voice, he rose from the wheelchair, proud and grateful to be able to do so. He had waited all day for the sun to go down, cursing it at times for being so slow in its course across the sky.

And now the moment was finally here. Tonight would be his night and no one else's. Cuza had waited for this. It was his. No one could take it from him.

"Ready!" he said, turning to find Molasar standing close behind him, barely visible in the glow of a single candle on the table. Cuza had unscrewed the electric bulb overhead. He found himself more comfortable in the wan flicker of the candle. More at ease. More at home. More at one with Molasar. "Thanks to you, I'm able to help."

Molasar's expression was neutral. "It took little to heal the wounds caused by your illness. Had I been stronger, I could have healed you in an instant; in my relatively weakened condition, however, it took all night."

"No doctor could have done it in a lifetime— two lifetimes!"

"Nothing!" Molasar said with a quick, deprecating gesture of his right hand. "I have great powers for bringing death, but also great powers for healing. There is always a balance. Always."

He thought Molasar's mood uncharacteristically philosophical. But Cuza had no time for philosophy tonight. "What do we do now?"

"We wait," Molasar said. "All is not yet ready."

"And after—what?" Cuza could barely contain his impatience. "What then?"

Molasar strolled to the window and looked out at the darkening mountains. After a long pause, he spoke in a low tone.

"Tonight I am going to entrust you with the source of my power. You must take it, remove it from the keep, and find a safe hiding place for it somewhere up in those crags. You must not let anyone stop you. You must not allow anyone to take it from you."

Cuza was baffled. "The source of your power?" He racked his memory. "I never heard of the undead having such a thing."

"That is because we never wished it to be known," Molasar said, turning and facing him. "My powers flow from it, but it is also the most vulnerable point in my defenses. It allows me to exist as I do, but in the wrong hands it can be used to end my existence. That is why I always keep it near me where I can protect it."

"What wit? Where—"

"A talisman, hidden now in the depths of the sub-cellar. If I am to depart the keep, I cannot leave it behind unprotected. Nor can I risk taking it with me to Germany. So I must give it over for safekeeping to someone I can trust." He moved closer.

Cuza felt a chill steal over his skin as the depthless black of Molasar's pupils fixed on him, but he forced himself to stand his ground.

"You can trust me. I'll hide it so well that even a mountain goat will be hard pressed to find it. I swear!"

"Do you?" Molasar moved even closer. Candlelight flickered off his waxy face. "It will be the most important task you have ever undertaken."

"I can do it—now," Cuza said, balling his fists and feeling strength rather than pain in the movement. "No one will take it away from me."

"It is unlikely that anyone will try. And even if someone does, it is doubtful anyone alive today would know how to use it against me. But on the other hand, it is made of gold and silver. Should someone find it and try to melt it down..."

A twinge of uncertainty plucked at Cuza. "Nothing can stay hidden forever."

"Forever is not necessary. Only until I have finished with Lord Hitler and his cohorts. It need remain safe only until I return. After that I shall again take charge of its protection."

"It will be safe!" Cuza's self-confidence flowed back into him. He could hide anything in these hills for a few days. "When you return it shall be waiting for you. Hitler gone—what a glorious day that will be! Freedom for Romania, for the Jews. And for me—vindication!"

"Vindication?"

"My daughter—she does not think I should trust you."

Molasar's eyes narrowed. "It was not wise to discuss this with anyone, even your own daughter."

"She is as anxious to see Hitler gone as I am. She simply finds it hard to believe that you are sincere. She's being influenced by the man I fear has become her lover."

"Whatman?"

Cuza thought he saw Molasar flinch, thought the pallid face had grown a shade paler. "I don't know much about him. His name is Glenn and he seems to have an interest in the keep. But as to—"

Cuza suddenly felt himself jerked forward and upward. In a blur of motion, Molasar's hands had shot out, grasped the fabric of his coat, and lifted him clear off the floor.

"What does he look like?" The words were harsh, forced through clenched teeth.

"He—he's tall!" Cuza blurted, terrified by the enormous strength in the cold hands just inches from his throat, and the long yellow teeth so near. "Almost as tall as you, and—"

"His hair! What about his hair?"

"Red!"

Molasar hurled him away through the air, sending him tumbling across the room, rolling and skidding helplessly, bruisingly along the floor. And as he did, a guttural sound escaped Molasar's throat, distorted by rage but recognizable to Cuza as—