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"We're both going," she replied, smiling. "Where?" Magda felt her smile falter as confusion washed over her again. Where were they going? She realized she had no firm idea, only a vague impression of snowy peaks and chill winds. "The Alps, Papa."
Yet the feeling remained…such a dead certainty that they were going somewhere north, and soon. Dreams weren't supposed to leave such definite impressions. It gave her an odd, uncomfortable feeling…like
THE KEEP Wednesday, 23 April 0622 hours
Woermann oversaw the placement of Lutz's body in the subcellar. It and the severed head were carried down through the opening in the cellar floor and covered with a sheet on the dirt floor of the cavern below. The temperature down there felt close to freezing. He saw no sign of vermin about and it seemed the best place to store the cadaver until later in the week when arrangements could be made for shipment home.
And his neck – the throat had been ripped open. Blood splattered the bed and walls.
Thursday, 24 April
Rudy Schreck was not afraid for his life. Uneasy, yes, but not afraid. He was awake, alert; he had a rapid-fire weapon slung over his shoulder and knew how to use it. Whoever had killed Otto last night was not going to have a chance against him.
What felt like a length of heavy rope suddenly coiled around his ankles. As he was yanked off his feet, Private Rudy Schreck began screaming and firing wildly until the darkness ended the war for him.
A body…upside down…a naked body hanging from a rope tied to its feet.
Friday, 25 April
Three dead men in the subcellar.
Woermann caught him and then almost dropped him. For as he fell, his head angled back to reveal an open, mangled throat. Woermann eased the body to the ground, then stepped back, clamping his jaw against a scream of fright and horror.
Saturday, 26 April
One night. Just one deathless night.
Sunday, 27 April
No deaths had been reported.
"There's something wrong with Franz – I mean Private Ghent. He's not awake."
The bedroll flap was pulled to Ghent's chin. Woermann did not pull it down. He did not have to. The glassy eyes, sallow skin, and drying red stain soaking through the fabric told him what he would find.
Woermann wondered if a fifth death would get a rise out of the Ploiesti defense command.
With everyone on guard and paired, maybe they'd all survive. And that would do wonders for morale.
What if one of his own men were the killer?
Monday, 28 April
He looked on as the soldier disappeared into the shadow – a peculiarly deep shadow. After perhaps fifteen seconds, Woermann looked away, but then was drawn back by a choked gurgle from below, followed by the clatter of wood and steel on stone – a dropped weapon.
Then he saw the first soldier. He lay on his back, arms akimbo, legs folded under him, his throat a bloody ruin.
The men would be nearly uncontrollable now. And at the present death rate, he would be an officer without a command if he stayed much longer.
He was no longer in command of the keep. Something dark and awful had taken over.
THE DARDANELLES Monday, 28 April 0244 hours
Now, nearing the end of their journey, Carlos had only tonight to get the money belt. The red-haired man knew that was what he was after.
They were presently threading the Dardanelles, the narrow channel connecting the Aegean with the Sea of Marmara.
He pushed on the throttles to see if he could coax any more speed from the engines. He couldn't. He wished he had wings.
BUCHAREST, ROMANIA Monday, 28 April 0950 hours
They were out there: the ones who hated Jews. They had robbed her father of his position at the university, ordered the two of them out of their lifelong home, removed her king – not that King Carol had ever deserved her loyalty, but still, he had been the king – and replaced him with General Antonescu and the Iron Guard. But no one could take away her music.
"Is that a tarot deck?" She knew perfectly well it was. Josefa nodded. "You wish a fortune?" "No. I really don't believe in any of that. "
“Please. A gift from me." Magda hesitated. She didn't want to offend Josefa. And after all, hadn't the old woman just told her that the deck usually told nothing? Maybe she would make up a nice fantasy for her.
The neutral cards are scattered, but the cards that can be read as good are all on the right here" – she moved her hand over the area in question – "and the bad or evil cards are all over on the left. Odd."
don't know…such a concentration of good and evil…and such a clear division between them."
THE KEEP Monday, 28 April 1910 hours
The SS major, although two years older than Woermann, was slimmer and therefore looked younger. Kaempffer’s blond hair was full and straight and still unmarred by gray. A picture of Aryan perfection.
"And what if the killer is someone like you? What if he doesn't give a damn about the villagers?"
"Your brand of fear fails to work when you run up against your own kind. Take that back to Auschwitz when you go."
"Enough!" "No, not enough! Your SS kills helpless civilians – women, children! I earned this medal fighting men who were able to shoot back. And we both know," Woermann said, his voice dropping to a fierce whisper, "how much you dislike an enemy who shoots back!"
Against all reason, he prayed that Kaempffer's threat against the villagers would have the desired effect – that there would be no more deaths. But if it didn't work…if another German was to die tonight, Woermann knew who he wanted it to be.
THE KEEP Tuesday, 29 April 0118 hours
Major Kaempffer arose from his bedroll and gingerly began removing his long underwear. His bladder had involuntarily emptied during the nightmare.
For an instant that seemed to stretch to a lifetime, Private Karl Flick became a victim of the soulless terror he so loved to inspire, felt the deep, gut-tearing pain he so loved to inflict. Then he felt nothing.
Privates Flick and Waltz stood over him, faces white and contorted, eyes glazed. A gaping crescent of torn and bloodied flesh grinned down at him from the place where each man's throat had been.
"The men think it's a vampire."
If it is a vampire, it's not like the ones you read about in horror stories. Or see in the movies. The only thing I'm sure of is that the killer is not human.
“Down where your two men died. There’s something written on the wall in their blood.” “In Romanian?” Woermann shrugged. “I don’t know. I can’t even recognize the letters, let alone the language.”
"I sign a letter. At the top it says The Mediterranean Bank of Switzerland. In Zurich." "How does the money come?" "In gold. In twenty-lei gold pieces. I pay Alexandru and he pays his sons. It has always been this way."
