Blackwater Val

PROLOGUE

Somewhere in Germany

1945

THE MANIAC, MARENBACH thinks within the unyielding darkness, partly in contempt, partly in fear.

Mostly in fear.

He squints in the musty gloom of his secluded shop at the small man before him, at the slicked-down hair and the dead, terribly vacant eyes. A bit of mustache set above a mouth of bad teeth, the nervous tic in one corner of that mouth. At the large German shepherd heeled by the man’s side.

At the armed squadron of SS guards gathered in tight behind him.

Marenbach blinks and proceeds Deutsch zu sprechen: “When would you wish it done, my leader?”

“As soon as possible,” the little man says with vehemence. He also speaks in German, but the Austrian dialect is unmistakable. “The glory is coming to a close. It is almost over, I’m afraid.” The eyes seem to sadden.

“May I see it?” Marenbach asks, holding out his hand. He prays that he doesn’t tremble; the dog is watching his every move.

“By all means.” The man reaches inside his long leather overcoat, producing a golden ring which he places in Marenbach’s palm. “It was my father’s,” he adds, becoming slightly hoarse.

Marenbach turns the ring over and over, examining it in the dim light. It’s pure gold, of that much he is sure. But the stone is a puzzle. An intaglio square of amber brown, yet nearly transparent. A variety of quartz. Carnelian perhaps.

“Minister Goebbels recommended you highly to me, Marenbach,” the man hazards. “Can you do it or can’t you?” One gloved fist clenches and unclenches in vast impatience.

“Yes, my leader. I can and I will.”

“Excellent!” cries the small man, chest heaving, breathing something unpleasant into the other’s face. “But remember, it must be irresistible. It must draw the masses, you understand. Above all—it must be everlasting. Everlasting, yes! The poison must be wiped from the earth forever!” He jerks convulsively, disheveling a single forelock of oily hair. The eyes dance.

Jesus God. He wants more. Ten million lives, and still he wants more.

“You will, of course, be paid quite generously for your services,” the man says now, regaining some composure. “I do know how to take care of my friends.” A momentary icy stare emerges. Then a grin, revealing those horrid teeth.

And Johann Lewis Marenbach—alchemist, sorcerer, astute occultist and mage—shudders in revulsion. He has heard much about the Fuhrer, the knotted rumors: of him being the second Christ, a lover of animals and children; homosexual mass murderer, one quarter Jewish himself; an inbred sadist, a masochist, a black-hearted abomination.

They, but a few.

Marenbach was not this man’s friend, nor did he wish to be. Nor did he believe that he ever would be. Nevertheless, he would do whatever this man wanted, be it invoking an ancient and diabolical curse onto a ring of gold or anything else. He would do it, because if he didn’t do it . . .

Well, there were some things worse than curses.

This Marenbach knows for a fact. For he has seen. On more than one occasion, in his mind’s wandering eye, he has seen these travesties of—

—humanity? They call this humanity? A room-sized gas oven filled with wretched, fleeting souls? A corpse-ridden chamber for the dead and dying? Humanity? There, huddled in a corner, a tiny girl writhing and convulsing in silent terror, choking and defecating and swallowing her tongue in reaction to the noxious fumes. And there, a gauzy skeleton of a man, naked and blinded, praying and shrieking and clamping his penis safely between his thighs as he curls into a fetal position and smothers. And yet here, a crippled young mother, head shaven and body broken, singing and weeping and exhaling her final breath into the mouth of an infant she cradles and rocks, even as a bitter asphyxiating cloud envelops her and her child. Humanity? They call this—

—humanity. Oh yes, there were some things far worse than curses. Deep in his darkest meditations has he seen it, and upon awakening has witnessed more viable, visible things. Heaping mounds of shoes and boots and slippers and baby booties. Of blond hair and black hair and gray hair. Ashes, bones from the incinerators. All telltale signs that somewhere, despite the pride and the cheers and the electricity, something dreadful was going on.

Somewhere, something.

“I shall leave you to your work then, yes?” the dark little man says sharply, jarring Marenbach from thought. Before he can respond, however, the other snatches up his free hand and shakes it once, hard and quick. “Goodbye, Johann,” he tells Marenbach in a serene voice. For a brief schizophrenic instant he actually believes in this man, in his honor and purity. But then his hand is released and the feeling, gone, even as a lone Schutzstaffel jackboot holding a Bible snickers at the back of the room.

“Blondi!” cries the Fuhrer now, spinning on his heel. The Alsatian moves obediently with him, staying close at his side. Marenbach, fending off a sudden wave of nausea rippling through him, doesn’t have a chance to reply or even to salute. The small man halts and turns back, the dog turning with him once more. Something catches Marenbach’s eye.

“I have said this before and I shall say it again,” the man speaks in the darkness, to no one in particular. “I know how to maintain my grasp upon people, even long after I have gone.” He pauses, pondering for a moment. “It will be glorious, will it not?” With that he whirls and disappears into the night, his elite personal guard following and falling in behind him.

Marenbach stands alone and shivers in his musty shop, the last of the sick feeling dropping away from him like a deathbed sheet. He glances down at the ring he holds, but glances up again. Then he frowns, realizing what caught his eye before. It was the dog; the German shepherd had been wearing a swastika arm band on its left front leg. A Nazi arm band.

The maniac, Marenbach thinks, and sets about his work, and dies.