Gustav Kraus smelled like death.

Not metaphorically. Literally. Dying flesh, unwashed skin, the sour-sweet stink of pancreatic cancer eating him from the inside. First thing that hit me when I walked into the infirmary, Patricia leading me to Bed 7 by the window.

"This is him," she said. "Kraus, you got a babysitter."

The old man in the bed looked like a skeleton wearing skin. Maybe 120 pounds. Liver spots covering his arms, his face. Wispy white hair. Rheumy blue eyes that tracked me as I approached. Sharp eyes. Intelligent, despite the dying body.

He said something in German. Phlegmy, wet.

"English, Gustav," Patricia said. Not unkind. Just firm. "Boy doesn't speak German."

"Ja." Kraus's voice was thin. Reedy. "The new one. With the marks."

I stood there. Didn't know what to say. What do you say to a dying Nazi you're being forced to babysit?

"I'm Thor," I finally managed.

Kraus laughed. Wet, rattling sound that turned into a cough. Patricia handed him a tissue. He spit something dark into it. Blood, maybe. Or worse.

"Thor," he repeated. "God of protection. God of strength. You know this, ja?"

"It's just a name."

"Nothing is just anything." He waved a skeletal hand. Dismissive. "Sit. You are here to attend me. So attend."

Patricia showed me the routine. Changing the diaper—Christ, that was humiliating for both of us. Checking the IV. Making sure he drank water. Listening to him ramble.

"Three hours a day," Patricia said. "Morning shift, after breakfast count. Werner cleared it with the Warden. You're on medical duty now."

"What do I do if he—" I didn't know how to finish that sentence.

"If he dies? You find me. Don't touch anything. Don't move him." She looked at Kraus. "But he's stubborn. Probably got a few weeks left."

She left. I sat in the plastic chair next to Bed 7. Kraus watched me with those sharp blue eyes.

"You are afraid," he said.

"Yeah."

"Gut. Fear is wisdom. Better to be afraid and alive than brave and dead." He shifted slightly. Winced. "You will change my diaper now. I have soiled myself."

Jesus Christ.

The first diaper change was the worst thing I'd experienced in prison. And that included the shower beating.

Kraus weighed nothing. I could lift him easy. But the smell—God, the smell. I gagged. Nearly vomited. Held my breath and tried to work fast. Patricia had shown me the technique. Gloves, wipes, powder, new diaper. Clinical. Efficient.

But there was nothing clinical about it when you were actually doing it. Old man's waste on my gloved hands. His skeletal legs. The indignity of it. For him, for me, for everyone involved.

Kraus watched me the whole time. Those sharp eyes. Assessing.

"You do not like this," he said.

"No."

"Gut. Humility is the first lesson. You must be broken before you can be remade." He coughed again. More blood in the tissue. "The Brotherhood, they send you to me. Why?"

"Protection. I sit with you, they protect me."

"Protection." Kraus smiled. Thin lips pulling back from yellowed teeth. "You need protection because of the marks on your skin. Ja, I see them. Vegvisir. Yggdrasil. You honor the old gods."

"I got them drunk. Thought they looked cool."

"Lies." His voice got harder. "You lie to yourself. The marks chose you. Blood calls to blood. Die Runen speak to those who will listen."

I finished the diaper change. Threw the soiled one in the medical waste bin. Stripped off the gloves. Washed my hands three times. Still felt dirty.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said.

"Not yet." Kraus settled back into the pillows. "But you will learn. Three weeks I have. Maybe less. Enough time."

"Enough time for what?"

"To pass the legacy." He closed his eyes. "Now go. Come back tomorrow. We begin then."

I left. Patricia was at the nurses' station.

"How'd it go?" she asked.

"He's insane."

"He's dying." She shrugged. "Sometimes they're the same thing. You did fine. Tomorrow, 9 AM. Same routine."

I walked back to 3-Alpha. Scrubbed my hands again in Cell 47. Couldn't get the smell off. The feel of it. The degradation.

Flaco watched from the upper bunk. "That bad?"

"Worse."

"Brotherhood protection worth it?"

I thought about Dylan's hands on his belt. Brick's knee in my chest. The cold shower tile.

"Yeah," I said. "It's worth it."

Three days into the Kraus routine, Guard Gustav shook down my cell.

I came back from the infirmary—morning shift, another diaper change, more rambling in German about runes and blood memory and shit I didn't understand—to find Cell 47 tossed. Mattress flipped. Property box dumped on the floor. My few possessions scattered like trash.

Guard Gustav stood in the tier, smirking. No relation to Kraus. Just another corrupt CO who got off on making inmates miserable. Mid-forties, gut hanging over his belt, thinning hair, mean little eyes.

"Routine inspection, O'Reilly," he said. "Found some contraband."

"What contraband?"

"Don't worry about it." He walked away. Keys jangling.

I climbed into my cell. Started gathering my stuff. Everything was there except—

Fuck.

Photos of Connor's kid. Gone. My niece, gap-toothed smile, three years old. Only photos I had. The cheap watch from Connor. Gone. Commissary snacks. Gone.

That motherfucker stole from me.

Rage hit me like a punch. White-hot, blinding. I wanted to chase Gustav down the tier, beat his skull against the concrete, make him give it back. Make him pay.

But I couldn't. He was a guard. I was an inmate. He had all the power. I had none.

I sat on the flipped mattress. Shaking. Furious. Helpless.

Flaco came back from his work detail. Saw the cell. "Gustav?"

"Yeah."

"What'd he take?"

"Photos. Watch. Food."

Flaco's expression darkened. "That piece of shit. He does this. Steals from cells, sells the good stuff, keeps what he wants. Everybody knows."

"Can't we report him?"

"To who? The Warden? He doesn't give a fuck. Gustav's been doing this for years." Flaco sat on the upper bunk. "I'm sorry, hermano. Those photos—family?"

"My niece. Connor's daughter. Only pictures I had."

"Fuck."

Yeah. Fuck.

I couldn't sleep that night. Just lay on the lower bunk, staring at the underside of Flaco's mattress, rage burning in my chest. Gustav's smug face. The photos in his pocket. My niece, gone.

Nothing I could do.

Nothing.

Next morning, I went back to the infirmary. Still furious. Couldn't shake it.

Kraus was awake. Alert. Those sharp blue eyes watching me as I approached.

"You are angry," he said.

"Yeah."

"Gut. Channel it. Anger is power if you control it. Weakness if it controls you." He gestured to the chair. "Sit. Tell me."

I didn't know why I told him. Maybe because he was dying and it didn't matter. Maybe because I needed to tell someone. Maybe because I was so goddamn angry I couldn't hold it in.

"Guard Gustav. Shook down my cell. Stole my photos. My niece. Only connection I have to family. He just—took them. And there's nothing I can do. Nothing."

Kraus nodded slowly. "Ja. I know this Gustav. He is a thief. A small man with small power who uses it for smaller pleasures." He paused. "But you are wrong. There is something you can do."

"What? He's a guard. I'm an inmate. I touch him, I get the Hole. Maybe worse."

"You do not touch him." Kraus smiled. Thin, terrible smile. "You wish him ill. You see him fall. You make it so."

"What are you talking about?"

"Magic, boy. Die Magie. The power in your blood, in the marks you carry." He reached out with one skeletal hand. Grabbed my wrist. Surprising strength for a dying man. "You think they are just pictures? Lines in skin? No. They are channels. Conduits. The runes speak through them."

I tried to pull away. He held on.

"I have been watching you," Kraus continued. "Three days you attend me. Three days I study you. You have the gift. Raw. Unformed. Unconscious. But there." He traced a finger over my Vegvisir tattoo. His touch was cold. Dry. "I can teach you. But first, you must see."

"See what?"

"Him falling." Kraus's eyes locked onto mine. "Close your eyes, boy. Breathe. Let the anger fill you. See Gustav walking the stairs in the Pit. See him trip. See him fall. See his head crack on the metal railing. See it clearly. See it real."

"This is insane—"

"Schließe deine Augen!" Kraus's voice cracked like a whip. "Close your eyes!"

I did. Don't know why. Maybe because I was desperate. Maybe because I wanted to believe there was something I could do. Some way to fight back.

"Breathe," Kraus said. Softer now. "Feel the anger. Do not fight it. Use it. Channel it through the marks. Through the runes. Through your will."

I breathed. The anger was there. White-hot. Gustav's smug face. My niece's photos in his pocket.

"See him," Kraus whispered. "See him walking. See him stumble."

And I did.

Don't know how. Don't know why. But I saw it. Clear as day. Not imagination. Not fantasy. Real. Vivid. Like I was there.

The Pit. Metal stairs connecting the tiers. Gustav walking down. Coffee in hand. Keys jangling. Smug fucking expression.

He trips.

Foot catches on the edge of a step. Coffee flies. He pitches forward. Hands out. Too slow. Head cracks against the railing. Wet sound. Metallic. Final.

He tumbles. Three steps. Four. Lands at the bottom. Doesn't move.

I opened my eyes.

Kraus was smiling. "You see him fall, ja?"

"I—yeah. I saw it."

"Gut." He released my wrist. Lay back. "Now we wait."

"Wait for what?"

"For it to happen."

Morning count the next day. Announcement over the PA.

"Attention all tiers. Guard Gustav has been injured and transported to hospital. Details to follow."

The tier went quiet. Then started buzzing. Inmates asking each other what happened. Guards looking nervous.

I sat on my bunk. Cold spreading through my chest.

Flaco leaned down from the upper bunk. "You hear that?"

"Yeah."

"Gustav. Injured. Karma's a bitch, hermano."

I didn't answer.

Patricia found me during morning rounds. Pulled me aside.

"You hear about Gustav?" she asked.

"Yeah. What happened?"

"Fell down the stairs in the Pit. Night shift. Fractured skull, spinal damage. Bad." She studied my face. "He won't be coming back. Medical retirement, if he's lucky. Wheelchair if he's not."

"Anyone see it happen?"

"No witnesses. Just found him at the bottom of the stairs." She paused. "Strange thing is, he was always careful on those stairs. Walked them every night for five years. Never a problem."

"Accidents happen," I said.

"Yeah." Patricia didn't look convinced. "They do."

I went to the infirmary for my shift with Kraus. He was awake. Alert. Smiling.

"You heard," he said.

"Yeah."

"You did this, boy. You and the runes. You saw him fall. You willed it. It happened."

"That's impossible."

"And yet." Kraus gestured weakly. "Gustav is in hospital. Skull fractured. Spine damaged. Perhaps he lives. Perhaps he dies. Either way, he does not return. He does not steal from you again."

My hands were shaking.

"I didn't—I couldn't have—"

"You did." Kraus's voice was certain. Absolute. "I have been witching you up for three days, boy. Touching your marks. Speaking the words. Opening the channels. Your anger was the fuel. Your will was the engine. The runes were the road." He coughed. Blood flecked his lips. "Now you know. The power is real. And it is yours."

I sat down. Hard. Chair creaking under me.

"What did you do to me?" I asked.

"Gave you a gift. The legacy. Power I cannot take with me when I die." He settled back. "I am eighty-three. Nazi, ja, I do not deny this. Occultist. Watchmaker. Criminal. Murderer. Many sins. But also many years of study. Of practice. Of understanding die Magie."

"Why me?"

"Because the marks chose you. Because you are here. Because I need a vessel before I die." He looked at the ceiling. "Die Runen do not care about politics, boy. Only blood. Only will. Only power."

"I don't want this."

"Too late." Kraus laughed. Wet, rattling. "You have already used it. Already tasted it. The power will not let you go now. It is yours. Whether you want it or not."

I stared at my hands. My forearms. The tattoos I'd gotten drunk, stupid, nineteen years old.

Vegvisir. Yggdrasil. Thor's hammer. Runes.

The marks chose you.

"What do I do?" I asked.

"You learn. You practice. You grow strong." Kraus closed his eyes. "Three weeks I have. Maybe less. I will teach you what I can. Then you are on your own."

"And if I refuse? If I don't come back?"

"Then you waste the gift. And the Brotherhood withdraws protection. And you die in a shower, unmourned and unmissed." He smiled without opening his eyes. "So you will come back. And you will learn. Because you have no choice."

He was right.

I had no choice.

That night, I lay in Cell 47, staring at the ceiling. Flaco was asleep. Snoring softly. The tier was quiet. Lights out. Just the dim glow from the corridor.

I kept seeing it. Gustav falling. Head cracking on the railing. The wet sound. The tumble.

I'd done that.

Somehow. Impossibly. I'd made it happen.

Magic. Real magic. Not tricks. Not illusions. Actual power to bend reality, to manifest will, to make things happen.

Kraus had done something to me. "Witching you up," he'd said. Three days of touching my tattoos, speaking in German, opening channels I didn't know existed.

And now I had power.

Power I didn't understand. Didn't ask for. Didn't know how to control.

But I'd used it. And it worked.

Gustav was in the hospital. Skull fractured. Spine damaged. Maybe dying.

Because I'd been angry. Because I'd visualized him falling. Because Kraus had channeled something through me.

My hands were shaking again.

"You okay, hermano?" Flaco's voice from the upper bunk. Sleepy.

"Yeah," I lied. "Just can't sleep."

"Gustav getting hurt is good for you. One less asshole to worry about."

"Yeah."

Flaco went back to sleep. I kept staring at the ceiling.

Kraus's laughter echoed in my head. Wet, rattling, terrible.

The power is real. And it is yours.

Yeah.

I didn't sleep well that night.