The Progeny

by Tosca Lee

  “There’s a hotel on the corner,” Jester says. “We can meet there. You’re on your own till you get out; I don’t dare try to access their system while you’re in there except for emergency. Remember what I said about the cameras. Alter your stride if you can.”

  “Call at the first sign of trouble,” Luka says, something frantic in his gaze.

  “I promise,” I say, and mean it.

  I slide on my shades as we pull to a stop and quickly get out, belting Claudia’s borrowed jacket around me. I can feel them pull away, leaving me strangely bereft and all too conscious of the fact that I am, for the first time in days, alone.

  I turn the corner and walk past the Auersperg palace at a swift clip, pretend to answer a call, my hand cupped around the microphone, obscuring my mouth and cheek. The section that is Auerspergstrasse is only two blocks, but it’s part of a much longer thoroughfare regulated by cameras. The fact that Parliament is visible a block east from here just past a roundabout doesn’t help.

  Der Tresorraum might as well be a bank or even a museum by the look of it, except for the modern glass front doors. Not what I would have expected for a vault. I carry on my fake conversation as I pass beneath the camera at the entrance.

  The interior is sparse, at modern odds with the Baroque architecture out front. A receptionist sits behind a desk in an anteroom beside a large steel statue that looks vaguely like a spiral tunnel.

  “Kann ich Ihnen helfen?” the man at the desk says as I pocket my phone.

  “Do you speak English?” I say.

  “Yes, of course. May I help you?” he says without smiling. I wonder if he can hear the pulse pounding in my ears.

  “I’d like to access my box.”

  He rises. “This way, please.”

  He escorts me through a door, which he opens with a key card. Down the hall past several secure corridors, he admits me to a windowless chamber. It houses nothing more than a desk, the woman sitting behind it, and the unmistakable entrance to a giant vault set in the adjacent wall.

  The woman gestures to a pad on her desk. “Bitte,” she says, and I assume by the outline on the screen that I’m supposed to lay my hand on it. I wonder if she sees that my fingers are trembling, the moist smear my palm leaves against the screen.

  And then a lock clacks on the vault’s steel door, and she crosses the room to haul it open for me.

  The “vault” is nothing but a large room housing two counters, each with a metal plate in the middle and a standing touch screen.

  “There are two rooms in the back for your privacy,” she says, pointing like a flight attendant.

  The skin of my neck feels clammy against the wig. I don’t take off my shades, having noted the cameras throughout the vault. So much for anonymity, I think, moving swiftly to the nearest counter as soon as the woman is gone. I select English, key in my code as it prompts me. Tap my fingers on the counter. Wonder, for the first time since Jester’s search, if the Glagolitic symbol for life on my spine was just that—a reminder to live. If the numbers above it mean something else, have no correlation to this place whatsoever.

  The plate in the counter abruptly slides open. A biometric thirteen-by-fifteen-inch box arrives on an elevator platform. I stare at it for a long moment before picking it up. It is surprisingly light, but it might as well weigh a ton. It carries the mass of multiple lives and has cost me my past and possibly my future as well.

  I carry the box to one of the rooms, which lights up as I enter, and lock the door behind me. Set the box on the table, remove my shades. Sink into the chair.

  My mouth is dry as I press my thumb to the pad, and a part of me actually prays that it will not open.

  But God doesn’t hear that one.

  It chirps, flashes green.

  I slowly lift the lid.

  32

  * * *

  The oversize envelope inside is nearly two inches thick. I lift it out, fumble with the old-fashioned string.

  A leather journal slides out on a stack of papers. The book is worn around the edges, the ties that bind it stiff from lack of humidity.

  I know I should shove everything back in the envelope and go. But I also know it could be hours before I have any semblance of privacy; I can’t fathom processing any of what this is—let alone what it might mean—in front of an audience.

  I coax the ties open, flip through the journal, which is nearly full. A small photo drifts onto the table, and I pick it up. A newborn in a yellow outfit. I turn it over. It’s marked “Audra két napos.”

  My breath escapes me as though I’ve been punched. I have never seen a picture of myself this young. Where did I get this, who took it—and where?

  Photo between the fingers of one hand, I turn to the front of the journal.

  The first twenty or so pages are a list of notes in my handwriting.

  Born Vojvodina 1981 mother: Serafina

  father?

  Belgrade: 1992–December 1994 (Bosnian war)

  1995: lover—Marton ___?

  . . .

  Budapest 1997–1998 Prince: Attila

  1996: Nyirbator

  2001: Attila killed

  2002–January 2003: Budapest Prince: Andrik

  2005: Returned Budapest? Tamas killed?

  2008: Zagreb Prince: Imre

  2013: Bratislava 2x

  2016: Croatia ___?

  Died August? Body found near Csepel Island, Budapest

  I blink, heart stuttering. I had been tracking someone.

  My mother.

  I scan back. Find the name Imre. Remember the caption the night of Ivan’s death, his name given on the television. Was Ivan once Prince of Zagreb?

  The next two pages are a list of contacts at four European libraries, including the National Hungarian Archive, followed by what have to be nearly fifty pages of notes on Elizabeth Bathory, with portions boxed or circled:

  Witnesses either did not actually witness Elizabeth in the act or unsure

  Elizabeth not allowed to speak on own behalf

  Respected nobles accused of procuring own relatives to serve E.’s household, turned blind eye OR willingly sacrificed girls for hope of conviction against her

  (Did she do it or not??)

  Elizabeth: Protestant (Calvinist), King: Catholic

  Bathory/Nadasdy holdings: thousands of acres, 20 castles

  E. husband Ferenc, national hero, BANKROLLED CROWN. Debt too large to pay back. Ferenc dies, E. begin litigation against debtors INCLUDING ROYAL TREASURY.

  King can’t risk action against national hero—turn entire country against crown. But can against a widow

  King calls witnesses from E.’s own holdings—nobles, court officials. E. made loans to servants, paymaster, castellan, squire, court master. THEY ALL OWED HER MONEY. ALL TESTIFIED AGAINST HER.

  Palatine Thurzo (Protestant) charged to protect her before Ferenc dies. Move for no execution. (Keep E.’s property from ceding to Habsburg crown in full, prevent precedent of crown claiming Protestant property)

  1611: E. walled up at Cachtice (Slovakia). CROWN’S FULL DEBT CANCELED, portion of lands cede to crown. All documents sealed. Treated as though E. “never existed.” Husband’s reputation as war hero intact

  KING CROWNED HOLY ROMAN EMPEROR 1612.

  Holy crap. I’m an ancient conspiracy theorist.

  I thumb through several pages of names I don’t recognize and what look like hand-copied records. There are several more pages labeled “Budapest,” “Zagreb,” “Bratislava,” “Bucharest,” “Belgrade,” with names of what I assume to be court leaders or members.

  Why would I do this—catalog their names like this? I think back to Jester’s story about the genealogies. This journal is dangerous to every person I’ve listed.

  Is this what I had erased from memory—a record created in naiveté? A list that, once written, I could not unsee?

  I pause on a page filled only with questions, such as: Who was Ismeta’s sibling? And then: Imre =
Tibor’s brother?—Yes. Goes now by “Ivan.”

  My eye catches on two successive lines:

  Ivan and Nikola falling out. Amerie sides with Nikola—WHY??

  Amerie dies 16 months later

  I scan ahead to several pages filled with names and death dates—and a seeming list of those who died in quick succession after their passing:

  Tamas (April?) 2005

  June: Zsolt

  October: Attila II, Silus

  December: Judit, Braco (suicide, memory unrecoverable)

  But something happens after the last of those. About ten pages have been torn out.

  And then this:

  Audra,

  It’s me. You.

  The skin rises on my arms.

  We can’t have this (journal) anymore. There is too much here, too much that you were not meant to find. Too much, too much. And you have too much—too much love, too many questions. Too much sorrow . . . and too much joy.

  I tried to find her for us. She was gone by the time I got to Europe.

  Ivan helped me find the journal (hers—what’s left of it). I’m keeping this all together. Were it up to me, I’d burn it all. I’ve already seen it—it will never leave my brain now. Which is the problem.

  I think I know what I need to do. It’s pretty horrible. Dying would be easier, I think—for us, at least. But not for Luka. Not for the secret that does not go in this book, or any book. The one you’ll die for.

  I’m rambling—you’ll think you were an idiot back in the day. I’m rushing, that’s the problem, because I’m leaving tomorrow for Bratislava and one last shot at the diary. Nyirbator, maybe, if I have time, but everything’s backward. The entire story is backward. Can’t write too much here while I’m still on the move—everything will end up with the Historian if I die now at any rate (big bonus day for that a-hole), but at least if these pages are taken by the Utod (you know who you are, traitors), they’ll have to figure part of it out for themselves. But then Luka will be free and all he’ll have to deal with is his grief.

  I love that man. I love him, love, love him. The first time he told me he loved me, I didn’t hear it. And I waited so long to hear it, too. He waited to bring it up again for weeks because he thought he had upset me.

  He’s patient and good and gentle. Don’t let it fool you: He’ll kill for you. Don’t let him. Kill for him, instead, if you have to. One of you has to live.

  He’s buying us a ring if we (you and I) live through the next few months. I’d call that an incentive to stay alive.

  I sit back hard, dumbfounded. Blink, grab the envelope, pull it open to peer inside, and then upend it.

  It falls into my palm. A ring with a simple row of little diamonds.

  I slide it onto my finger. A perfect fit.

  We were engaged??

  I flash back to Maine, recall the desperation I took then as him trying too hard. His manic will to rescue me from Rolan, get me safely to the underground . . .

  His reluctance to let me come here alone.

  I flip forward several pages, reading quickly.

  Me again. You.

  I couldn’t stay long enough in Bratislava. I’m running out of time so fast, the sun’s practically moving from west to east . . .

  I don’t know how I’m going to bring it up to Luka. I know what I think I have to do. It isn’t selfish—it’s maybe the least selfish thing you’ll ever have done. And now that I think back, we were pretty selfish even just a year ago.

  I’m so sad. I’m going to treasure these beautiful, beautiful hours. Do you know what Luka said to me before I left?

  “I love you more every day. When you go to bed tonight, know that you’ll be even more loved tomorrow.”

  The last night I was with him before I left, he sighed against my neck and said he loved the smell of me. And I understand what he means, because sometimes I wish I could inhale him, breathe him into my cells.

  Now all of that is going away. I have never cried this hard.

  I flip to the next page. It’s the last in the journal.

  Audra,

  So here we are. I’m at a crossroads, and you, reading this, are where I was months ago. Different date, same person . . . same impossibility.

  Life is beautiful, Audra. I know it doesn’t seem like it, with everything. But it is. And it is new. Katia said something the last time I saw her that I will never forget (or I will, so I write it here): Heaven doesn’t come tomorrow. It’s here now. You don’t have to die to get there.

  I hope I don’t lose that thought along with everything else. They say your life flashes before your eyes when you die . . . I really hope it does.

  I’m writing another note after this one. It’s for you. It’ll be the first one you get from me. With hope, the only one. It’s short and sweet (miracle, isn’t it?). I can’t say everything I want to—haven’t even been able to here. And I’ve decided I won’t talk about Luka in it. You know why? Because I want you to have the joy of falling in love with him all over again. I think I could spend my whole life doing that.

  Ask him what he has to tell you when it’s all over. But it has to be over. And if you’re reading these words now, it won’t be until you finish what I started. I’m so sorry. I tried.

  The worst part is I can’t write it here. I can’t write it, and I can’t tell Ivan. It would be so simple if I could just tell Luka everything I need you to know . . . but I know what they’ll do to him once they think he knows anything. And while they can’t take his memory, they’ll make him wish they could.

  Protect him. He’ll take a bullet for you without even blinking. Don’t let him. He is good. Proof of God, and a better person than I am. But maybe you are, too.

  If you’re reading this, you know what happens next. It’s August and I swear I can hear the symphony playing at the Wolkenturm. I wish we could have a long, good chat, because I have so much to tell you. But more than that, I wish we all had more time.

  I just heard last night that Katia is gone. It’s all coming down.

  Go back to the beginning of our story. I’m giving you everything I dare. You know what you have to do.

  Give my love to Luka.

  Me (You)

  P.S. Don’t trust Nikola. He’s in league with them.

  I stare at the far wall, so many questions slicing through my mind at once they may actually mince it to pieces. About Nikola, about Luka and me, what I had hoped and failed to achieve in Bratislava. About the story I’m supposed to go back to.

  But most of all, what I’m supposed to do with it all.

  You know what you have to do . . .

  But I don’t. And though there’s still a pile of loose pages I haven’t even looked at, I’ve had all the revelations I can take for the moment.

  I glance at the clock in the corner. I’ve been here too long.

  I tuck the baby picture inside the journal and start to put everything back in the envelope, but pause at the sight of a sheet folded multiple times. It’s worn and yellowed, but that’s not what’s caught my eye. It’s covered with names, some of them fuzzy where the ink has faded, some of the letters retraced more recently. One of them, in new black ink, is mine. Luka’s is written below it.

  I carefully unfold the sheet, laying it over the biometric box and envelope; it’s the size of a newspaper centerfold and twice as fragile, crumbling at the corners.

  Rows and rows of names are scrawled across the page in progressively faded ink. There, near the bottom, is mine and Luka’s. My mother’s is a row above mine, alongside an empty box. Above her: Serafina, paired with the name Petar Todorov. Some kind of family tree?

  No.

  I jerk back from the table the instant I realize what this is.

  A kill map. Progeny and their known murderers.

  So many names, each of them the tiniest representation of a life . . .

  Ink has bled through in several places from the other side. Heart thudding, I turn the page over.

 
A chart in the vague shape of a Christmas tree occupies the bulk of the sheet. At the very top are twelve names I don’t recognize, faded with age, their letters redrawn. The next tier contains fourteen names, and the next level twenty. There are other notes beside some of them in what appears to be Hungarian that I can’t make out. But several of those lower down, I can: “Hungarian army,” “Red Army,” “Hungarian Social Democratic Party,” “Socialist Federal Republic, Yugoslavia,” and more recent labels including “media,” “police,” “tech,” and the names of several global banks, each accompanied by a city ranging as far west as the United Kingdom and as far east as Turkey.

  A chill crawls down my spine as I realize I am staring at the evolution of the Scions . . .

  The birth of a massive cabal.

  There’s a single line down the right side of the page, separate from the rest, connecting a progression of circles. Some contain names I don’t recognize, many are blank, only a few with dates. The succession, I assume, of the office of the Historian.

  The last circle is very new, in crisp black pen. It is empty except for a year.

  This one.

  At the top of the page the title THE REAL SERIAL KILLERS is scrawled in my handwriting.

  I have to be holding the most complete map of the Scions in existence.

  Now I know what Nikola was willing to kill for.

  33

  * * *

  With shaking hands, I cram everything back into the envelope, tie it up tight.

  How much of this does Luka know? Have I shown him this grisly chart?

  I glance at the time and panic. Tuck the envelope into the waist of my pants beneath my sweater and tie my coat over it, put on my sunglasses.

  I don’t even bother to return the empty box to the counter.

  “Good?” the woman in the room outside says.

  Now that I’ve emerged from the vault, my phone begins to ping with a series of incoming texts, piling in one after another, and then with the chime of voice mail, again and again.