by Michele Lang
Ulysses Knox, Bookseller
Spuistraat 334, Het Spui
Amsterdam, Netherlands
Dearest Ulysses [Bathory wrote in French]:
A pleasure to know you still remain in Amsterdam, my old, beloved friend. I send to you my lovely, and quite mortal, young assistant—she is not a Drinker, so have no fear of her by night. As she will explain more fully, her name is Magdalena Lazarus, and she comes to you on urgent personal and professional business.
As you are the most informed connoisseur of the written word that I know, I have commended you to my dear Miss Lazarus, and ask that you afford her the benefit of your breathtaking expertise in this regard.
Miss Lazarus seeks an ancient volume belonging to her family. It is long lost, but certain signs point to its return into the stream of mortal time. I suspect that you, with your fine discernment and perspicacity, may know more than I of this legendary book’s true history and present location.
She also brings to you information concerning a client of mine who requires your assistance as well. Miss Lazarus will supply this additional information as it becomes salutary to do so.
When you and she are done with the present projects, I will make it worth your while to visit me in Budapest—I seek a family Bible of great antiquity. Needless to say I require your assistance, since, as you may be aware, I may not touch such a volume due to my family’s congenital . . . infirmity.
May God in his infinite mercy bless you, my friend, and may we meet on the Ring Road before this year is done.
Salut
(Signed) Bathory
I could not restrain a smile as I regarded the archaic flourishes and Byzantine turns of phrase which unwound line by line. How like the count himself, slender and bent, clad in velvet and silk dressing gowns in the daytime, surrounded by dusty, hidden opulence in his rooms on Rose Hill in the heart of old Buda. The count, despite his many flaws, still adored the scratch of pen on paper, and I loved him for that, and for a thousand other little reasons.
A low growl snapped my attention up from the page. I shot a quick glance along the platform.
I was alone. Completely, utterly alone.
“I smell a little Jew,” a voice growled, and I saw a wolf the color of dirty dishwater emerging from a clot of shadows clustered around the curved stairway.
This beast was immediately joined by a pack of others emerging from the rising steam of a locomotive at rest beside the platform; I saw to my horror that I was surrounded by a pack of werewolves of the German Schutzstaffel (SS).
They circled me, snarling, and it was all I could do to maintain my composure, to stand my ground and not run away screaming. Still I faced them, with at least an outward pretense of calm.
Because I was a Lazarus, you see. I knew I had the ability to, however painfully and laboriously, summon my own soul back from the dead, reanimate my body to pick up my life where it had stopped before. So I feared the werewolves’ great slashing teeth, their blood hunger—I feared the terrible pain of their attack, the pain of my death. But I could withstand the death they came to inflict on me. The knowledge was cold, but comforting—a bitter, clarifying winter wind.
“Leave me alone,” I said, with all the authority I could muster, as I clutched my satchel in my hands. I glanced up at my train across the platform, suddenly so very far away.
I rose from the bench and began inching toward the steps leading up to safety. The dogs snuffled and whined, and the echoes of their ravening laughter slithered along the platform and snaked around my ankles.
“We’ve been waiting for you,” the leader of the wolves growled, his yellow teeth and gray, dingy gums flecked with foam. “Our master comes.”
“Your master?” I kept my voice steady, but my heart sank. I thought this mangy cur was the worst of my present troubles.
I took a deep breath, felt the tingle of magic burning painfully in my palms. My mother had taught me the rudiments of energy manipulation, showed me how to use my natural talent of summoning to channel that energy. I lamented my lack of spellcraft, felt it like a sharp pain as the wolves circled closer and their growls rose menacingly all around me. But my anger rose in me like spring sap—and I tried to convince myself that my raw fury would be enough.
“I have the power to summon the souls of the dead,” I warned, loud enough for my voice to cut through the cacophony of the circling pack. My mind raced as I tried to think how to stop them before their fangs sank into my flesh.
I didn’t know their names, but I knew he who they served, and I hurled my fury against them. “Creatures of Hitler, back!” I could feel the wall of energy pushing against them as they slid backward, their long claws scraping against the spotless cement platform. But without their names to lend power to my command, I could not keep them away.
The leader lunged for me, snarling and ripping through the barrier. I swung my heavy satchel in his face—a lucky blow, for I hit him in the eye before his jaws could close over my ankle. I shoved hard against his big skull, and sent his ugly, evil soul hurtling off the platform and onto the sharp metal tracks, his yelps and whimpers rising from the pit to infect the others with his fear.
I dropped my bag, held my palms out, felt the fury rising in me like an electric blue inferno. Perhaps if I pretended that magic, and not a satchel full of papers and books, had stopped their leader, I could somehow still prevail against them.
“Well then, Nazi dogs! Who shall I punish next?” Howling, they shied away, as if I had hit them all across their snouts with a rolled-up newspaper.
I took another deep breath and grounded myself, when I felt an onrush of an ancient and profound malevolence close upon me on the platform. I couldn’t see it but knew it was huge, uncontainable, repulsive, and evil. And it had come for me. Evidently, I was about to make my acquaintance with these Nazi curs’ master.
I summoned forth the spirit, invited him to materialize—not that the materialization could help me in my fight with him. It simply felt a little more comfortable to confront my nemesis face-to-face, even if I was destined to lose.
His features were blunt, unyielding, hideous, lined with wrinkles, wizened and yet also hardened. But his eyes. His yellow eyes retained a quick knowingness that froze my blood. I didn’t recognize this man—not that he was any ordinary kind of man. But his face split open in a sickening smile, a smile of delighted recognition.
“Ah. The Lazarus. Beautiful.” He bowed slightly as he addressed me in clipped, formal German. His pointed teeth glinted in the yellow lights marking the end of the train platform. A train whistle screamed in the distance. The desolate sound only underscored my sense of abandonment, of isolation.
“Call me Magda.” And I forced my lips into a smile. Any creature of magic could make foul use of my true name, but the fact he knew of me meant I couldn’t keep my name hidden for long. Better to show him that, recklessly or not, I had no fear of him.
His smile widened and I realized I was lying to myself as well as to him. I was terrified of this man, of what this creature in the form of a man was capable of doing to me.
“I know about your book. Raziel HaMalach.”
He named the angel in Hebrew, the holy language, and it then became apparent that I had acquired a foe of the first magnitude. For he spoke the sacred words without even a flicker of pain.
“Yes. My book. My inheritance.”
“I want it for myself. And I am happy to kill you for it, Magda the Lazarus.”
I smiled; the effort of clenching my jaw so tightly sent a dull knife edge of pain sliding along the side of my temple. “You know me, sir. And so, you know you cannot relegate me to the next world. I will return.”
“Ah. But you do not know me. Your mama, your ancient grandmama, have all been remiss in their teaching, hein? I am a wizard of great renown, my dear. The Staff, I am called; I vanquished the Witch of Ein Dor even in King Solomon’s time. Unlike her, I live still. And she could have told you that I know how to deal with
your kind, as I once dealt with her.”
“But aren’t you Jewish yourself then?” The question, so stupid, slipped out before I could stop myself.
He surprised me with the heartiness of his laugh. It almost sounded wholesome, genuinely amused. “Herr Hitler would be appalled if he believed that to be true, for I serve him and his cause. But alas for you, no, I was a priest of the Lord Baal. I left my old master in the past to fade away into the darkness. Time has passed, and I now walk in a different age, with different gods and devils.”
“All that is quite interesting, Herr Staff. But my train is due to depart in another six minutes, if my wristwatch still speaks true . . . so, if you will excuse me.” And I made as if to go, knowing all the while that I could not shake this ancient enemy without invoking a power far beyond my reach.
“Not so, my dear. I have come to claim your soul for mine. You, the descendant of the line that could summon the power of the Angel Raziel, to serve kings for the glory of God.” He spat out these last words like they tasted foul to him. I backed away, and he advanced upon me, long bony fingers reaching out with long, yellowing nails curling at their tips.
“I will desecrate you, little girl child. Take your soul and drink it like blood. And then the power of the Book will be mine. You think you can return from death. But this kind of death—the death and pillage of your immortal soul—no. You will die again and again, and your death will serve me and my master.”
He smiled again, my pulse pounded behind my eyes, and a cold sweat crawled over my skin. I had to do something, stop the headlong assault of this ancient creature’s words. My journey westward had only just begun; I could not let this wizard defeat me so soon.
I gathered my belongings around me and drew myself up to my full height. “This isn’t about me, or my soul. I have nothing whatsoever to do with the matter,” I managed to sputter from behind my clenched teeth.
“Yes, more’s the pity or I’d linger to savor your death for longer. It’s all about that book. Your old book. Once I have your soul, the Book will be mine.”
“And why are you telling all of this to me?” Tears began spilling down the bridge of my nose, tears of anger.
He brushed against Gisele’s gray suit, against the tips of my nipples with the very ends of his yellow nails, and I leaped back in revulsion. “It is simple. I want you to suffer,” he said, and he shrugged.
I called up a huge rush of energy—anger and terror, remorse and disgust all rose up in me, implacable and huge, a surge of emotion ready to work my will. Magic works through the manipulation of energy, and life force I still possessed in abundance. But I did not have the knowledge to channel that force into a weapon I could wield against such a formidable foe.
I could not fight him magic to magic—my spellcraft, puny and untutored, was no match for this ancient and terrible wizard.
I had but one choice, hard as it was to make. It violated every rule I had been raised to honor. But this Staff had to be broken.
“I call upon and summon the Angel Raziel.”
And before the Staff could crush my soul between his horrible fingers, there came a sudden, furious beating of huge, invisible wings. My desperate prayer had been answered.
6
I shut my eyes, dazzled by a brilliant, multicolored radiance, and didn’t see the blow before it came. Something hard connected with my chest and threw me backward. But instead of falling down, I fell up, into that divine, coruscating light.
When I opened my eyes again, I was flat on my back, my skull aching where it had connected with the platform. I saw a living tapestry of luminosity, heard a cacophony of little bells, smelled a heavenly scent. My senses were scrambled. Suddenly, the ordinary world seemed dull and feeble.
After another moment of celestial confusion, I realized I was still in the Vienna station; the Angel Raziel stood over me, golden beams of light streaming from around his shoulders. After another moment, he looked not like a heavenly being, but like a man—an exquisite, chiseled, Grecian statue of a man. A man dressed in ordinary street clothes, a man who held a sword, streaming with silver shafts of light, over my head.
And I realized, finally, that he raised this weapon of righteousness, his fabled sword, against me. Before he could smite me, I sat up, my muscles sore, my knees still shaking.
I rose to my feet, smoothed my hair, and did my best to compose myself. “Help,” I said. My Hebrew was far too rudimentary to use in a magical battle to the death, so I spoke in Hungarian, hoping an angel of the Lord would surely understand. The Lazarus family spellcraft is based in the use of the holy words of the Hebrew Bible, but my ignorance of the family spells was just one of the gaps in my training.
He frowned. “You broke the Law.” I risked a look into his eyes, squinted against the unearthly godlight his face still generated. Raziel was glorious. Terrifying. And truly, cosmically furious at me. “I should strike you down where you stand.” His voice rumbled all along the platform.
I heard a low cackle behind me, felt a hideous whisper of a touch along the tops of my shoulders. I shrugged my shoulders away from the Staff’s fingers, rose slowly despite a prickle of pain through my entire body. “Don’t do the wizard’s work for him. Please, give me a chance to explain myself.”
The deep brown eyes narrowed, then relaxed as he registered the implications of this encounter. “Fear not, Lazarus.” He spoke Hungarian, and the words, soft and familiar, soothed me. Almost imperceptibly, he nodded, shifted his attention to the werewolves clustered around me.
“Baruch Atah . . .” Raziel’s voice was no louder than a whisper, but the platform under our feet began to tremble violently. The light along the edge of his sword blazed brighter as he stepped forward. Almost too late, I stumbled out of the angel’s way.
He stopped a few inches from the Staff’s face. To give the wizard credit, he didn’t budge. And I, at least temporarily the beneficiary of Raziel’s righteous wrath, had to fight to keep from bolting.
The wizard’s face split into a leering smile. “Ah, the author.”
“No. Merely the scribe.”
The wizard’s smile widened, like a rot overspreading an overripe fruit. “Tut, tut. False modesty. How long since last you walked the Earth, eh? Much has changed since then. Join us, Raziel. Join me and your brother celestials. We can rule the mortal ones, rid the world of useless creatures, and claim the entertaining ones, like Magdalena here, for our own amusement and pleasure.” He spoke Hungarian too, to taunt me with his words.
Raziel’s laugh, soft and even, sent a cascade of warmth melting through my limbs. “You seek to tempt me, yet again. I have heard this all before, wizard.”
“I merely offer you an attractive proposition.”
“It is not my place to choose.”
The wizard sneered, scratched at one hairy nostril with his long, curving pinkie finger. “Ah, yes . . . the Almighty has deprived you and all celestial beings of the power of free will, instead bestowed it upon girls like Magda, who are more than happy to order you about!” The wizard shook his head, scraped at his stubble with his horrible fingernails. “Ah, mysterious is the way of your God. He gives you intelligence and discernment, and yet forbids you to use it.”
I tried to speak, though my voice was so hoarse I had to clear my throat before I could choke out my words. “Raziel. Destroy me if you must, but get him first. That’s all I ask.”
Raziel ignored me, spoke to the wizard. “That argument is as old as the Fallen Ones and their first kin. I have been offered temptations since time out of mind.”
“Ah, yes—your beloved Asmodel has told me so.”
The angel’s face stiffened. “Speak not that name to me.”
The wizard leered. “But he is so special and dear to you, beloved Raziel.”
“Begone, wizard.” He lifted his sword above his head, and the werewolves flinched, widening their circle. Their low growls rose to a collective howl.
But the wolves froze in place
, quivering with arrested energy. The wizard shoved me aside to stand in the middle of the circle, and he pointed his fingers down toward the ground, muttering an incantation I didn’t understand, but which, nevertheless, made my skin crawl. Despite their obvious pain and desperation, the werewolves closed the circle, drew it inward. With yelps and foam-flecked moans, they attacked the angel, one by one.
And each wolf lunged to its death. As soon as their claws or teeth made contact with Raziel’s body, each wolf gave a final scream and died in a writhing mass of melting flesh and hair. The light streaming from his face and sword grew blindingly bright. I cried out in fear mingled with gratitude. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a porter poke his head out of a half-opened door to peek out onto the platform, then quickly pull back and slam the door, an absurdly polite expression pasted imperfectly on his face.
The last wolf met his gruesome end, and lay smoking at the angel’s feet. I looked at the wizard, saw the unholy glee on his face, and realized that he relished the angel’s display of wrath.
As for me, I stood rooted to the spot, knowing I was next to die unless something fundamental changed in this encounter. I wasn’t used to being the object of righteous—even if justified—scorn, and the knowledge burned. Despite the danger, I could not tear my gaze away from the sight of him, filled with a luminescent rage.
The angel turned to me, eyes wild. The sword he held above my head loomed huge; I wondered how I could possibly return from a death inflicted by an angel of the Almighty.
I thought of Gisele, and Eva, and held my ground, though I trembled so badly that I sunk onto the pavement. Behind me, I heard the wizard close in as if to grab me away from Raziel’s judgment.
In that moment, the angel’s attention flicked from me to the Staff. “She is not yours to take, wizard.”
I glanced over my shoulder and gasped. The wizard hovered over me, his hands reaching for my throat—he’d meant to choke me where I knelt.
Revulsion poured through my body. With a quick shove upward, I elbowed my way behind the angel as the two faced off. I hid behind Raziel, knowing he fought in the Almighty’s Name, not mine. But I sheltered behind his brilliant, light-filled wings all the same.
