The Secrets of Blood and Bone

by Rebecca Alexander

  “Ah.”

  He frowned, looking at her hands, suddenly relaxed in her lap. “Is that important?”

  “Was one a revenant? Your friend?”

  “Why?”

  She breathed out with a little force, as if sighing. “We were wondering. What happened to Saraquel. Báthory’s—guardian angel.”

  Felix remembered the name from Kelley’s scribbled journal. “I was under the impression that Saraquel was not a benign presence.”

  The woman turned her head toward him, her face tense. “It is better that you go now,” she said. “I have other guests.”

  She stood, making Felix and Gina stand as well.

  “I am sorry if I have caused offense,” he tried, as Ivanova disregarded his hand and turned toward Gina.

  “Perhaps you, Dr. Larabie, would like to meet some of my friends? Some seek the same as you.”

  Gina looked at Felix for a moment, then turned back to the older woman. “I would like that very much.”

  At the door, Ivanova laid a hand on Felix’s arm. In a voice that sounded like a child, she whispered, “It’s all in the Book of Enoch, you know that. The angels shared these secrets with us.” Then her fingers gripped uncomfortably tight on his arm. “It is best you leave, Professor. For your own…safety.”

  —

  Felix sat hunched over his notes in the airport. Gina had refused to come with him, and stayed with Ivanova over his objections.

  He had managed to get through to the Vatican and speak to the inquisitor present at Báthory’s death. Stephen McNamara had been reluctant at first to speak.

  “I am under investigation for letting Jack and Sadie go free,” he finally admitted. “I am suspected of disloyalty, at best, and treason at worse.”

  “Treason is a strong word,” Felix answered. “How much power do they have over you?”

  “More than you might imagine, but it is my own conscience that makes me most guilty.”

  Felix explained about meeting Ivanova.

  “We know of Ivanova, of course. We keep a close eye on her activities and her associates, but she has private security that even we haven’t been able to infiltrate. I’ll pass on the information about her recent whereabouts.”

  Felix could hear something different in the flat tone in Stephen’s voice. “Are you recovered? I mean, you took a hell of a beating from Elizabeth Báthory—”

  McNamara interrupted. “Professor, how does Jack seem to you?”

  “Fine. I mean, I haven’t been much in touch these last few weeks but she has bounced back.”

  “Does she seem like…Jack?”

  Felix thought about it. “I didn’t know her well before. She seems stronger since, you know. The blood. She’s certainly more confident.”

  McNamara sighed. “Felix, there is so much you don’t know. You need to watch Jack. I warned you, she will become dangerous. She may end up like Báthory, feeding on the blood of the weak.”

  “You don’t know her.” Felix was indignant. “If you saw how she nursed Sadie back to health—”

  “Sadie will never be healthy. It’s a miracle she’s lasted this long.” McNamara sounded tired. “There are people here, influential people, who want Jack and Sadie eliminated.”

  “But not you.”

  There was a so long a delay at the end of the phone that Felix wondered if he’d been cut off. Finally, Stephen spoke again. “I cannot be objective. Sadie is a child; Jack saved my life. But look into Ivanova’s history: you’ll see what Jack will become. I’ll send our background file to you. Are you on the same e-mail?”

  The file was shocking. Darya Ivanova, a child in the 1730s, had become Darya Saltykova, a woman who had tortured and killed dozens, if not hundreds, of peasants on her estate. Felix had made cursory inquiries when the inquisitor had mentioned a “Saltychikha,” but had never really believed she was still alive. Her gray-haired respectability now hid almost three centuries of unnatural existence.

  Saraquel. Felix’s knowledge of mythology was broad, but his own beliefs had always been unfocused. A vague belief in God, maybe, but he had nothing so organized as a religion. He had read research on different cultural interpretations of angels, but the Bible offered the widest description. His laptop had several religious books on it, for reference, so he started searching. He found a reference in the Book of Enoch that Ivanova had mentioned, an archaic Jewish text, and settled down to read it in translation.

  “And these are the names of the holy angels who watch. Uriel, Raphael, Raguel, Michael, Saraquel—one of the holy angels, who is set over the spirits, who sin in the spirit.”

  He clicked the icon that gave him the original, but found it an unfamiliar script. A little more research suggested it was written in an Ethiopic script called Ge’ez, from the ninth century BC. He clicked to expand the image of a page of the original Book of Enoch, in Ethiopic. The shapes stopped his breath for a moment.

  He sounded out the syllables with the help of the translation to Greek underneath. Sitting back, he removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes, before opening a very familiar file. These letters were very similar to the symbols that kept Jack and Sadie alive, some inscribed in the circles they painted in their rooms, the car, even on their skin. These sigils somehow kept their souls attached to their bodies at the point of death. Most were similar to the original Ethiopic script, which believers considered were the actual ones written by Enoch himself.

  “The words of Enoch, where he blesses the chosen and righteous who will live in the day of challenge for the elimination of all sinners and apostates—”

  So this, he thought, was what Dee was onto. A book not just of ancient wisdoms and belief from three thousand years ago, but maybe the origins of magic itself.

  Chapter 20

  The Báthory family are cursed by God and tainted by vice and death. Their power is in their ruthlessness, nothing is more important to them than the Báthory family, and their castles and lands and wealth. They know nothing of the duty they owe their people, nor the reputation of their blood-soaked name. And no name struck such fear into the peasants of Transylvania as that of Countess Erzsébet Báthory.

  —EDWARD KELLEY, 1586, Venice

  The night at the ball, where I was to meet my mysterious admirer, was like a dream when one is a child and knows not the impossible or fantastical. Costumes dazzled at each side, men and women in robes that flew about them in the dances, revealing the embroideries and silks below. Many of the women wore their bodices so short I could see their bubbies, and men did not refrain from kissing and caressing them. The wine I was given was rich and sweet, as if it were filled with honey and sunshine. It intoxicated, as did the music, the stately pavana giving way to a gagliarda until my head spun and I was dragged in by a lady in white satin. Her breath was scented with lavender pastilles, which she chewed throughout, her half mask revealing lips painted scarlet against ivory cheeks. I followed the steps as best I could, being fond of a caper at home. At the end of the dance she drew me down, and whispered in, I believe, Venetian. I shrugged and spread my hands before her to indicate my lack of understanding, and she brought herself closer. Under the cover of our robes, she squeezed me in the cod, an offer easily understood. I blush to recall it, and bowed in confusion and distaste before she moved on to a more likely mate. I found some security in standing against the walls, and lifted my mask a few times to sip my wine. None came to me, nor spoke. I was free to observe Venice at play.

  I could hardly believe that all the flashing stones around me were not glass, so richly did the Venetians ornament both man and woman. Diamond-studded shoes flashed against the pale stone floors, earrings dripped emeralds and rubies onto naked shoulders. Gold glowed everywhere, on vast candelabras, picture frames, jewelry. Men were as ornamented as peacocks, and as immodest as the women. Ah, the women. Dresses with panels that swung away in the dance to reveal underclothes as decorated and embroidered as their kirtles, but as transparent as the finest satins. Skirts were
lifted to reveal rounded calves and slender ankles in silken hose.

  A woman, perhaps my own height on her scarlet shoes and dressed in black silks that were covered with sparkling stones, left the dance and swayed toward me. When she bowed, I did likewise, not sure of the protocol. Her own mask gave the impression of a silver swan with feathers arching over her hair, which fell around her in a cloak of dark curls. It left her mouth exposed and she spoke to me, soft words that I could not catch. So I leaned closer, cupping my hand behind an ear. She put her lips close to my cheek, and I was intoxicated by her perfume, so rich was it.

  “Master Kelley.”

  I jerked away, not just because my identity was discovered but because I knew that voice. Indeed, I shall never—can never—forget it. It was the creature Dr. Dee and I had created in our efforts to save a dying noblewoman, niece to the king.

  “Countess—Countess Báthory,” I stammered, stepping away from her along the wall.

  “Dear Master Kelley, so cautious?” Her Latin was flawless, her lips framing perfect white teeth.

  “I—” My words were dried in my throat as she reached a finger and drew it down my neck.

  “I should be very angry with you, Master Kelley.” For a moment I could only stare as she licked her lips. “For what you did to me.”

  “I—did your bidding, my lady,” I blustered, walking farther along the wall until I found myself backed into an alcove. “I saved your life, as far as I was able.”

  Her wide skirts must have hidden me from all but the most astute viewer.

  “And yet, I am cursed. Blessed with life, yet haunted by another.” She held a fingernail before my eyes, which to my terror had been sharpened to a point, like a nib. She placed the tip on my throat, onto the bounding pulse that fluttered there. “And now, only blood can sustain me, all food is wasted.” The pressure on my neck began to sting, to burn. “How might the blood of a sorcerer taste?”

  She raised her finger, now stained scarlet, to her lips. Such ecstasy upon her face as I have rarely seen, and a lascivious sucking of her finger, as of a courtesan’s vice. I held my hand over my throat, covering the wetness there. She had only nicked the skin, not the vessel beneath, but the blood ran freely.

  I managed to stumble out of the alcove and back into the whirling crowd, capering like a fool among the dancers, and out of the ballroom.

  A hand caught my arm and in terror I turned, striking at the man who, masked and incognito, held me in such a grip my toes almost left the floor.

  “Hold!” he cried, and under his half mask, teeth gleamed within the dark shadow of his beard. I recognized his dress.

  “My—my Lord Marinello?” I stammered.

  “You found her, then? She is magnificent, is she not?”

  “You delivered me to mine enemy!” I was outraged.

  “Enemy? What enemy could she be to you, Master Kelley? She offered good gold for an introduction, and will pay more for a consultation on a matter of her health. Where can be the harm in that?”

  I leaned closer, to speak soft into his ear. “She is a creature of sorcery and witchcraft, hardly human. What I have seen—”

  He turned to bow as a couple walked past us to their waiting boat, no doubt. “She is incomparable. She is much courted here in Venice, where the men who are favored by her grow pale and sickly with love for her.”

  As the children of her castle at Csejte had, no doubt.

  “I know of her and what she can do.”

  He shrugged. “Rumors follow her. But a woman of such wealth and beauty will always be favored here, even if she is a little inclined toward the…cruel. I would not let it weigh with me.”

  He suddenly swept the lowest of bows, as through the doorway came my lady, her gown sweeping the marble.

  “My lords,” she said, giving Lord Marinello a hand to kiss.

  “My lady.” He kept his lips pressed to her white fingers much longer than was usual. He stood up, and met her gaze with his own. “Grant me an audience. One hour in heaven.”

  She laughed, a soft sound much infused with mockery. “My Lord Marinello, if you bring Master Kelley, you will always be welcome in my palazzo.” Before my shrinking form, she smiled, then reached to Marinello, touching his lips with one fingertip. Not, I observed, the one with the sharpened nail. “We shall spare Master Kelley’s blushes by not discussing it further. Come, yes, come to my house.”

  Chapter 21

  PRESENT DAY: BEE COTTAGE, LAKE DISTRICT

  Since the first witch, the garden has watched the house. Generations have grown, withered and been born again, always a witch at the center. She, the first, poured her essence into the ground and fed the elder seedling that grew there. Blood, seed, tears and rage washed into the ground, calling upon the trees, the earth, the very rocks to protect her from her rapist. And the ground responded, growing the thickest of hedges, bringing up rocks for the walls, enclosing the witch as she swelled and grew her child.

  The raven had made a refuge out of the torn-up newspapers and sticks Jack had placed in the back bedroom. He had also left feather dust imprints on the freshly cleaned glass and had drilled dozens of holes into the new plaster under the windowsill. Every time Jack crept into the room he flew at her, or at least leaped into the air, flapping and screeching until she put her arm over her face and put the food down. Every bowl of water was bathed in and turned over, until she brought in a stone block from the garden and glued a metal bowl to it. Now he just dipped his head in it, shaking drops all over the floor and leaving the tiny feathers on his crown stuck up in spikes.

  Today, he had perched on the block but flapped off when he saw her and cowered in the corner. Jack had brought the old kitchen chair upstairs, hopefully heavy enough to prevent him from turning it over. She placed it in the corner of the room beside the door, and sat down, holding a bag of peanuts. Her rooks had loved nuts, and even difficult magpies had calmed down when offered them. The bird shuffled from one foot to the other, his tail sweeping the rags of paper with each waddle. As she brought out a peanut, he fluffed himself up and shrugged his wings, stretching his neck into a threat posture and screaming in his broken caw. His mouth was bright pink against the black feathers, and his pointed tongue reached beyond his beak.

  “You can shout all you like, but I have peanuts.” She rubbed one between her fingers to get the skin off, put the nut on her tongue and chewed it. “Mm, delicious.”

  She pulled out another one, and threw it near the crouching bird. He cawed again, but with his head tilted so one eye could examine the morsel on the paper three feet from him. She put another nut on her tongue, showing him, then ate it. She ruffled the bag and brought out another one. This fell maybe a foot from him, and he sat silently watching it, watching her, watching it—

  He reached out and jackhammered the floor with frustration, bang, bang, until she feared for his beak. When he stopped he stared at her, as if daring her to move, then hopped toward the nut, sweeping it off the floor and then dropping it. He did it several times, as if tasting it. Finally, he swallowed it, and hopped over to the first one.

  “You like those, do you? You’re a good boy, really, just went feral in that stupid cage.” Another nut, this one at his feet, then another, quickly speared and eaten. The next one had fallen halfway between them. He froze.

  Jack could feel something inside her, some understanding of his taut body and hunched wings, as if there were a part of her that could read a part of him.

  She relaxed her body, slumped her shoulders a bit, and let her hands rest palms up, as if to say: “I am no danger to you.” She had no idea if the bird understood. Something Sir Henry had said came back to her.

  —

  Dannick had taken her into a smaller but still grand room in the castle, lifting rope barriers out of doorways. Once inside, he had turned a large key in the lock, making the hairs on Jack’s neck and forearms prickle.

  “Oh, don’t worry.” His smile was wide, his eyes intense on hers
. “I just don’t want to be disturbed.” He had walked over to an unlit fireplace and opened a small brass box on the mantel. He brought out a box of matches and lit one, before bending down to the coals in the hearth.

  “It’s so cold in here,” he said over one shoulder. “We do have central heating of a sort, but not in the grander rooms, just in the family quarters.” He stood up, brushing his hands together, and tossed the dead match into the tiny blaze. He walked to a chair that looked as if it had come from an exotic throne room somewhere, and sat down.

  “Take a seat.” He waved at several less grand chairs, but Jack walked instead to the window. Facing the front of the house double doors looked over the long lawn toward a small hill, dotted with a dozen or so oaks. Beyond, the forest started to close in. Jack noted a key in the outside door lock, the thought making her feel slightly safer.

  “Your grandson’s illness is genetic?” she asked, turning so the lock was within easy reach.

  His smile broadened as he looked at her. “My, you are cautious.”

  “What do you want?” Jack’s instincts were to run, and it was an unsettling feeling. No one made her feel like this.

  “You are nervous. Please, sit down. I have nothing to gain from harming you.”

  She shook her head. “I’m fine. This illness you mentioned?”

  He relaxed into the chair, stretching out long legs before him. “How old do you think I am?”

  “I don’t know.” She stared at him. He had lines around his eyes, a couple across his forehead, silvering hair at his temples. She stared at his hands, smooth, sinewed, a few raised veins. “Fifty-five, sixty? I mean, you have a grandson.” But her thoughts had run back to what Maisie had said.

  “I am seventy-eight years old.”

  She stared at him, but still couldn’t see it. “Good genes?”

  “Actually, I have fantastic genes. But when I was a boy I started to fall over; I had to hold on to something to walk around the room. Ellen’s grandmother made the potion that saved my life.”