Dark Victory Page 7

  My magic is rooted in words, in the language of Hebrew and the angelic tongue. I wielded spells most effectively in Hebrew and the old languages, but all words retain a native power.

  But I needed no incantation to summon. This gift, to call forth souls of any kind, was my birthright. Spellcraft or not, I was born with the ability to call.

  I made up my mind and raised my arms to Heaven. Churchill took another puff on his cigar and blinked up into the fading August light.

  “Angel of England, come to your son in need,” I called. I did not know the angel’s name. “Angel of Mons, the angel over the British Isles, Churchill himself needs you.”

  “Her name is Albion,” Raziel said, low and quick.

  “Albion, your brother Raziel awaits you here.” I did not, strictly speaking, compel her to appear—such a compulsion runs counter to the Lazarus creed, the first tenet of which is to summon no unwilling soul—but I imagined the combination of her name and Raziel’s would prove hard to resist. Though angels are celestial messengers, and not granted the free will of mortal souls, they are still as curious as the rest of us.

  The air between Churchill and me began to waver, and two ivory-delicious wings began to shimmer into being. Knox stumbled backward and gasped something frantic-sounding in English, but Churchill only waved him away and laughed.

  Good fellow, this Churchill. He was no magical, only an Englishman born to rule his people, but he did not allow fear or even prudence to rule him. He simply watched, his eyes twinkling, as the air rearranged to admit the reality of an angel, a breathtakingly beautiful female angel, into our midst.

  Her first words were not for me and not even for Churchill, but for Raziel. “Brother, bless you, have no fear,” she said in a musical concordance of sounds that scrambled my senses. By now I was used to the visitations of angels, and still I could hardly retain my bearings in her celestial presence.

  “Albion, you are a blessing. Thank you for joining us here,” Raziel replied, the roughness in his voice belied by the transfixed expression on his face.

  My heart constricted at the sight of her, of her wings. How could a world that contained creatures of such beauty also admit of child murder, Nazi sorcery, and my sister’s terrible visions?

  “I need to convey a message to Mr. Churchill,” I said. “You are the only one, the perfect one, to carry the message from me to him and back again. Please endow us all with the ability to understand one another.”

  She nodded her head and smiled. “It is a miracle, but a small one, and you need not endanger your soul with sorcery for such a minor gift as this. It is done, my dear girl.”

  And to think I had, not so long ago, hesitated to call upon the angels for help, believing it was too close to a soul-summons and therefore a grave impropriety, for messengers of the Almighty should only be compelled by Divine command. Her celestial perfection reminded me of the first time I had encountered Raziel, and my nerves were stretched almost to the snapping point by the calendar and the urgent nature of our mission in England.

  I bowed my head to hide the trembling of my lips. “Thank you for heeding my call, and for giving Raziel comfort here on Earth.”

  She shrugged and laughed. “Answering prayers is what I am supposed to do. How many prayers are directed to me by name, in Hungarian no less? More than none, but not very many for all of that. Churchill is my favorite charge, not that he needs much help from me. You do what you need to do without angels or the devils to interfere, Winnie!”

  Churchill threw his head back and roared with laughter, waving the lit cigar dangerously close to the angel’s outstretched, delicately feathered wings. “Very good!” he finally managed to force out. “My angel has a sense of humor. It is meet, it is fitting, it is delightful! And they say there is no proof of an Almighty! My marvelous Albion, it is a distinct pleasure to make your acquaintance due to the intercession of this lovely Hungarian witch-girl. Whatever else she may have to say, making such celestial introductions will forever endear her to me.”

  He winked at me, the marvelous old rogue, even as he bent to kiss the angel’s hand as he had kissed mine. The sun setting behind us limned him in a brilliant golden glow.

  The angel curtseyed in reply, then straightened. Her wings, tinged with gold, stretched even farther before she folded them against her back. “Lazarus, the time is short. Tell Churchill what you will.”

  Churchill sat down on a wicker chaise with a rumbling sigh. “Forgive me,” he said to Albion, “but I must never stand when I can be sitting.” She inclined her head in assent, and Churchill returned his attention to me.

  I sighed and brought us back to the terrible reality all of us faced. “Hitler will invade Poland in the early hours of September the first, Mr. Churchill.”

  His expression grew grave, and he nodded once. “Of course. Our country has been mobilizing against the Nazi threat, and well I know that war has come for us. I fear it will be some years before I will again paint in peace in the South of France.”

  “My sister has the gift of prophecy, sir, and she tells me…” I suddenly could not bear to go on, spill such ugliness into the cool, soft air and reveal such ugliness to this refined, delightfully mad, charming gentleman.

  “Please proceed, Miss Lazarus. This is why my friend Knox, here, thought it important to bring you here to Chartwell before it is too late.”

  “My sister foresees mass murder,” I managed to croak out. “We are Jewish, Mr. Churchill, and the Jews of the Reich…”

  His round face grew serious. “Times are most precarious for your people. Much as I have admired the fighting mettle of the German race, I cannot abide this stain of hatred that mars their thinking, their ambitions, and their mad leader.”

  I forced myself to go on. “Millions murdered, sir, men, women, and even children. Systematically; an industry of death. The blood will cover over all of Europe.”

  “But there is hope, my dear Miss Lazarus. There is always hope until the final breath is drawn. In some cases,” he said, his eyes narrowing as he puffed on his cigar then flicked the ashes away, “hope may be sustained even after the last breath dies. Or so I have been informed.”

  I turned to look at Knox. He shrugged and motioned for me to continue. “I have come to offer my skills to you, sir,” I said. “My sister’s prophecy holds that after September the first, if I do not have The Book of Raziel in my possession, my life and my sister’s life will be forfeit, along with the lives of the rest of our people.”

  “You may not be as doomed to defeat as your prophecy may have led you to believe. Prophecies often only make sense after the fact, you know. We all must do as we must. And success consists of persisting, failing over and over again until your opponent finally wearies of you and you win. Indeed in my service during the Boer War…”

  And Churchill launched into a fascinating but only marginally relevant tale of his escape and flight across Africa in his youth. Knox wrung his already destroyed handkerchief around in his fingers, and Albion shook her head—apparently she had heard this story more than once before. Only Raziel listened enthusiastically, his expression rapt.

  “Winnie,” the angel interrupted him, “this girl has the ability to stop Hitler himself, but only if she retrieves the true Book of Raziel.”

  “What is this? A book—what? Could stop that madman, Hitler? Who has this Book at the moment?”

  I could not restrain a sigh. “The original has been lost to time, Mr. Churchill. But Hitler himself is in possession of a fair copy. I had thought it was destroyed, but Hitler’s demon, Asmodel, has informed me the original still exists in this world. Contained within a lost gem, a sapphire. I will be too late, but I will search for the true Book until my time runs out.”

  Churchill stubbed out his cigar in a great urn filled with sand, and motioned to the butler for a fresh one. “I suppose Knox has told you about me.”

  The change in subject caught me a bit off guard. A breeze began to blow over the now-dark
ening hills, and the first star began to shine overhead. “A bit, sir. And I know your name from the newspapers, of course. You are England’s best hope.”

  “Well, Chamberlain learned late about the Nazi evil, but at least he learned. I will serve king and country as best as I may. We all must fight on, in the battles we are ordained to fight. And even if we fall, our struggles may prove a final victory in the grand tapestry of the world.”

  I tried to keep the Budapest sarcasm out of my voice. “I suppose, but I prefer to think of survival as the ultimate victory. And I offer you my services in exchange for survival, mine and my sister’s, and Raziel’s, too.”

  “Now you listen to me, Lady Lazarus,” he thundered, low in his chest like a growling English bulldog. “You are not mankind’s only hope.” He lit his new cigar and puffed away avidly, the fat tip glowing red in the dusk. “That last hope would be me. And not yet, Miss Lazarus, but all too soon.

  “Still, you have a part to play in the coming madness. Whether pawn or queen, all of us must play the game. You are no different. From what Knox tells me, you have been gifted with the infernal powers of a Jewish witch. I cannot be a party to you hiding your dark magic away for a rainy day. For the day has come for you to wield that dark magic, my girl.”

  A slow burn caused color to rise into my cheeks. “Jewish martyrs’ lives are cheap,” I replied. “I will give you my all, become Churchill’s witch, but fat lot that will do to change the world. Yes, Mr. Churchill? Correct me if I am wrong.”

  Churchill wouldn’t budge. “Mere survival isn’t enough though, my dear Miss Lazarus, and I suspect you know it. Martyrdom is not my preferred state of being, I assure you, but I will not run from any fight. You must fight, my dear, you must not run. You must not.”

  His words hit me harder and affected me more than had the appearance of England’s angel. He knew, he could read me, he could sense my fear, my desire to flee from the conflagration despite my noble promises, the vows I had made to my sister to save her from despair. It was not even the first of September and already I was tired. Part of me wanted to negotiate a peace with my enemies. Fine, you take Europe, let me run away to Zanzibar.

  As if he could sense my thoughts, Churchill leaned forward and looked into my eyes, the smoke curling up from the stub of his cigar. “You cannot run, Miss Lazarus. Not if you possess such a powerful magic. The Nazis will not let you go—and neither shall England, nor France. Not now that it is time for war.”

  The lights began to twinkle in the windows of the house, over Churchill’s rounded shoulder. Easy for a great man, swaddled in his wealth and fame, to speak courageous words.

  But, damn his fine words, Churchill was right. I stole another glance at my beloved’s face, and Raziel smiled. “Magduska, join the man’s service. Give your magic to something greater, and I will stand with you, no matter what happens.”

  Raziel’s words, so brave and yet, in a strange way, so innocent of life in mortal skin, pierced me clean through. I tried one last time to resist. “Fine, but I cannot bear to see Gisele immolated on the altar of my supposed heroism. I never could.”

  Raziel reached for my hand and kissed the back of my knuckles. And that small, tender gesture gave me the last particle of courage I needed, to weigh the scales on the side of the right but doomed thing.

  I held on to Raziel’s hand as I faced Churchill in the dying light. “What can I do, Mr. Churchill? Sometimes life demands more of you than you think you have inside of you. Very well, then, I am your witch. But keep my little sister safe. She is a seer, but she is not quite of this world, Mr. Churchill. She is too innocent to survive this war, prophecy or no.”

  “I will do what I can. Why has she not come with you now?”

  I sighed again. How could I explain Gisele to a pugnacious, worldly strategist like Churchill? I shot Knox a sharp glance, and he looked away uncomfortably. He knew why she wasn’t here, but I would not embarrass him by explaining that to Churchill.

  “My sister … isn’t like other people, sir. She is not quite of this world. She saw Knox, knew he meant to take me away from her, and yet she refused to come to England. She waits for me in Budapest, and there I must return to protect her, war or no war, prophecy or no. Once I’ve made sure she’s safe, I will come back here to serve you until Hitler is no more.”

  “That’s lovely, Miss Lazarus, but you are not a British subject. With all due respect, you do not belong here. And no matter where Hungary ends up—though with old Horthy in charge, I am sure your nation will fall obediently in line behind the Reich—you will be no refugee. You are fighting alongside England, now.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It is quite simple. I have maintained a far-flung network throughout all of Europe, on my own private initiative, for nearly five years, ever since it became clear to me that Hitler’s annexation of the Rhineland was only the beginning, and not the end, of his territorial ambitions. I have independent, volunteer operatives in Paris, in Amsterdam…” He turned to Knox and smiled, and Knox made a short bow in response. “And I have them in Warsaw. Go home, make your arrangements, and I will have a contact now in Budapest as well. No matter what you must do, you will be your own witch, not mine. Knox will see to the practicalities.”

  Churchill gave me a long, level look, and I felt distinctly that he could look into me as deeply as my vampire employer Bathory ever could. “You have already fought a number of skirmishes. But you haven’t seen anything yet, Miss Lazarus. Stay with me here overnight, have some excellent beef Wellington, some lovely French champagne, and a good night’s sleep.”

  He looked from Albion to Raziel and, I swear it, Churchill winked.

  * * *

  The night before the world ended, I retired early, needing my rest, but wondering how I could possibly sleep knowing August was almost gone.

  Raziel shut the door behind us; I had called him my fiancé and that was enough to satisfy Churchill’s sensibilities. We stood, staring at each other, alone at last.

  “What do we do now?” he asked.

  His question sounded portentious, given the circumstances, but I could tell by his uncertain smile that Raziel meant something much more prosaic.

  “We get ready for bed,” I replied, my voice light. “We need to sleep, my dear, or we will be worn to a frazzle. Churchill’s staff has been kind enough to supply us with pajamas.…” I waved vaguely at the neat stack of nightclothes on the chair by the window. “We get changed, we wash up for bed, and we … go to sleep.”

  Raziel shrugged his jacket off, piled it on the chair, on top of the pajamas. He pulled at his tie, but the knot would not loosen. “How do I get out of this?” he said.

  He still hadn’t gotten the trick of knotting and undoing his tie. I drew close to him, and, fingers trembling, I worked the knot of his tie loose, slipped it off.

  He looked down at the buttons on his shirt. Before his fingers could pull the buttons off by accident, I reached for him, undid the buttons one by one, and slid the shirt off his shoulders.

  “You’ll learn,” I whispered, holding his shirt in my hands. Raziel stood in the moonlight, muscles rippling beneath his undershirt.

  I swallowed hard and slipped away to hang up his shirt and jacket on a heavy wooden hanger. Such a contrast, between the mysteries of the world Raziel kept as secrets, and the little routines any schoolboy would know how to do.

  I gathered up the pajamas and held them out to him. “Try to put these on,” I said. “It’s good practice. I’ll go freshen up in the washroom.…”

  And I fled the sight of him, wrestling half naked with the nightclothes, and got ready in the enormous marble washroom instead, splashing my face with cold water until the burn in my cheeks subsided. When I returned, dressed in a white silk peignoir, he had managed to get his pants off and pajamas on, and we were at least both decently covered up.

  By agreement, Raziel took the floor near the enormous leaded bedroom window, while I took the high, narrow
bed. I got over the fact that I slept alone with Raziel at Chartwell, and, exhausted, I sank into sleep like a stone into dark, cold, murky water. I escaped into the past through sleep, and joined my mother and father in a time before war, when we had enough to eat and could love each other without dangerous complications.

  I was eating an apple at the circus when someone shaking me roughly summoned me unwillingly back to life.

  It was Raziel.

  I held my breath, as if I could stop time that way, and Raziel and I could hide from the world together if only I kept still. He did not smile, and I understood why. It is much more difficult to watch your beloved suffer than to fly into the storm yourself. But I wasn’t going to stay out of the fight just because Raziel suffered for it. He didn’t want me to run, either.

  Weariness broke over my head like an enormous wave, but I refused to go under. “These big marches of armies, deep thoughts about the fate of nations … it’s all too much to contemplate. And yet we must.”

  The silence became huge between us as he slipped into my bed, and I curled against Raziel’s chest as he sheltered my body in his arms. I refused to cry the tears that clouded my vision, instead pressed closer against him. There was nothing I wanted more than this stolen moment, this touch, this human gentleness.

  In the morning, war would rip this tenderness away. I refused to lose Raziel by giving up, running toward a false safety. I stood by my words to Churchill: I had resolved to fly into the storm. But neither could I give up my passion for this man. I didn’t want to stop touching him, stop kissing him. I wanted to show Raziel how much I loved him, as a man and not as an angel.

  We came to rest in each other’s arms on the high, soft bed, twined together like flowers. He tucked my head under his chin with his hand, and I listened to the steady beat of his heart.

  The next I knew, the light of dawn woke me and I lay in the perfect pink silence for a long time, my head still resting on Raziel’s chest. I listened to the sound of his even, soft breathing, and to the gentle beat of his now human heart. And Raziel awoke to my desire.