Corvus Rising: Necromantia, #2

By Matthew Buza

The second trilogy of serials in the Necromantia Series are available in one Boxset! Corvus Rising!

 

No matter how much you try to bury the past, it finds a way to come back…

 

Who is Corvus?

 

A myth? Revenge? A jaded man hell-bent on destroying the world?

 

The story shifts like the pieces on a chessboard, but who will be left standing at the end?

 

What will happen to Isaac and Lazarus when they come face-to-face with evil?

 

A shapeshifter, a shot heard round the world, a religion gone mad, and the lust for murder fill this Boxset!

 

…what does Corvus want? And can they stop him?

 

What Early Readers have said:

★★★★★ "I read the first three books in his series in quick succession…I knew I had to read the follow-up."

★★★★★ "A dark, creepy tale you won't soon forget, but in a good way."

★★★★★ "Creepy. Horrific. Terrifying. Compelling. I couldn't put it down. This story takes you on a roller coaster ride through the darkness and spits you out into darker darkness."

 

The Necromantia series follows a TV-like episodic approach to storytelling. Each story is short and can be read in a long afternoon. The serials follow the characters as they explore the weird and fantastic world of the Occult. Part Urban Fantasy, part Horror, and sure to please fans of the movie Constantine, the comic series Hellblazer, and the TV show Supernatural. I'm sure you will find a happy home in the Necromantia series. Happy reading!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Matthew Buza
• Release date: Sep 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201500245

Book preview

Corvus

Outside of Sarajevo

1878

The late morning was cool, and the white clouds drifted through the pines in the crooked peaks of the Dinarides that surrounded Sarajevo. The morning silence broke with the deep rumble of cannonade echoing through the narrow valley walls and the popping cracks of gunfire from the street combat along the banks of the Miljacka river. The once quiet city had erupted into violence and death as the Austro-Hungarian troops marched through to claim their new outer providence.

A small wooden home was nestled in the hills, tucked behind an outcropping. A depression cut through the clearing, and thick reed grass climbed out of a small creek weakened by the hot summer.

Outside the door, Fahim rested in a willow rocking chair and dumped loose gravel that had found its way into his boots.

Taavi! Bring me that bucket, Fahim cried.

Taavi walked up from the creek bed, holding an oaken bucket. He looked tired from the scouting hike, and the water sloshed on the ground in front of Fahim.

I’m sorry, he pleaded.

Get out of here.

Fahim pulled against his blue tunic and opened his collar. He dipped the small rag in the bucket and draped it over his hunched shoulders. A small line of water poured off his lips, and his tongue lapped up the liquid.

Check your rifle, Taavi. You don’t want it misfiring.

Before Taavi could respond, a series of cries and screams poured out of the small cottage. Fahim ignored the distant shouts and wiped the dried blood off his bayonet.

Inside the small building, a man grunted as fingers clawed the floor.

Rag? Fahim offered.

What’s he...

It’s hot, and the Captain is letting off steam.

But... Taavi stopped. He focused on his rifle and rubbed the dusty stock.

It’s going to get hotter, said Fahim.

Maybe...not this far up.

Fahim pushed the bucket towards Taavi. When you’re done, clean mine.  

He walked along the outer edge of the cottage. The wall was covered with dried animal carcasses and willow medallions swinging in the light breeze. He reached out and pulled a wooden piece free. He held it up to the sky and marveled at the small twine artwork latticed between the bent willow reads. The thin string formed the shape of a child with crooked wings, almost life-like in its appearance.

The screams came again, and Fahim looked into the window, holding out the willow ornament like a frame. Between the wooden edges, Fahim watched the Captain driving his hips hard against the body of a pale woman. Her face was smeared in tears, and she winced with every thrust.

Fahim looked back at Taavi. These savages and their artwork.

What do you see in there? Taavi asked nervously.

He’s having a good.

Young Taavi looked queasy.

Fahim watched as the Captain pulled away and stood over the pale woman. She lifted her hands to protect her face as the click of the revolver exploded with a cloud of powder. She let loose a deafening shriek before falling silently into the sweat-soaked sheets.

I guess we don’t get a turn, Fahim said, dropping the willow art into the grass.

The Captain exited the cottage, his pants still loose, and his belt hung over his shoulder. His bare chest was sprinkled with red blood flecks. He smiled and was about to tell his sweetened tale when a bullet, chased by the roar of gunfire, tore through his hairy chest. The red splash of blood covered the wall, and he fell to the ground still.

Get down! Fahim cried.

Another shot rang out. Taavi’s head erupted and coated the ground with a navy-maroon spray. Fahim scrambled into the cottage. He looked back to see the new recruit lying still on the ground, blood bubbling out of his mouth.

Fahim kicked the door closed and scurried to the corner of the cottage. The woman lay naked across the bed, her breasts sagging to the side. Blood melted through and formed a red pool on the floor.

The cottage was silent and still. It smelled musty and rancid from jars of stale vinegar and lines of broken, rotten eggs. Fahim was panting with fear. He pulled out his small revolver. Only six shots in his hand, enough for one creeping sniper but not enough for a band of stragglers.

He heard the first splash and nearly squeezed off a fearful round. His hunters were splashing through the stream. Fahim’s hands shook and lips quivered.

A shot ran through the cottage, sending splinters of wood raining down over Fahim.

A voice with a Turkish accent cried out, Come out! You can’t escape. We have dozens here!

Fahim didn’t believe him. The shadow of a body moved around the cottage. Fahim leveled his weapon and pulled. The bullet tore through the house and struck the first assailant. The man screamed in pain and stumbled away.

This time, a barrage of gunfire swept through the cottage. Shots ripped through the walls. Shards of glass and wood furniture, mixed with exploding jars, formed a debris storm that rained over Fahim. A stray bullet found his leg, and Fahim screamed out. His hand pressed against the wound as blood poured out between his fingers.

The number of shots hitting the house meant he was doomed. He called out, I’m done! I’m done!

The shots stopped, and mumbling circled the cabin. A voice called, Throw out the gun.

Fahim did so. I don’t have any other weapons.

Again, the Turkish accent, You will not be spared if you do.

Fahim looked around the room. The dead woman’s body was still smoking from the bullet holes pockmarking her body.

The pain stabbed at his leg when he tried to stand. He lifted himself up, holding his weight on his good leg. The main door handle jiggled, and the door flung open. A rifle and bayonet entered the room. The man in the doorway was plump and wore a tattered brown uniform. His skin was dark, and a rough beard covered his lips and chin. His eyes locked on Fahim and then moved to the body on the bed.

Had some fun, didn’t you. Imperial scum.

I didn’t have anything to do with that. The Captain out there did everything. The Turk looked out to see his men rummaging through the dead corpses lying on the ground.

You let it happen. Raping and pillaging is the norm for you.

The day is lost; give up and flee into the mountains. Thousands of soldiers are on their way here. Fahim said, still gripping his wounded leg.

It very well may be. But for you, your day is just starting.

Another soldier stepped through the door and moved towards the body, ignoring his adversary in the corner. She’s dead.

His voice was Serbian. Fahim watched as he moved his hands over hers. He pulled the blanket over her face and knelt his head, whispering a prayer. A heavy chain hung down from his pierced ears and connected with a medallion that swung at his neck. It was an upside-down triangle with a firm eye at the center. It shimmered and looked like it was made of gold.

Do you know who this woman is? The kneeling man asked Fahim.

No, I don’t.

The kneeling man stood and walked back to the Turk in the doorway. He was about to say something when the broken windows went dark, as a large shape moved quickly around the cottage. It was as if a cloud had suddenly blotted out the sun. A howling shriek sent all the men grabbing for their ears.

The man in the doorway looked back, This will hurt.

What does that mean? Fahim asked.

It means I hope death comes to you quickly. He stepped aside. Four soldiers rushed into the room, each armed with rifles and bayonets. They held his arms and legs against the wall.

The immense shadow cleared, and the sunlight streamed into the cottage. A young man slowly filled the door. He couldn’t have been more than fourteen years old. Young and slender, but strong. He wore a loose pair of black pants. His chest was covered in tattooed artwork, images of stars, shapes, and a distinct image of a sun emblazoned on his chest. His hair was long and black, and he moved purposefully.

He paused at the foot of the bed and looked down at the woman now wrapped in the blanket.

What would you sacrifice for your freedom?

What are you talking about? Fahim managed.

Would you give up something precious? Your land? Maybe your home, to be burnt to the ground. The young man turned to Fahim. His eyes burned a bright yellow against the darkened wall. His fury sent shivers through Fahim’s body. How about a family member? He turned to the body on the bed, Or a mother?

A bite of emotion tugged at the boy. His mother’s mutilated remains stared past him. The boy could see her delicate eyes still clinging to the last moments. The burst blood vessels framed her face, and a long line of scratches down her back told the entire story.

Fahim looked down at the body and back to the boy. I don’t know who she is, and I didn’t do that. Your men here did more than we ever did.

The boy picked up the blanket and peered down, separating her legs and examining her crotch. It looks like you did enough.

It wasn’t me.

It doesn’t matter.

I swear I didn’t do that.

Again, it doesn’t matter. The young man walked closer, and for the first time, Fahim saw the large scar, a thick groove that drew down his forehead and ended at his lip.

Pin him.

What! The Fahim cried out. It was too late as the bayonets drove into his arms and legs. The blades embedded themselves into the wall behind them. The pain moved through his body like hot lava. He screamed as sweat poured down his chest. Each pull, every scream sent the blades deeper.

The young man was close now, and he stared up at the crying soldier. You killed my mother.

No, I didn’t, the soldier pleaded.

You killed my mother. He paused, reaching out to touch Fahim’s tunic. His fingers moved across the buttons before gripping the linen and pulling the uniform open. The bleeding soldier screamed in pain as his bare chest lay exposed. The soldiers left their guns and exited the room. The bayonets held the crucified man to the wall.

The boy’s voice slowly morphed as the outline of his face elongated, What’s your name? the boy asked.

Fahim was nearing death, and his head slumped over.

I need your name, The boy’s face had elongated into a large beak.

The dying soldier thought he was hallucinating and mumbled his namesake, Fahim.

I’m Corvus.

Thick feathers edged around the black beak. Corvus’s young face had transformed into a crow. He raised his head back and called out. The house violently shook. The beak came down and buried itself in the soldier’s belly. A series of sharp stabs and tears opened the soldier. His entrails fell out onto the floor. The man-sized bird began to feed slowly. Outside, his followers kept watch. In the distance, the pops of cannon continued to sound. Sarajevo was overrun, and the Austro-Hungarian troops were ferreting out the remaining guerrillas. Still, they would not survive long in the Corvus Valley.

Vision At The Bottom

Outside of Sarajevo

Spring 1914

High in the hills sat the small cabin. Years of age opened cracks in the wood siding, letting diffused light flood the floor. The air was crisp, and the low fog bank danced and drifted over the frost-tipped grass blades. White wisps of vapor seeped through the wall openings and coated the floor.

The Turk leaned against the wall in his chair with his red fez pulled down over his eyes. He snored hard, his chest lifting against the dirt gray sweater. He was a short man, and his feet hung in the air, dangling over the river of fog that had made its way into the cabin.

The landscape was calm, like a frozen painting, muted in color and accented by pines. A ring of pikes driven into the ground formed a crude fence surrounding the cabin. At the top, small decapitated animal heads were skewered and facing outward. Their dried skin and rotting flesh gave off a sour smell that swirled around the camp.

A distant thump of wings pulsed in the air above, followed by another. Hidden in the deepening fog was a large bird. The pulse came again, quickly parting the clouds. A limp man fell gracefully through the mist, impacting the ground just beyond the pikes with a dull thud. The pulsing wings came again, this time more frequent. Something had landed just out of sight.

There came a scratching sound. A filthy man appeared dragging a dead body by a bloodied shirt collar. The man was strong and pulled the limp body with ease.

An incantation hid the cabin from prying eyes. Only an empty field and a small stream could be seen. He reached the line and crossed the threshold; the pikes appeared, and the air rippled to reveal the hidden cottage. He crossed the protective barrier and paused. The roof of the house was black as if burnt by wildfire. The walls were the color of thunderclouds.

The man was broad-shouldered and thick with muscle. His arms rippled, blue veins meandered down his skin, disappearing into the waves of hair growing over his forearm. He carried an unkempt beard that was edged with a dusting of gray. Cold, dark eyes focused on the door as he dragged the corpse behind him.

He stopped at the door and called out, Hasip!

Hasip awoke and stumbled out of the chair. He placed his red fez on his head and rushed to the door. It opened. The blinding light sent him reeling. He lowered his arm, Corvus?

The corpse dropped to the ground. Corvus moved past the Turk. Prepare the body. I’m going to clean up.

Hasip looked down and saw the unmistakable markings of the Serbian uniform. The face had been picked clean by buzzards. He looked back, his eyes fearful.

I will, I will, he muttered.

Corvus ignored the Turk and made his way to the bowl of water. He paused over the clear liquid, his face illuminated by the flat, bright light coming through the open window.

Fear not, he whispered in Latin before touching his hands and running the water over his face. Dirt and mud fell out of his hair and darkened the pool below. His mind focused, and he drifted into a meditative state. He heard every movement, however small, each plink of water striking the pool, Hasip’s rushed footsteps behind him, and the slippery sounds of the Serbian still bleeding out.

Corvus pulled a small black feather from the corner of his shirt pocket. He held it into the light and watched as the delicate tendrils turned to ash and melted into his arm.

Hasip was short of breath, All done. It’s all done and ready.

You seem rushed, Corvus said in a long tone.

No, no. I just wanted to make sure it was right.

Corvus looked back at the center of the room, the bed now pressed against the wall. He reached out and tapped his partner on the chest. The touch of his hand sent chills running down Hasip’s back. He shivered in fear as goosebumps broke out down his arm. Begone.

Hasip bent and bowed quickly before rushing out of the cabin. His quick walk turned to an open sprint. He followed the creek towards the distant shed on the edge of the forest clearing.

Corvus straddled the Serb’s body and removed his shirt. A small pool of blood still oozed out onto the wooden floor. The corpse’s head pointed to the north wall, its arms stretched east to west, and his legs pointed south.

Corvus’s long black hair fell over his shoulders. He kneeled down, and his fingers touched the dead body’s wet cheeks. It was sticky and cool and smelled of metal.

Such a waste of a strong body, his voice was soft and seductive, with a hint of tenderness. Why did you make me do this? I just wanted to know where your little troop was going to meet. Corvus threw his hair back and settled his rear onto the man’s hips. I guess I have to do it my way.

Corvus took a deep breath and arched his back up towards the ceiling. Tacked to the roof was a dry and desiccated body. The gut curled open, and the withered breasts hung like stalactites in a cold cave. He smiled at the draped hair and leathery cheeks, What do you think, mother? Do you want to help today?

Corvus looked back at the corpse between his legs. He smacked the dead man’s face, Huh! You up for it, too? I sure as hell am. Oh, it feels good to stretch one’s powers. His back arched again. Along his back, rows of black rippling feathers poked out and then retracted into his skin. Corvus bounced gently on the corpse like a child. He leaned close, Oh, I will have my fun.

His legs sprung up, and he cleared the blood off his hands. To his left, a small table was set with herbs, branches, and vials of salt.

What will we do today? his finger moved over the items before stopping on the long knife. His fingers touched it gently, ripples of pleasure moving up his arm. I see you are excited today. My dear Sava. Shiny and bright you are.

His hand gripped the knife, and he swiped the bottle of pink salt. A quick flip of the wrist, and he spread the contents out on the corpse’s chest. He moved over the body and looked up, his face locked with his tacked mother.

You don’t mind, do you? He said to the old witch. Of course, you don’t. You never did. But I do. I’ll show you even now.

He made a quick cut of her dried black hair and sprinkled it over the bloody carcass like a garnish. Corvus smiled hard and reached into his back pocket for a box of matches. He struck the sulfur tip and dropped it into the pink salt cone. The match sparked an orange explosion and sent a wave of purple smoke over Corvus’s face.

The fire disappeared as quickly as it started. Corvus brushed away the smoke and remaining salt dust. The corpse’s clothes and skin and salt had fused into a blackened mirror. Corvus picked up the black plate and looked into the swirling abyss.

Who are you? Where did you come from? He asked the black plate. Tell me.

The swirling black turned gray and quickly parted. It showed a place he was familiar with, the main road along the river in town. Tucked away off a back street, the moving image stopped at a small inn. Above the entrance was a worn wooden sign. Corvus lowered the plate and looked up, Mother, they’re here in Sarajevo. I’m almost giddy with glee.

The Call

Southern France

Two Months Later

––––––––

Lazarus held up the oil lantern as he stepped through the milky water. Above his head were the craggy remains of an old salt cave. His wet boots and soaked pants were like weights hanging off his body. They slowed as he swam to the small raft drifting in the pool’s center.

I’m sorry, said the small child covered in white chalky dust. His clothes were tattered, but only because it was a working day in the mine. I thought the boat was tied to the mooring.

Henri, don’t worry about it. Just make sure you have the whip ready for your lashings.

I’m sorry, Lazarus, I can’t hear you, Henri said playfully as his voice echoed through the twisted walls.

I’m sure, kid, I’m sure. Lazarus reached the raft, still laden with chipped salt wrapped in fine linens. He grabbed the rope and pulled the collection back across the pool.

They were deep in the hillside of Southern France on a bright day, but they saw none of it. The cave walls were their target, a year’s salt supply in an afternoon of work.

Henri folded the linen sheet into a small satchel. He dropped the collection onto the raft as Lazarus emerged from the water. His pants poured out over the stone ground, and his boots oozed the milky water over the darkened stone. Lazarus pulled and lifted the raft over the short lip and rested the heavy load on the ground.

I’m sorry.

I needed to cool off. It was getting hot doing all the work.

All the work...

Before Henri could finish his sentence, Lazarus pushed out with his arm and sent the boy flying into the water. He ignored the boy’s struggles and cries for help. Instead, he grabbed the rope and began descending the tunnel, pulling the small raft along the smooth ground. After a minute, Henri caught up with Lazarus. They sloshed quietly towards the cave entrance.

The sun was bright. Even in the late afternoon, the wind picked up, moving through the green fields of young wheat. Small willow trees lined the gravel road. A donkey stood tied to an oak tree. He let out a throaty snort as the two exited the mouth of the cave.

Load the ass. Lazarus was firm as he struck a match and tossed a damp cigarette into his mouth. It took a few puffs before it caught. He walked to the road’s edge and leaned against a large boulder. The shade was welcoming, and he closed his eyes, listening to the boy curse under his breath as he loaded the linen sacks.

I still don’t know why you need this much, the boy said.

Lazarus nestled into the earth. It’s going to be a busy year.

Busy? Are you expecting more business? Going to get paid for that business, or are we still working for the lord’s good graces?

The Lord provides for us, Henri, Lazarus said with a wry smile.

Does he provide us food too?

Finish your work, and he might.

He hasn’t given us anything except for this salt. I can’t wait to eat all this beautiful, delicious salt. Or will we just make pretty mixtures for the shelves?

I’m sorry, I can’t hear you through all of your complaining. Are you saying anything meaningful? Lazarus quipped.

I’m the one out here doing the work, Henri said, holding a piece of chipped salt.

The fields buzzed as Henri worked. Lazarus looked down at the ryegrass and focused on a single blade. His breathing slowed. He whispered a distant enchantment from an old book given to him years before. His hand waved over the grass, the tips yellowed, and the ends curled. The grass held and then turned back to a vibrant green. He was disappointed. Damn.

A cloud of dust lifted up from behind the short rows of grapevines off the distant edge of the hill. The bouncing head appeared first, and then the black steed. The rider made his way down through the field. Lazarus was at attention, standing firm with his hand tucked behind his shirt, where a hidden sack of incendiary salt always rested. He thumbed his pocket and felt his flint strike.

The rider stopped a dozen feet from Lazarus. He was a large man wrapped in a purple shawl that flowed behind in the breeze. It looked like fine silk and shimmered in the bright sun. The man’s face was stern.

Necromancer, the man said with a slight bow.

And your name?

Aleksandar. I’m here to deliver you this. His hand reached into his jacket to reveal a small sheet of paper folded tight with a red wax stamp pressed into the seal.

What is it?

A job, he replied in a deep voice. His eyes shifted to the child standing next to the donkey. Your apprentice?

Lazarus took the letter from the rider. He wants to be, but I won’t let him. He’s an orphan I’ve taken in. Lazarus turned back to Henri, Don’t stop, boy. We need that loaded.

I’m here to deliver this letter and to receive your reply.

You wear purple. Lazarus paused as he ran his finger through the wax seal. Your accent isn’t German.

Serbian.

Do you work for Cilas?

I serve another who serves him.

Lazarus huffed. Then you work for Cilas.

Lazarus opened the letter and saw the fine writing.

Dear Lazarus, I request you to join me in the Balkans. I will be in Sarajevo, and I desperately need your presence. I need another of The Order to assist me. We’re spread thin across Eastern Europe. It is urgent as I am on a mission for C. He has indicated that your debt could be paid if you join.

Lazarus lifted his head briefly to contemplate the offer. To expunge his debt early and free him from Cilas’s incessant requests was too tempting to turn down. He remembered the book still resting in the cottage over the hill. He had paid a thick price with years of servitude to that man in Berlin. To lift that yolk was tempting. He continued with the letter.

I need your help. Please hurry, we don’t have much time as a premonition has come to me. I fear something terrible is trying to unsettle the Main. HIS plan. Please inform Aleksandar of your answer, and he will escort you to Sarajevo, where I’m at. I await your arrival. -Malusha

He whispered her name and remembered that night in Berlin nearly sixty years before. Her beauty and grace were still etched into his mind.

Lazarus pondered the offer. He wanted to be free of the debt more than anything. It was the reason he lived in poverty while holding such a privileged position. All his wealth and work went to Berlin, and what little was left went to Him. He could finally have the freedom he desired. He looked back at the boy and knew this would be enough to change the arc of their lives.

What is your answer? Aleksandar pressed.

She’s in Sarajevo?

She is.

Are you her... Lazarus drifted off.

I serve the lady, nothing more.

Lazarus was embarrassed at the question. He let his feelings out when he should have kept his mouth quiet. Behind, the boy slowly walked along the cave’s edge and stood alongside Lazarus.

What’s going on?

Lazarus looked down and back at the rider, We need to get ready. We’ve got to catch a train to Sarajevo.

Why? The boy asked. We have work here.

I have a debt to settle. His mind saw Malusha, and his heart swelled. Get the ass home, we need to pack.

Your Cabin

––––––––

How do you say this word? Henri pointed to the leather-bound book.

"Maniner, spoke Lazarus. He flipped the book closed and saw the emblem on the front cover. His eyebrows raised, and he looked down at Henri, Pullet? Why are you reading that?"

What difference does it make? I want to read it.

Grimoires are not for children, Lazarus said.

I’m not a child, shot back Henri. I can read whatever I want. There was a pause, At least I can read at this age.

Lazarus’s hand moved quick and cracked the boy across the jaw. The boy slid on the leather seat and turned to the window, his eyes misting as the sting subsided.

Lazarus was dark, his voice dropped, Don’t presume to know anything about me.

Henri was quiet. He turned to the book and continued to read quietly. Over his head, the dimming sky and the hilled landscape of western Switzerland flooded by. Small farms etched into dark forests, and columns of smoke stretched out from the edge of stone chimneys. The train clicked along the rails, and the car moved and shook as they took the bends and turns through the valleys. They were an hour outside of Toulouse and only just beginning their journey to the Balkans.

A train employee moved down the aisle, asking patrons for their drink orders, and periodically closed car windows as the evening progressed. He reached the table where Lazarus and Henri sat.

Your order, sir? He was proper and clean. Along the outside of his face, a scar stretched down from his ear to the base of his neck. Lazarus wondered where a man may have received such a wound.

Gin and soda for me. He looked at Henri. The redness in his eyes had faded. Do you want a sandwich?

I’m not hungry, Henri shot back.

Lazarus looked up. A ham and cheese sandwich for the boy and apple juice if you have it.

Henri looked back at Lazarus, and his anger seemed to melt away. It was his favorite meal, and they surely couldn’t afford the cost. He knew it was Lazarus’s way of apologizing.

I like this book, Henri broke the silence.

I know the man who wrote it.

How? It’s old.

Lazarus looked down. And I am not old? I was there when he wrote it. At least I was there in Egypt where it was inspired.

When was that? Asked the boy.

I was a few years older than you. He smiled, I had business there. Another debt to pay.

Cilas?

Lazarus chuckled, No, a different debt. They seem to follow me everywhere. It is the one I still carry to this day. One I won’t shake for a long time.

Is that the Bond?

It is.

Is that the same Bond I would have if you made me your apprentice?

No. There are two flavors. One you want and one you don’t. But you have neither.

But it’s what I want.

No more talk of this. Do you hear me? It’s enough that I let you read that. You should be reading Dickens or Verne. Not a useless Grimoire.

How do you know it’s useless? Have you tried these spells?

It’s useless to someone who doesn’t know what they are doing.

I know what to do.

Lazarus ignored Henri. There was no point in having the same argument with the boy.

The waiter made his way down the aisles, holding a silver tray above his head. The glasses and drinks surrounded the plate of food.

Your meal, sir. The waiter bowed, placing the items on the small wooden table.

Thank you. Please put it on our cabin tab.

What room, sir?

Twenty-Two.

As you wish.

The man disappeared over Lazarus’s shoulder, and the strong smell of lavender and vanilla mixed with oil wafted through the air. It was a unique smell. One that Lazarus recognized from a mission through the Pyrenees. He looked back and saw the waiter attending to other passengers. Lazarus shook off the feelings of dread and returned to the table. The leather book sat closed. Henri had wasted no time. Small bits of lettuce and crumbs remained on the porcelain plate. Lazarus reached down, picked up the pickle, and crunched away.

Good? He asked.

Henri nodded and finished the sandwich. Where’s our friend?

Lazarus watched the train car. It was full, and nearly every bench was taken. A series of families lined the back of the car, laughing, eating, and joking between themselves. In the far corner, he caught the eyes of a man before they dipped below a German newspaper. It was nothing except for the tattoo of a snake weaving between his fingers and ending with its mouth agape over his thumb. A pyramid with an eye was emblazoned on this other hand. The waiter and this man were more than a warning. Turning quickly, he looked down at the boy, Get your book. We’re moving.

Where? You haven’t finished your drink, he said, pointing.

Lazarus reached down and grabbed the glass. He pressed it to his face and leaned his head back, draining it in a single gulp. Now we can go.

They moved quickly down the dinner car and to the junction door to the sleeping carriage. The hallway ran the length of the right side of the train car. Elegant wood paneling and walnut veneer adorned the walls. Iron light fixtures marked the entrance to each cabin, and their oil basins sent the sunset reflecting over the train car’s ceiling.

Lazarus peered back and saw the reflection of a man moving through the car exchange. Someone was following them.

Move, move quick! Lazarus ushered the boy.

Lazarus and Henri flew down the hallway and dove into their cabin. Their bags were still unpacked and piled on the bed. The room was small. Two bunk beds were stacked against the wall, and a small sink with a mirror and chair straddled the open windows. The Swiss countryside flashed by.

Lazarus grabbed his bag and began to quickly tear through its contents. His arm reached deep. He found what he was looking for: a foot-long hunting knife in a leather sheath.

What’s that for? Asked Henri.

I don’t like some of these people here.

What people?

Lazarus jumped as a junction door slammed down the hall. Hide now. Get in the closet.

The closet? It’s too small.

Get in there now! Lazarus said, his eyes burned with rage.

Henri knew this wasn’t a joke. It was a tight fit, but he managed to wedge himself between the narrow walls.  Lazarus closed the door behind him, waiting in the shadows.

There was a knock at the door. Lazarus steadied himself with the knife tucked tight behind his back. He carefully peered through the eyehole. The waiter from the dinner car stared back. He didn’t look threatening or menacing but annoyed.  

Lazarus edged open the door and peered through, Can I help you?

The waiter watched Lazarus’ eyes, Sir, you need to sign your bill.

My what? Lazarus said, confused. The knife shifted slightly in his hand.

Your bill, sir. And I have the child’s drink. He didn’t finish it.

Lazarus shot a look down the hall. They were alone. The door opened, and the knife carefully dropped into his back pocket. The waiter presented the bill. Lazarus quickly signed it. The waiter entered the room and set the drink on the small pull-out table.

Did the child enjoy the meal? asked the waiter.

He did, thank you. He’s just in the restroom.

Absolutely. Please let me know if you need anything else tonight.

Thank you. Lazarus’ voice was agitated and nervous. He watched every movement with a keen eye. There was something off about all of this. Something he didn’t like. The waiter turned and reached for the door. No tattoos on the wrist. Nothing protruding beneath the tight uniform.

Sir. The man’s eyes lingered for just a moment too long. The timing was off.

Lazarus quickly closed the door behind him. He let out a deep sigh of relief. He felt stupid and embarrassed for rushing off. It was weak. They would have been safer staying in the dinner car. He couldn’t afford to close off and run away, not now. Lazarus reached for the closet to let Henri out when another knock came.

Lazarus paused a moment and watched the door. He could hear Henri rustling to his left. It was probably the waiter again, he thought.

The knob turned, and the door blew open. A blur of a man flew into the room. Lazarus tumbled to the floor and crashed into the wooden cabinet, sending wood splinters into the air. The knife in Lazarus’s pocket toppled to the ground. The intruder grabbed the weapon off the floor and lunged at Lazarus. He was ready to plunge the steel into Lazarus’s exposed chest. Lazarus reached out and jabbed his fingers into the man’s throat. The intruder fell back, clutching his neck, spurting and struggling for breath. Lazarus dove after the knife. They rolled on the floor. Each man fighting for control.

"What’s going on