The Midnight Witch

by Paula Brackston

  Lilith, help me!

  “Freddie! Oh, I am so sorry. So very, very sorry.”

  You have to help me.

  “It is too late. I can do nothing.”

  Make me live again. You can, Lilith. I know you can. I’m not ready to die. My life cannot be over, not yet, not like this. It wasn’t meant to be this way. Please, I am so scared. Please, help me!

  “Freddie, you don’t know what you are asking…”

  Yes I do. I heard you and Papa talking. He told me all about it when I was a boy. At first I didn’t believe, and then when I did I was frightened. But I know you can do this, Lilith. You’ve got to help me. You’ve got to. Father wouldn’t let me die. You mustn’t!

  I look down at his ghastly, terrified face. How can I leave him like this? How can I let him go into the Land of Night when he is so very frightened? All of a sudden he is just my baby brother and it is up to me to protect him. It is not fair. He has been made to suffer because of my position in the coven—Stricklend has struck at him to try and get what he wanted from me. None of this is Freddie’s fault. Well, if he must pay a price for my being the Lazarus Head Witch, then it is only right that he should benefit from who I am, too.

  I stand quickly, wiping my tears from my face, and hurry to open the door. I shout down for some help and a footman arrives breathlessly.

  “My brother has been taken ill and I must see he gets home immediately,” I tell him. ‘Please have my driver bring the carriage round. Is there a door at the rear of the house?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Good, we shall use that. I do not wish to disturb the other guests or cause a fuss. We must do this discreetly, do you understand?”

  “Of course, ma’am.”

  “As soon as you have sent word to the driver, come back here with another footman. My brother is unconscious and will need to be carried.”

  The journey back to Fitzroy Square is barely three miles but feels interminable. I have the driver run in and fetch Withers. We pretend to take Freddie into a room at the back of the house, saying we do not want Lady Annabel worried, but in fact we slip into the garden, Withers carrying Freddie’s limp body in his arms, and hasten down the secret stone stairwell into the catacombs below.

  * * *

  Bram’s attic rooms seem bleak and bare after the opulence of the ball. By the time he slumps onto his bed, still wearing Perry’s second-best clothes, his head is throbbing from a surfeit of noise and champagne. In the distance, the sonorous bells of Big Ben chime four.

  The dark before the dawn, he tells himself.

  And yet he has little hope that the new day will bring with it any cheer. He closes his eyes against the gloom of his dreary home and at once Lilith’s face swims before him. She has shunned him, he is certain of it. Going to the ball was a mistake. She did not want him there. He did not fit. It was as simple as that. He watched her dance, first with the viscount, and then with a man he did not know. And then she left. Left the ballroom, left the house, left him. Just like that, without a word. What else could he make of it, other than that his presence was not welcome? Perhaps the truth was that she had only ever considered him someone to be kept a secret. Bram noticed that Louis Harcourt also left the ball, not long after Lilith.

  The pain in his head will not let him sleep, so he sits up, rubbing his eyes. He strikes a match and puts it to the oil lamp hanging from a hook above him, turning the wick low to save fuel.

  She looked so wonderful, so very beautiful. Among all those glamorous people she still stood out, still shone with some special light.

  He reaches over to the table and picks up a sketchbook and stick of charcoal. Narrowing his eyes, he recalls the way she wore her hair, and the cut of her gown. He starts to draw, timidly at first, and then with growing confidence. He can see her so clearly, the tilt of her head, the graceful line of her neck, the neatness of her back, the curve of her hip as she danced. He finishes one sketch, tears it from the block, letting it fall to the floor, and starts another. This time he tries to catch the way she holds herself when she stands still, shoulders back, but not stiff, her dark eyes watchful, always watchful. He draws another picture, and another, and another, until his hands and cuffs are black with charcoal smudges. At last he sketches her mouth, only her mouth, full and sensual, lips slightly parted. As the oil in the lamp dwindles and burns out, Bram lets his hand rest on the paper, his eyes closing again, as he drops into a fitful, dream-ridden sleep.

  * * *

  My senses tell me day has broken, though down here in the catacombs there is not so much as a sliver of daylight to indicate that night has fled. I have been so involved in my magic these past hours I have not been aware of the passage of time. I could never have imagined the power that resides within me, had I not taken the decision to save Freddie from the Land of Night, whatever it takes. The first surprise was the clarity of my own resolve. Since the instant I set upon this path, I have not felt a moment’s hesitation. Freddie was not meant to die; he is too young to have his life so needlessly snuffed out. It was not his fault he found himself caught up in a conflict between rival magic orders. The quarrel was not his, and he should not pay the price. I am his sister, I love him, and I will do whatever I can to help him. Indeed, it was my failing that I could not keep him safe in the first place.

  And then there is Mama to consider. She is so very fragile. I fear losing her only son now would send her into a place of such despair that I might never bring her from it.

  But, above all this, I am a necromancer. My whole existence is, and has always been, defined by my ability to commune with the dead, to summon spirits to divine the future and gain insight, to use their magic to strengthen my own spells of protection so that I might do good in the world, protect my family, and continue to keep the Great Secret. Surely, it would be denying what I am not to use my gift to help my brother. What would be the point of all those years of study and training, all my father’s diligent instruction, all the strength and wisdom of the coven, if I could not use my craft to save someone I love? For centuries, necromancers before me have done just as I am doing now, and many had not the purest motive of all as I do—the motive of love. I can use the Elixir, I can raise Freddie, I can sustain him with spellcraft and regular treating with that precious potion that is at the very center, the heart, of what a Lazarus witch is. There is a price to pay, I understand that. And I will see that nothing is taken that is not paid for. I will not give away the Great Secret, and I will see to it that no one is harmed through my actions. I know I am breaking my coven vows by attempting Infernal Necromancy. Would Father have done as I have done? Would he have sacrificed Freddie? I must follow what I feel to be the right thing. Perhaps, after all, this is a way that my loyalties can be brought together—my loyalty to my family and to the coven. Should not the Lazarus witches be able to withstand such a deed? Will I be cast out for my actions? I cannot know. I only know I cannot abandon my brother.

  As soon as Withers had laid Freddie gently on the floor at the center of the sacred circle in the Great Chamber I bid him leave me and see that I was not disturbed by anyone, even a fellow coven member. There was nothing further he could do to assist me. Indeed, this was the first time, in all these years, that he had ever set foot in the rooms beneath the house. I sensed his wonder, his awe, but he was intent on helping me and knew that this was not the time to ask questions. I am blessed to have such a friend. So is Freddie.

  Anyone who is involved in the raising of spirits will have to cross the veil that divides the realm of the living from that of the dead. The followers of Lazarus have named these places the Land of Day and the Land of Night, and see them as separated by the Rubicon. We are taught how to venture to the habitat of the dead, but we only do so from a position of safety. We may call a familiar and willing spirit anywhere, though it is customary, and more sensible, to do so either at our home or at a place where those spirits visit to test the boundary themselves, such as graveyards, sacred sp
aces, and crossroads. What matters is that we make the connection only while we are firmly and securely rooted where we belong. The Head Witch is often seen as a natural conduit for conversations and prognostications with those in the Land of Night, and over time, I know I will spend more and more time in their company. I will have to guard against being drawn to their melancholy but beautiful world too much, for it is not where I belong, not yet. But it is strangely alluring. It is peopled with our loved ones who have gone before us, as well as with spirits of incredible wisdom, so that there is a risk witches begin to detach themselves from their terrestrial life. I saw it with Father. At times he would become withdrawn and fretful. I understand more already, even after a few short months as head of the coven. The home of the spirits is without pain, without base bodily drives and needs. There is such a beauty in its purity, it is truly wonderful. This pull, this constant yearning by the spirits for us, and by our own souls for the peace and bliss of such an existence, will be at its strongest when I embark on the act of Infernal Necromancy, for that is what I must do to save Freddie.

  But this seduction is not the greatest danger that I face. That comes from the Darkness. The Darkness is the deepest level of the Land of Night, where demons and creatures of our nightmares dwell. The place emits a powerful and venal energy. Its inhabitants are jealous of those who still tread the earth and delight in causing us suffering. Their chief goal is to capture the unwary and drag them down to their pit. Even experienced necromancers have been lost to the Darkness. I recall only too well how close I came to being taken into the abyss by the demon I summoned at my inauguration. I must be on my guard.

  Which is why preparations for the Raising have taken me all this long night. The necessary objects have been assembled. I have spent several hours invoking spirit guardians, calling on witch spirits and departed necromancers to assist us, and offering prayers and entreaties to our Goddess protector, Hekate. Should I prepare inadequately, should something go wrong … should I be taken, then Freddie, too, is doomed. Doomed and damned, for the spirit being called for Raising would be in a highly vulnerable state, and without me would fall victim to the nearest avaricious demon or twisted creature.

  I am wearing the Robe of the Head Witch, and have Maygor’s Silver Thread wound about my arm. Standing before the statue of Hekate I look into the face she presents me, the other two gazing out in opposite directions, watching, ready to warn of danger. She is very beautiful, and tonight her eyes seem gentler, somehow. Does she fear for me? I wonder.

  “Stay with me, Queen of Witches,” I ask her. “Please, do not let this Daughter of the Night fall into the pit of everlasting darkness. Guide me, so that I can do what it is I have to do.”

  At last, I am ready. I turn my back on the altar now and step into the circle. I had Withers place Freddie’s body along the Rubicon, as he hovers on the threshold of the Land of Night. With his death so recent, calling his spirit back would be a simple matter, particularly as we were so close in life. Summoning the power required to make his body live again and his spirit to inhabit it, so that he is as returned as near to his previous state as is possible, that is far more difficult, and success is far from guaranteed. He is still dressed in his evening clothes, and he looks quite peaceful, with his eyes closed and his hands folded across his chest.

  I have the witch’s trove in the circle with me, and take from it a vial of bone dust, which I sprinkle onto my palms, rubbing them together. The grit is harsh on my skin, but bones provide an important connection between the living and the dead. Next, I take up a lighted candle and walk around Freddie’s body, pouring a thin stream of melted wax to form a loop on the floor about him.

  From beneath my cape, I extract the golden key which hangs on the slender chain around my neck. Kneeling in front of the trove, I remove a smaller box from inside it. This is made entirely of ebony, black and gleaming, without ornament or carving. I unlock it and reach in for the blue glass vial that sits snugly within. The second my fingers touch it I feel its heat. The warmth travels up my hands, my wrists, my arms, so that by the time I have lifted it from the box my whole body is aglow with the heat it gives off. For a moment I stand transfixed, staring at the innocuous-looking bottle with its cork stopper and wax seal. The Elixir. I am holding it in my hands. The Great Secret is contained in it, and I am about to set it free. Others are aware that it has been disturbed. Urgent whispering and chattering fills my head, but I ignore it. From somewhere deep below, somewhere in the Darkness, I hear sighing and calling, but I must not be distracted. At the edge of the circle, I place the chalice on the ground before me. With infinite care, I break the seal on the vial and gently ease out the stopper. There is no smell at all, rather a sense of energy being released.

  Cautiously, I tip the bottle and pour seven drops of the precious, ruby liquid into the chalice. I replace the cork and set the bottle back in its box, which I lock once more before returning it to the trove. When I take up the chalice I find my hands are shaking as I walk back to the center of the circle, holding the chalice up in front of me.

  I am still wearing the diamond necklace. I close my eyes and let my fingers select one small stone. It is no longer cold, but warmed by my own body. Quickly I work the platinum thread counterclockwise until the gemstone unscrews from its setting and drops into my palm. I hold it aloft, my eyes still closed. As I recite the ancient words of the Raising spell I close my hand tight about the diamond. I feel its hard surface resist my grip, the sharp edges digging into the flesh of my palm. And then, slowly, magically, it yields. Yields and crumbles until it is not more than fine sand. I open my eyes now and look down at Freddie. He looks so very far away from me. Fear grips me. What if I fail? What if I make a mistake?

  I must not.

  Carefully, I let the diamond grains fall from my hand into the chalice. A thin wisp of green smoke rises briefly from the Elixir and then vanishes.

  I often call spirits, but this is different. These are not the gentle words I use to speak with my spirit guides or even the incantations for summoning new spirits. My mouth is dry as I call out the words that will summon a dead spirit in its own body.

  “Exurgent mortus et ad me veniunt!” My own voice sounds unfamiliar to me, the power of the command lending it weight and nerves adding an edge. There is a pitiful moaning from beneath the sacred circle, but Freddie does not stir, either in spirit or body. I call out again, “Exurgent mortus et ad me veniunt!” There is a howling from beyond the Rubicon now, a fearsome, unearthly noise. I must be vigilant. The call is unspecific at this point, as the spell requires, and there are those other than Freddie who might try to answer it. As I form this thought there comes a loud banging, and the ground beneath my feet pulses upward, as if being pummeled by some mighty fist. I press on with the ritual.

  Kneeling beside Freddie, holding the chalice in one hand, I rest my other palm over his eyes. “When these eyes open once more, they will see.” I touch his brow. “When this mind stirs, it will think.” I put my hand on his chest. “When this heart beats again, it will feel.” I place my fingers on his cold, blue mouth. “When these lips part again, they will speak.” My pulse is racing now, and it is taking a great effort of will to ignore the hideous noises coming up from under the circle, and not to panic at the way the floor is bulging and stretching as it is repeatedly kicked and thumped by something with monstrous strength.

  I lean forward and put the edge of the chalice to my dear brother’s lips. There is such a small quantity of the Elixir that it seeps into his mouth easily. I place the chalice on the ground and slip my arm beneath his head, raising it up onto my lap. All at once I can feel the same heat that infused me flooding through his body, chasing away the chill of death. Then I see his fingers move. They move! Spirits save us, the wonderful potion is working! He begins to twitch, his arms jerking, his feet kicking out against nothing, his head thrashing from side to side as if he is asleep but in the grip of a terrible dream.

  “Wake up, Freddi
e,” I whisper, and then, louder, “wake up, Freddie!”

  With one enormous surge of energy he is propelled out of my arms and upright, standing, but not standing, as his feet are not in fact touching the ground. I fall backward and have not time to get up before his eyes spring open and his mouth, too, and he lets out a shriek, the sound of which will stay with me until my last day of treading this earth. He looks filled with panic and fear, arms flailing, hands clawing at the air, gasping for breath. But those eyes do see! That heart is beating!

  He turns and his gaze finds me. He coughs and splutters, trying to speak. I get to my feet and approach him, hand outstretched.

  “Freddie, don’t be frightened. I am here. I am here.”

  The color has returned to his flesh, and the strength to his limbs. Within moments he is restored. Completely restored. As the energy in him settles and finds its equilibrium his feet at last connect with the floor, so that he is standing quite naturally. He looks about him, then at his hands, his arms, his body, then at me. And then he smiles, and it is a good, happy, real smile.

  “Freddie!”

  “Lilith … I am … I am quite well.” His voice is hoarse, but otherwise unaffected. “You saved me, darling sister. I knew you could! I knew you would.” He takes a step toward me.

  And the ground opens up and swallows him.

  Suddenly the chamber is filled with screams. I hear Freddie’s heartbreaking scream of terror as he is dragged down into the abyss. And I can hear my own roar of rage.

  “Freddie, no!” I fling myself to the edge of the yawning chasm that has opened up at the center of the circle. The stench of the pit fills my mouth and stings my throat as I look into the dark hole, searching for any sign of my brother, but it is too gloomy, and there is too much foul-smelling smoke. I detect movement, only, so that I am aware of beings of some sort flinging themselves about below. Some are winged. Others scrabble at the stony sides of the crater. I can still hear Freddie crying out, calling my name. I hold up my arm and flick Maygor’s Silver Thread into life, so that I can whip it into the hole. “Freddie, catch the rope! Catch hold of the rope.” But it is too dark for him to see it, or for me to direct it toward him. I quickly use a simple enchantment, “Light! Light now!” I command, and a phosphorescent glow illuminates the pit. What it reveals is more terrifying than anything my imagination could have supplied. The hole deepens into a seemingly bottomless shaft of stone, cut through the earth, with rocky ledges here and there, upon which crouch demons and cursed creatures too dreadful to survive in the light of day. Freddie is clutched by one such being, held fast on a ledge. I see that it is intent on taking him down lower, and I know I must act fast. Maygor’s Silver Thread will only reach so far. Another demon tries to take Freddie, but the first one will not give up his prize willingly, and so is forced to fend it off with a clawed hand. The light seems to trouble them, so that for a few moments I have the advantage.