“How the hell did you know to come here?” Devorah demanded once the door was securely closed and they were alone. Little wonder that the patio was deserted: it had gotten steadily colder throughout the day, and now that the sun had set it was positively frigid. She sat back down in the chair she had vacated, pulled her knees up under her chin, and wrapped her leather jacket around them.
“Your matchbook,” Annie said. “Listen, Devorah, it might not be a good idea to go near the cemetery for a while.”
“Who are these people?”
“My friends. Charlie, Robbie, Genny, and that’s Nikola.”
“And why shouldn’t I go to the cemetery?”
“Because of the Golem,” Charlie said.
Devorah laughed. “The Golem? I’m not afraid of it. It would never hurt me-it only hurts goyim, and only when they deserve it.”
“Because there are some very bad people who are probably interested in the Golem,” Charlie clarified.
“And why would that affect me?”
“Devorah, you’ve been at two places where the Golem’s been. For these people, that’s reason enough to detain you,” Annie said.
“‘Detain me’? What the fuck are you talking about? Who are these people you’re talking about?”
“Very bad news. The sort of people who ignore laws and human rights. The sort of people who drive around with tinted windows and carry guns and have secret prisons.”
Devorah stared blankly at them. “…You’re twisting my leg, right? This is a nasty joke. Who put you up to this? Marta?”
“Devorah, you told Annie that you’d been dreaming of the Golem,” Robbie said suddenly. “In your dreams, do you feel like you’re watching things from your own eyes, or someone else’s? Is everything hyper-realistic-so vivid you’d almost swear you were awake and actually there?”
She turned wide eyes on him, fingernails digging into the sleeves of her coat. “How do you know that?”
“Because sometimes I have dreams, too, only they’re not really dreams. They’re visions. Things that have already happened. Things that are going to happen. Things that are currently happening. How long have you been having dreams like that? Has it been going on for a while, or has it just started?”
She stared at them in silence for a full minute. Looked into one face, then another, and saw only grim truth and sympathy. “…I always had trouble sleeping. My parents even took me to a doctor and put me in a sleep study. I’ve taken medication, and been hooked up to machines, been put on strict diets and had to exercise until I was exhausted. Nothing’s ever really worked for me. And then about a month ago the insomnia just disappeared. I started falling asleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillow. Slept through the whole night until my alarm went off in the morning. It was wonderful. But… Then I started noticing strange things. I would wake up in the morning and my feet would be filthy. Totally covered in grime. The hems of my nightgowns started to get ragged and frayed, as if I had been walking over them or catching them on sharp edges. Sometimes my legs would be sore as if I had run a marathon. I had started sleepwalking. I would walk right out of my room, down the stairs, out the front door, and into the streets. I would go God only knows where and then come back.
“And I started dreaming. If I dreamed before, I never remembered them, but now… Now I wish I could forget them, because I dream about violence and fear. Being chased, being beaten. I’ve dreamt that I was in a windowless room locked in a weird medical chair, a man coming at me with a syringe. And I dream about the Golem-sometimes I dream that I’m the Maharal himself, standing in the cemetery, pulling clay from the graves and shaping it with my own hands. Writing the words of life on its forehead, sending it out to protect my people. Sometimes I’m the Golem instead, and I’m throwing people across rooms, or squeezing their heads between my palms… I wake up and I’m covered in dirt, there’s clay under my fingernails-I thought I was going crazy…”
“You’re not crazy,” Annie assured her quickly. “Some people are just… different. You’ve just got a unique talent.”
“Talent? No, a talent is being able to sing or dance or carve wood,” Devorah shook her head. “A talent is something you can show off to people and win awards for. What I am is a freak.” She yanked the pack of cigarettes Annie had gotten her out of her pocket; it was already half-empty.
“But you’re not alone,” Robbie said firmly. “You’re not the only one. I see and feel things most people can’t-I have dreams like yours.”
“Show me how to do something and I can replicate it perfectly,” Charlie said. “Anything at all.”
“And my talent,” Genny said, leaning forward as Devorah stuck a cigarette at the corner of her mouth. The Saint lifted a finger-with a quick flash and puff of smoke a small flame appeared at its tip, hovering just over the curve of her nail. As Devorah stared at her with bulging eyes, she lit the cigarette that threatened to slip from her frozen lips. “Is a bit more noticeable.”
“…How did you… But… That’s magic,” Devorah said breathlessly.
“That’s one perspective. Or maybe it’s just a part of nature you weren’t aware of before,” Robbie said. “And these people we were telling you about-they don’t want to understand or accept what we can do. They’d rather bury us before the world found out the truth. They call themselves the Order of the Dragon. And you have to be very, very careful that they never find out about your dreams. You’ve got to be careful that they never connect you with the Golem.”
“But I-I don’t even understand it myself!” Devorah exclaimed. “How am I connected to the Golem? It’s just a story-just a story my mother used to tell me when I was a little girl.”
“You are a descendant of Rabbi Loew,” Genny said. “Perhaps you have the same talent he had.”
“Or maybe you heard the story so many times growing up, it just rooted itself in your mind,” Annie suggested. “And when you started dreaming about the people being attacked, you wanted to help them. So your memories pulled out the story-who better to help someone than the Golem, created to bodyguard the persecuted?”
“So when I dream something, I make it real?” Devorah said in awed disbelief. “You’re saying I killed those people?”
“You saved people,” Genny said with fierce passion, reaching out and taking hold of the girl’s shaking hands. Her face blazed brightly with her conviction. “You did what had to be done to protect them. You’ve done nothing wrong, nothing evil.”
“But… What can I do?” Devorah said. “How do I control this? I’m asleep when it happens-how can you stop yourself when you’re in a dream?”
“Maybe we should rewatch Nightmare on Elm Street?” Charlie suggested, only half-joking.
“Do you think…” Genny hesitated. “Akiko can use her gift to slip into someone’s memories. Perhaps she could do the same with dreams?”
“That’s not a bad suggestion. My sister is an Empath,” Robbie explained. “If your abilities are sparked by fear or anger, she might be able to tap in through that and help you control the emotions.”
Devorah looked at them each in turn, mulling over everything and sizing them up anew. Annie was the last she turned to; it would be difficult to imagine a more earnest face. It was her half-hopeful, encouraging smile that convinced her. “Hovno,” she muttered. “I’ve done stupider things before. Alright. But not here-my apartment isn’t far from here. Whatever we are going to do, we’ll do it there. Dad’s working the night shift and my mother’s out of town visiting her aunt-there won’t be any awkward questions to answer that way.”
As they set off down the brightly lit, picturesque street, Annie fell into pace with Devorah, who walked with a hunch against the wind and her hands shoved into her pockets. “I know this is a rather lot to take in,” she began apologetically.
“Growing up in Prague, you hear so many stories,” Devorah said. “Every building has a ghost. Every statue commemorates some valiant, knightly deed. They say there was a real wizard who once lived in the Castle-that he controlled the weather for the king and spoke to mermaids who would swim up the Vltava every spring. Brownies in the pantries-remember to leave out bowls of milk for them, or they’ll throw your shoes in the gutter and smear soot everywhere. The reason why the machines in the factories break down is because gremlins are mucking with the works. Every time the neo-Nazis desecrate markers in the Cemetery, spray paint swastikas on the walls, the papers talk about the Golem. Living in this city, you start to expect that there must be some truth to it all. You suspect that maybe magic is real. Here-this is my building.”
They had curved back into Josefov. It would be easy for someone to walk from here to the cemetery, even barefoot; it was practically a straight shot through the side alleys.
“I’m going to fetch Akiko,” Nikola said after they had stepped into the entranceway. “Do not leave this building until I return. Understood?”
They bypassed the antique elevator that looked more like an iron cage and went up the creaking staircase; it was a short walk up to Devorah’s apartment on the second floor. A tarnished bronze twelve had been nailed to the door.
The apartment smelled strongly of sandalwood and cedar-“My Dad carves wood in his spare time,” she explained as they passed a sideboard covered in detailed figurines, mostly animals-and featured a full wall of old photographs in heavy gilt frames. At the center was an impressive painting of a rabbi that could only be Judah Loew ben Bezalel. “The family,” Devorah said with a wave before falling heavily onto a couch upholstered in wine red fabric. It squeaked painfully, the sound of the abused springs and the threadbare spots in the upholstery testaments to its old age and long use. “Mom’s into genealogy. She says she has to reclaim all of the family that was stolen from us. Her private, personal war against the Third Reich. Want something to drink?”
“No thanks,” Charlie said. “But where’s your bathroom?”
“Down that hall, last door on the right.”
It was true that she needed to pee; but mostly Charlie just had to satisfy her curiosity. She had never been able to enter someone else’s house without poking her nose around, and she’d gotten very good at opening and closing doors silently. The first room had to be the parents’: it was decorated in dark browns and reds. A stained glass Star of David hung over the single window. There were no knick-knacks lining the dressers, no paintings or pictures hanging on the dark walls. On one beside table was a lamp, an alarm clock, and a Bible so well read it was falling apart, the leather cover flaking off at the edges and along the spine. On the opposite table was a second lamp, a folded pair of reading glasses, and a Nora Roberts romance with an airport sticker peeling off the front.
And one single framed photograph in a gold frame. The whole family standing together: mother, father, a smaller Devorah in a black school uniform, and a tall young man in sharp military dress. Devorah took after her father: she had the same tousled curls and riveting eyes. But the nameless young man, probably in his early twenties in the picture, was the image of the mother with his straighter brown hair, full bottom lip, and dimpled chin. His eyes were blue, yes, but not the same pale shade as Devorah’s and the father’s.
Charlie crept back to the hall. Opened the next door and found what was tantamount to a shrine. A twin-sized bed that was so tightly and smoothly made you could probably bounce a quarter off of it. A wardrobe that had been recently dusted and polished-the clothes inside hung in protective plastic bags. The bookcase was packed full of espionage thrillers-Ludlum, Clancy, Brad Thor, Vince Flynn, James Rollins-in both Czech and English. The paperbacks had clearly been read often, judging by the many cracks along their spines.
The last bedroom was obviously Devorah’s, even without the process of elimination. The walls were a pale purple; almost certainly a revenant of her childhood, something she hadn’t gotten around to changing. There were posters, photos, and concert tickets taped up in a messy collage-Devorah clearly favored rock bands fronted by men who screamed a lot and wore plenty of studded black leather. A pile of boots and crumpled tights filled a corner and the bookcase was full of-well, the sort of stuff Robbie had accumulated over the years. Books about rune stones and palmistry and tarot cards. A History of European Witches. Boggarts, Banshees, and Brownies: Fey Folk Fair and Foul. Collections of fairy tales. A thick green book with the stereotypical UFO design stamped on the front in gold. Walpurgis Night and Other Traditions. There was a stack of heavy metal CDs teetering on the top shelf.
And there were muddy smears on the carpet leading from the door to the bed, almost as if someone had been dragging their dirty feet.
“Are you okay?” Devorah asked when she rejoined them, sitting down on the arm of the recliner Robbie had claimed. “Took you a while.”
“I’m good,” Charlie said, nonchalant. “How old are you, Devorah?”
“Seventeen,” she said. She wasn’t sure if she should be defensive about it or not.
“And where’s your brother?”
Devorah blinked, and then took the question in stride. Perhaps she figured that Charlie had just ‘known’ she had a brother the way they had figured everything else out. “I don’t know-he was deployed again last year. He’s in the Army so he moves around a lot. He’s been to Moscow, Jakarta, Quebec. Sometimes he’s working on things that are top secret, though, so he can’t always tell us where he goes until much later. He Skypes with Mom and Dad once a week but it’s always at weird hours. So I haven’t gotten to talk to him for a couple months. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious-that’s his jacket, isn’t it?”
Devorah adjusted the over-sized leather coat. “Yeah, it’s Zev’s. He said I could keep it until he came home. Now that he’s Mr. Military it’s not really his style, anyway.”
“My dad was in the military,” Annie spoke up, smiling. “Only he was in the Navy, not the Army. He loved the ocean, loved being on big ships. I remember him saying they were miniature cities, only better, because they could sail all the way across the world. You could see ice, tropical beaches, stormy cliffs, all in just the space of two weeks. He always loved how his job let him see the world.”
“Yeah, Zev’s been to all sorts of cool places. I’ve got a bunch of postcards he sent me. I think that was a big part of the allure, really. He’s full of wild stories.”
“He must be a lot older than you.”
“Zev’s actually my half-brother-Mom divorced her first husband when he was three and married my Dad when he was five. There’s a twelve year difference between us. Mom had a hard time when she was pregnant with him and the doctors said she’d probably never have any more kids. Dad says I was a surprise-a late miracle.” Devorah had relaxed noticeably, more at ease in her own home with thoughts of her family. The hard air she had affected at the hotel was softening. “Zev’s been a soldier for as long as I can remember-it’s what he always wanted to do. And I’m proud of him, but… It’s hard being the baby of the family when you’ve got such a hero for a big brother, you know? I know my parents are always holding up my behavior to his and getting frustrated that I’m not as praiseworthy. I don’t have such a noble career in mind. They probably think I’m a loser compared to Zev.”
“Try looking at it from a different perspective,” Genny suggested. “Your brother may be doing important work, but there’s probably also a degree of danger in it. Your parents almost certainly spend a lot of their time worrying about his safety-perhaps they’re relieved that you don’t want to follow in his footsteps. I’m sure they’re proud of you for your own merits.”
“What do you want to do?” Annie asked.
“Sing in a rock band. I won a bunch of awards when I was in the school choir; it’s pretty much the only thing I’m really, really good at. But I’m having a hard time finding the right band-there are a lot of awesome musicians here, but most of them are dicks,” Devorah said knowingly. “Heads up their asses, egos the size of the Carpathians, sexist racists-or just plain perverts that only want a girl in the band to grab her tits between sets. Last guys I sang with kicked me out of the band when the guitarist’s girlfriend decided she wanted to be the lead singer. I told them that if they wanted a strangled cat headlining their group, I wouldn’t be buying the demo. Sort of burnt that bridge…” She shifted and watched as Charlie pulled off her jacket. “I like your tattoos,” she said. “How many do you have?”
“Eh, I count the sleeves as one each,” Charlie said with a nonchalant shrug. “I’ve pretty much lost count at this point. I just get one when the itch gets too bad to ignore. Thinking about getting some yourself?”
“No; if I get any, they won’t bury me in the family plot.” Catching Charlie’s blank confusion, she elaborated. “Our cemetery’s pretty strict-they can decide who to bury and where. And getting tattoos is forbidden under religious law. So no tattoos for me. But I guess that’s okay; I don’t think there’s any one thing I’d ever want on me forever, really.”
A knock at the door presaged Nikola’s return.