“Is that so?” He stroked the book with one finger, and her eyes traced the breadth of his hands. “You’ve read them?”
“I have.” Ora tapped her chin, and was gratified to see Domek’s eyes flick over her lips. “They’re delightfully bloody. You would think that people would learn early on to stop interfering with beings they don’t understand, but humans keep making terrible decisions and paying the price. I think you’ll enjoy them.”
Domek smiled weakly. “I’m sure I will.”
“You’ll have to let me know what you think,” she pressed.
“Of course,” he said, but his gaze was distant.
The conversation was slipping away from her. She leaned back out of his space, though she lost some of his honey and metal scent when she did. “I’ll stop taking up your time,” she said. “You’ve already seen me twice in one day. I’m sure that’s twice too many for most.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, focusing on her again. “I have a lot on my mind.”
“That’s not an affliction I’m burdened by,” Ora said, waving her hand.
He shook his head. Now that she’d redrawn his attention, his gaze was intent. She felt as though perhaps now he was seeing more than she’d wanted him to. “I don’t believe that. You’re too clever for someone with nothing on their mind.”
She grinned at him. “Say,” she said, leaning closer again, “I have two tickets for the opera tomorrow night. Would you like to come with me?” It had been barely twelve hours since she’d watched the pijavica in the tunnels fling himself into the sunlight, but there was a thrum of life in her veins as she plied reactions from this man. Ora’s very existence demanded sacrifice, and her recent decades would never wash the blood from her teeth, but flirting with Domek was simple and gentle.
“The opera? Tomorrow?” he repeated. Ora could smell the blood rising to his cheeks, the metal in his scent intensifying. “With me?”
“With you. My original plans fell through, and I’d hate to go alone. I know you like art. Do you like music?”
“I love music,” he said, the words slipping from his lips like breath.
“Excellent. Read up before then. We’ll talk about your favorite stories. Pick one of the tragedies—they’re always more fun.”
He looked down at the book in his hands, and some of the warmth left his face. “Of course,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’ve kept you from your shopping. I should go.” Ora was about to protest when he smiled at her. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He bowed toward both her and Lina—not the most practiced she’d seen, but a genuine effort—and then left toward the front of the shop to purchase his book. Lina moved to stand beside her, but Ora didn’t speak.
“He’s not good enough for you,” she said quietly.
With a sigh, Ora said, “I think that he might be too good, actually.” Shaking her head, she said, “No matter. Come on. I’d still like to find a new book, and then I need to find some tickets for an opera tomorrow.”
Domek was out of sight, but she could hear the steady thud of his boots and heart. His scent lingered like incense.
Words were not easy for Domek. He’d only been formally schooled until he was twelve, and since then he’d learned in practice. He found books worth the effort, but each sentence was a journey, and a commitment.
The tome Ora had secured for him was thin, but the interior had large text and beautiful line drawings of trees, rivers, and monsters.
After he finished lighting the lamps on his route, he sat beneath one and flipped through the text, squinting in the blue light to read the story about the wisp. He would need to return to his patrol shortly, but the thin book was irresistible. He could never let a puzzle lie.
The book was one of children’s fairy tales, and the story followed a boy named Hans as he wandered through the forest. Domek mouthed along as he read, frowning. There was a long section about Hans’s father, a blacksmith who often scolded the boy for his laziness.
He skipped forward to try to search for information he could use, and found the end of the story.
“Come to me, and you may eat this roast chicken and more.” The roasted chicken floated in the mist, and the boy’s mouth watered.
“But how will I cross this canyon?” asked the boy. He was so hungry.
The will-o’-the-wisp said, “The mist is a magical mist. It allows the chicken to fly, and will let you fly too.”
And the boy jumped and broke his neck.
The blacksmith later found the boy’s body, and regretted his harsh words. Several years later, he remarried and had a pair of sons, who were warned away from the forest. After the blacksmith died, they inherited his forge, and made the king’s swords.
An inauspicious ending. He flipped through the book, searching for other stories about the will-o’-the-wisp. He stopped at a page near the front. A vodník stared up at him, grinning around a pipe. Its expression belonged more to a kindly grandfather sitting at a café than the beast Domek had once watched kill his childhood sweetheart. Disgusted, he closed the book and put it back in his bag. His purse was substantially lighter, and he was no closer to answers.
His mother had warned him away from the demon, but Domek had hoped to find the key to unlocking its cooperation. It had powerful magic and was bound to his will. Perhaps Domek could do good in Prague with its help.
Unfortunately, if the fairy tale could be believed, the wisp’s power was not in its magic, but in its manipulation. Domek was intelligent and clever with machinery, but he was not prepared for a war of words. He could barely keep his tongue functioning when faced with the beautiful Lady Fischerová, and reading always took him considerable time. He was sure to lose his wits when trying to outsmart the fire demon.
He wouldn’t be able to learn about this demon from a book—especially not the one in his bag. If Domek could plan both the situation and his commands for the wisp in advance, he could avoid being thrown from his path by tricky words, as poor Hans had been.
He needed to find out what the wisp was capable of—and if Domek was capable of managing its power on his own. If he had the chance, he could prove his worth to Imrich and Paluska. Giving up now and admitting he was too afraid to learn more would reduce him to being Imrich’s oafish assistant for the rest of his life.
Domek stared out over the dark river, watching ripples reflect the crescent moon overhead. He needed a controlled experiment, one that wouldn’t hurt him nor any innocent bystander. He would approach the task like it was the inner workings of a pocket watch rather than a riddle, play to his strengths rather than his weaknesses.
After years of patrolling the twisting streets of the city, Domek knew exactly where to go.
* * *
The monster at the back of the alley pulsed and rippled, a living darkness. Even at noon, this corner of the city would be swathed in blackness. At midnight, its power was at its zenith. Malice and horror emanated from the darkness like a poison, clogging the air and making it difficult to draw a full breath.
Adults passed the alley without looking twice. Children, however, knew there was something more inside. They told their parents there was a monster lurking there, and no amount of cajoling or reassurance could dampen their fear.
Deep in the shadows, the monster fed on that fear, billowing larger with each frightened gasp.
Bubáks were mysterious creatures that lurked in the shadows around humanity, feeding not on blood or spirits, but on fear itself. Some found their ways into homes, settling under the beds of the children who felt their presence most strongly. Others found alleys like this, claiming their territory and then settling down to soak in the fears of a city.
Domek stepped inside the alley and felt the bubák’s aura nipping at his flesh, raising goosebumps along his arms. He reached into his bag and grabbed the jar. He opened the lid, and the wisp appeared before him. This close, the feel and smell of it felt like standing on the bank of the Vltava before a storm—like air itself had
become his enemy, charged with power.
It was smaller than he remembered. After reading the unsettling fairy tale, details of the mysterious creature had conflated into something more terrifying in his mind. In reality, the wisp was insubstantial. Compared to the murky, pulsing blackness of the bubák, it was like a sandcastle in front of an oncoming wave.
“Wisp, obey my order,” he said in a clear, loud voice that seemed misplaced in the darkness. “Clear this alley.”
For a moment, the wisp pulsed unmoving, a small ball of fire hovering in front of him. But then, the pulsing grew brighter. The flame became blinding, bleeding from orange to white. The wisp floated forward as though on a breeze, and every meter it covered down the alley was scourged clean in its light. As the small spirit approached the living darkness, it appeared outmatched, but it did not hesitate.
It pressed forward into the bubák’s space with its steady, unrelenting light, and the bubák writhed. The shadows throbbed, sending out pulses of poisonous energy. A wave of sheer terror gripped Domek, freezing his muscles and turning the air in his lungs to ice. It was overwhelming, like drowning while standing still.
When the wisp’s light reached the center of the bubák’s dark heart, there was a high, quiet shriek as the bubák lost control of its form.
The mass of collected terror burst and disappeared.
Though the wisp had no face, he had the sense of it turning back toward him. Then, the strap of Domek’s bag tightened. He had just a moment for alarm before the strap lurched up and wrapped around his throat.
As though it were being held by a giant’s fist, the strap hoisted him up off the ground, leaving him dangling over the cobblestones by the tightening strip of leather. He grappled at his throat, trying to push his hands between his skin and the strap to gain some traction against the strangulation.
“Stop,” he croaked with the last of his breath.
The strap slackened, the force holding it up disappearing completely. Domek fell. Dazed from the attack, he could not catch himself, and hit the stone hard enough to bruise his leg. The bag fell heavily onto his lap, still strapped around his chest.
The wisp just hovered in front of him. “You did tell me to clear the alley.” Its quiet voice was smug.
Domek reached into his belt and pulled out his silver blade. It had been foolish not to do so from the moment the wisp had manifested that morning.
“You don’t need to attack me,” the wisp reminded him. The shadows in the alley flickered as its pulsing light darted back slightly. “This was all your mistake.”
“You nearly killed me. You threatened my mother. Tell me why I shouldn’t find a way to destroy you right now,” Domek said, adjusting his grip on the weapon.
“I didn’t hunt you down,” the wisp pointed out. From its tone, it seemed torn between placating him and insulting him. “You’re the one attempting to wield a power you don’t understand. Free me, or I’ll continue to make this difficult for you.”
“This was me wielding you?” Domek demanded, pointing to his neck.
“It’s my power; I decide how it manifests. You were in the alley too. If you want to use me, you’d better be smarter about it.”
“It was a simple order.”
“Laughably so. You can’t outsmart me,” it spat, a spark flying from its heart. “If you let me free, you won’t have to worry about your words. I can tell that wit is not your strong suit. Don’t play this game with me.”
“Under my control, the only actions you can take are the ones I let you—if I can make sure there’s not room for you to misinterpret them. If I let you go, you’ll be able to use that power as maliciously as you want.”
“I may not want to,” the wisp countered.
“Right. And I’d take your word for it.” Domek shook his head and rubbed at his throat. “This was a test. I wanted to see what you could do, if you were worth saving.” To see if Domek had a chance at controlling its power.
“Were you impressed? I did rescue you handily.”
“I could have gotten rid of the bubák without your help,” he said. “We have a map of each one in the city. They stay in one place and don’t really hurt people, not the way the other monsters we deal with do. They’re not usually worth our effort. I wanted to understand your power—and I believe I do now. In the book I was reading today—”
“You can read?” The wisp’s voice was skeptical. “Your hands are calloused from work. Are they teaching just anyone their letters these days?”
“What does a will-o’-the-wisp know of books?” Domek asked. He shook his head. “The point is that you are powerful, and you’re dangerous. If you were freed, you would be a liability.”
“I’m a liability in your possession too,” the wisp said. “You’re the one who can end this. It will be easier for both of us. Smash that jar, and I’ll leave you alone. I’ll leave this place entirely.”
“And if I don’t?” He adjusted his grip on his dagger.
“There’s no need to kill me,” the wisp said. “I’m not attacking you. I have to obey your orders. You brought me here, and you can make me leave.” When Domek hesitated, it added, “Look at your hands. We bonded the moment you opened the jar, and will stay that way until you dismiss me, kill me…or perish.” The wisp drifted closer. Domek could understand the men who had followed its soft light through the woods, searching for salvation and finding only death. “Free me. You didn’t want this. You can stop this.”
“You’ll be relieved to hear that I don’t want to deal with you either,” Domek said. “But I’m not reckless enough to let you loose on the city. You should have a new master by the end of the night. It’s what I should have done from the start.”
“Planning on dying so soon?”
“You were right,” Domek said. “I’d be too easy for you. Nothing you can offer me is going to be worth the risk of attempting to outwit you every time I open my mouth. Working with you wouldn’t be worth it. Even if it benefited me, I couldn’t be sure it wouldn’t hurt someone else.”
“A man whose honor outweighs his greed. That’s unusual to find.” The wisp’s form flickered. “Tell me. The person you’re handing me over to—are they as noble as you? Are you sure that they won’t use my powers for the very things you’re afraid I’d do on my own?”
Domek wanted to argue the point, but he held his tongue. Any more discussion with the wisp put him—and Prague—at risk. “I suppose we’ll find out. Back in the jar until you’re summoned again.”
The wisp faded into mist and disappeared.
For the second time in two nights, Ora found herself underneath Prague. The bookstore would be long closed, Domek Myska tucked in some bed far away, while she journeyed through dark tunnels.
She had dressed for the occasion in her sturdiest boots and a lightweight riding gown. She had been careful picking the outfit; instead of going to the library or a pub with friends, she was sniffing out a nest of pijavice. Lina had begrudgingly helped her change again, too tired by the long day to argue.
She stepped over a puddle of what she hoped was water, and nearly slipped on the uneven path. Her transformation had given her strength and reflexes that humans couldn’t hope for, and her eyes allowed her to make out most of the shapes in the darkness, but there was still something uncivilized and unnerving about wandering below the city.
It wasn’t just pijavice and bubáks who had staked out the tunnels and rooms underground for use. From the amount of oyster shells and empty bottles that lined some of the tunnels, Ora expected a great number of Prague’s most desperate had wound up hiding there over the centuries. The winding paths of the forgotten town beneath the surface were easy to get lost in, both for its residents and any authorities from above. In some corners, she could smell the remains of humans who had fallen into a monster’s grip: desiccated corpses that had stumbled into a bubák’s lair and had starved in a mindless, terrified fugue, organs and bones left behind by roaming pijavice, and more.
When Ora had to sniff out other pijavice, she did so literally. Similarly to humans, who were rife with smells from their various organs and bodily functions, pijavice had a distinct scent. After their rebirth, their bodies were in stasis, propelled forward by the blood and flesh stolen from others. Rather than the scent of life, they smelled of the blood they stole and the magic that kept them moving, a potent mix of poison and lightning that lingered on the tongue.
Most pijavice passing in polite society like Ora used various perfumes to cover the smell, like potpourri in a coffin. However, the pijavice of the underground did not bother to hide themselves, nor the scents that came along with their residency. Blood was not uncommon in Prague. Butchers, tanners, surgeons, fighting rings—blood was spilled across the city every day; a red Vltava. Finding the subtle poison of the pijavice was like finding one raindrop in a storm. Luckily, in addition to her sharp nose, Ora had experience on her side.
She backtracked from two dead ends, and then nearly stumbled on a homeless family looking for a place to sleep. She hesitated around the corner, listening to the mother murmuring to her child. She took a step forward to warn them away, but where could they go? Nowhere in the city was safe, and Ora had a mission. She turned away, hoping the small family would find their way out of the tunnels before something else found them.
Finally, Ora found what she had been looking for.
The nest consisted of four pijavice in a filthy stone room at the bottom of a long set of steep stairs. ‘Nest’ was a misleading term, if only because it was used as commonly for baby birds as it was for pest infestations. These pijavice were the latter.
‘Nest’ was the human term for the pijavica groups that spawned underground, bound together either by a creator or a desire for mutual protection. Ora had been taught a different word for that bond—‘blood families.’ It was a callous joke. The only blood shared among the families was that of their victims. In fact, pijavice were driven by a mindless bloodlust targeting their own family bloodline. The first sign of a pijavica was often hearing whispers of a massacre inside a home, wiping out three generations of a family. After that, the only family left to them were the monsters who had created them.
The Lights of Prague Page 7