The White Lady jolted, startled. Her dark red mouth opened again, a horrified, violent wail. By the time the wisp finished its sparkling light show emerging from his fallen bag, she was gone.
Domek blinked and looked around, expecting to find her lurking behind him, but she had left as quickly as she had arrived. He waited for another few seconds, but the night was quiet.
The wisp floated in the dark, illuminating the scattered clothes of the fallen pijavica. “You called?”
“Back in the jar,” Domek panted.
The wisp dissolved again with a disgruntled hiss. Domek quickly returned his now muddied belongings to the bag, awkwardly keeping his stake in one hand. The wisp’s jar was still safely tucked at the bottom, protected from the fall by the leather bag.
Once he had his belongings, he left the park and its piles of ashes behind.
The pijavice had figured out that Domek had taken the wisp’s jar. The chances that the first pijavica hadn’t known what he had been carrying were dwindling fast. Why would a pijavica need a will-o’-the-wisp? They were already faster and stronger than humans, and functionally immortal. If the two races of demons teamed up, humanity was in danger.
It was becoming increasingly obvious that he was entirely out of his depth, like a swimmer who stepped into a lake without realizing a vodník was waiting to pull him to his death. There was no time to finish his patrol, not with so many forces out to harm him.
He needed to step away before someone got killed.
Domek spent the walk through the Old Town on edge, watching the shadows for another pijavica. A crouching figure peered at him through the darkness, and he jolted in alarm before realizing it was a stray dog. He tore a strip of dried meat from a wrapped bundle in his satchel and tossed it to the dog before moving on.
The leader of the lamplighters lived near the Powder Tower in a modest, narrow house squeezed between two nearly identical structures, all beige with the same architecture, as though a printing error had produced three duplicate pages in a row. His neighbors had added to their homes with bright paint on their shutters and flowers popping from windowsills, but Paluska’s residence was as somber as the man.
Every lamplighter knew the address, even though Domek had only been once. The lamplighters were spread thin, and Paluska thought it was important to have a place they could report any emergencies in person. Though Domek, unlike some of his fellows, was literate, there was some information too sensitive for a messenger. In tonight’s case, some of the information was simply too difficult to summarize.
Like his subordinates, Paluska kept late hours, so Domek only had to wait a few moments after knocking for the door to open. Paluska’s valet, an elderly man browned and wrinkled like an apple set out in the sun for too long, greeted him and led him inside.
Paluska had committed a large amount of his own money toward the lamplighter initiative. There was a shadowy branch of the government aware of their actions, but the responsibility and management belonged to Paluska. Given the amount of his own money that went into weaponry and recruitment, it was no wonder his home was impressive. Though modest in size, the fact that he had a full building to himself was enough to awe Domek. Inside the old city walls, space was difficult to come by.
Domek was left in Paluska’s study to wait. Three of the walls were sparsely decorated with paintings, ranging from portraits of austere strangers to landscapes of foreign locales. The effect all together was of glimpsing flashes of memory laid bare. The fourth wall, in a glinting, ornate counterpoint, showcased a large collection of weapons. In addition to the expected swords and daggers, there were several rifles as well. While waiting for the lamplighter master, Domek occupied himself examining the hanging swords. Each was unique: some had carvings etched on bare blade; others were rustic and functional, like something a farmer in the outskirts would have picked up to defend his home. All had worn handles and sharp blades.
“Admiring my collection?” Paluska asked, coming into the room. “I’ve gathered them from around the world.”
“They’re impressive,” Domek said.
“I’ve always found swords to be a useful weapon when hunting what we do,” Paluska said. “These are all dipped in silver and then rubbed with hawthorn ash once a month. With most modern swords made of steel, our prey rarely expects to meet the kiss of death at the edge of a blade. There’s an element of surprise, and an elegance not found in the up-close nature of the stake.”
“What about the guns? Imrich refuses to work with them.”
“For good reason. I tried, in my earlier days, but they’re a clumsy weapon. Unless you drop the monster with your first shot before it notices you, you’re dead. But you’re not here to talk about my collection.”
“I’m not,” Domek agreed.
Paluska went behind his desk to take a seat, gesturing for Domek to sit down as well. The desk seemed to be mostly for show. Other than a thick journal and a battered fountain pen, the surface was empty. It was as though the room was meant to showcase his wall décor, and the desk was an afterthought. Domek was not surprised that Paluska had not settled into a sedentary life. Despite his age, he was a warrior at heart, and would always choose to be on the streets rather than sitting with a pen and paper.
“We haven’t had a chance to speak one-on-one very often, Myska,” he said. “I’m glad you’re here. I’ve thought for a while that you’re a strong asset for this organization. Your friend, Anton, has a lot of positive things to say about you. I’m grateful to have you on our side. You’re not here looking for Anton, are you? His training ended, and he’s out on patrol by now.”
“No. I’m here to talk to you.”
“All right. What brings you here in the middle of the night, Myska?”
Domek took a deep breath. “You told us to come talk to you if we found anything…unusual.”
Paluska leaned forward, raising his eyebrows. “You’ve encountered something.”
Domek nodded. “A will-o’-the-wisp.”
“That’s not so unusual. They’re rare in the city—they prefer the countryside—but not unheard of.”
“This one had been bound somehow. I found it in a jar.”
“Bound?”
“Or so it says. It obeyed my orders.”
“I didn’t know wisps could speak,” Paluska said.
His mother had known. How much did Paluska truly understand about creatures beyond the usual demons of Prague? “This one could.”
Paluska tapped his chin. “Humans can’t control wisps. We don’t have the power. That’s very unusual magic. You don’t know how it was captured?”
“I don’t. I tried not to talk to it for long,” Domek said. “A pijavica I killed last night was carrying it. I assumed it was the creator.”
“It seems beyond a pijavica’s skills, unless they learned something we don’t know. If they have, we’re in trouble. Either way, it’s disturbing that they had it at all. I don’t know what they would use its power for, but it’s certainly not good.”
“Do you think they were allies?” Domek asked.
“Who can know the minds of monsters? Do they have allies? It seems unlikely the pijavica was ignorant of what it had, whether it was planning a partnership or to use it as a servant. We need to find out what they were planning. This can’t bode well.”
“Why would a pijavica need a wisp? I’ve been wondering and can’t come up with any reason. They have their own powers.”
“Not like this demon might have. Capturing creatures can change their nature. It may be more powerful with your will to guide it than it was when it was free. Their powers bring instability, so outside will can shape it into something more precise, like an arrow. We can use this to our advantage. We could change the tide of this endless battle.”
“But it’s a monster. It nearly killed me tonight.”
Gaze sharpening, Paluska said, “You said it obeyed your orders.”
“It did,” Domek said. “I…made a m
istake. It was looking for an excuse to attack me. We can’t trust its powers.”
“We would be more careful,” Paluska said. “Understanding something is the key to controlling it. Imrich will have an idea. We would be cautious, of course, but a potential weapon like this doesn’t fall into our laps every day. The pijavice were planning on using it. We can’t afford to stand on principle and give away such a powerful tool. You’re part of this team. You can help us make the decisions. You are the one who found it, after all.”
“It doesn’t want to be used. It would be dangerous.”
“Our lives are a study in risk,” Paluska said. “I have faith that together we could handle one will-o’-the-wisp. I’m sure Imrich will know what to do. Where is it? Do you have it with you?”
If Domek handed it over now, he’d be giving the wisp a new master, a new team of masters. The more people who knew it existed, the more people who had access to its power, the more likely it was that someone would give into the temptation to use it like Domek had—and doom themselves and everyone around them.
Was it arrogance that made Domek want to keep the wisp to himself, or was it reasonable caution? He could look for a way to safely get rid of it, if he had the time. There was no cause for anyone to use it.
When Domek had been a child, his mother had always noted his tendency toward introspection with both amusement and concern. She used to say that he could think himself in or out of anything if he put the time in. He was a solemn, awkward child, with an attraction to mechanics that he didn’t inherit from either parent. He had never understood her concern. Making decisions without all the facts invited mistakes.
Paluska, it seemed, had few of the facts. He had never heard of a captured wisp, knew less about them than Domek’s mother, had told them all not to fear the White Lady, and now he wanted to use the wisp even after hearing that Domek had nearly been killed.
“I don’t,” Domek lied, carefully not looking at his satchel. “I had patrol duty tonight. I didn’t want to risk carrying it around. I came here straight after to tell you what I’d found.”
“Smart, very smart,” Paluska said. “You have a level head, Myska. You’re doing the right thing, handing it over. Not many people would be able to resist the temptation to use it for themselves. Where is it now?”
“It’s safe,” Domek said. “I thought I should warn you in advance so you can plan ways to keep it secure.”
“The lamplighters are Prague’s best protectors,” Paluska said. “I’m sure we can defend one jar.”
“Even from each other?”
Paluska frowned. “This is a brotherhood, Myska. You need to trust your fellows.”
“Would you?” Domek asked. “Even with unlimited power? You, I trust. Anton too, of course. But the others? Men who would protect this city from monsters aren’t immune to other temptations, especially one we don’t understand.”
Paluska leaned back in his chair. “I hate to admit it, but you’re right. Maybe I was too tempted by the idea. This isn’t something we can spread widely, unless we want to end up with an extra smile carved into our throats. Who else knows about this?”
“Only you,” Domek said. “And any other pijavica who knew the one I attacked last night was carrying it.” He nearly mentioned the attack he’d fended off earlier that night, but it would have given Paluska more reason to demand the wisp from him.
“Good. Keep it safe for now,” Paluska said. “This could change the tide of our fight.”
Domek nodded, pressing his leg against his satchel. “Yes, sir.”
* * *
By the time Domek left Paluska’s house, it was nearly two in the morning and his exhaustion felt like lead boots dragging down his feet. In his bag, the jar seemed to weigh a stone—or was it the guilt? Paluska placed more trust in Domek than he deserved. He had tested the wisp earlier that night, and then had tried to call for its help against the pijavice and the White Lady. What right did he have to decide the wisp’s fate?
He looked back over his shoulder at the front door he’d just left. Perhaps he had made a mistake.
“Hey.”
Domek whirled around, stake in hand. There was a lithe figure standing in the shadows at the corner.
“Slow down,” the man said. “No need to stab anyone.” He stepped forward, face half-illuminated by the streetlamp nearby. He was close to Domek’s age, clean-shaven and well-dressed, with curly hair under a top hat.
“If you don’t want to get stabbed, you shouldn’t startle strangers at night,” Domek said, lowering his stake but keeping a hold of it.
“I’ve been waiting for you to come out,” he said. “I have an offer for you.”
Domek sighed. After the last day, an aggressive grifter on the street was nearly a relief. “I’m not interested,” he said, giving him a short nod and starting up the street.
“I saw you fighting off that bubák,” he called after him, voice laconic and far too loud.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Domek said, turning around. This wasn’t a conversation he wanted to be having in public, no matter how late the hour. If the man had seen the bubák, that meant he’d almost certainly seen the wisp.
“Don’t play dumb. I’ve worked on these streets at least as long as you have. I don’t close my eyes to what’s hiding in the shadows, and neither do you. Now, you’ll want to hear my offer.”
“You’re not a lamplighter,” Domek said.
“How did you guess?” the man drawled. “The name’s Bazil. I’m the proprietor of The Pigeon Hole.”
“Honest business, is it?” Domek asked, looking up and down the street again. The man was too slick. There was no sign of his backup, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have any. Even with the gas lamps lighting the street, there were always places to hide.
“Is there any such thing?” he drawled. “Now, I have a proposition for you. You’ve made my night very exciting. I’ve been trying to confirm rumors about the possibility of containing and controlling spirits for years. When I saw the fire you wielded, I could hardly believe my eyes. It took me a minute to recognize it. I’ve never seen anything like it. A wisp in a jar. I didn’t know that was possible.” He took a step forward, smiling brightly. “I’m so curious about it.”
Domek stepped back in tandem. “It’s mine. And I don’t enjoy being followed.”
“Yes, so I gathered from that,” he said, nodding toward Domek’s stake. “I’m no fang, though.”
“And you know about pijavice as well,” Domek said.
“And ghosts and the others. Most people like to pretend they’re just a story. A fiction created by drunk farmers to give us something more interesting to fear than other humans,” he said. “The government encourages that misconception. If I weren’t on the streets every day, maybe I’d believe that too. I know what they’re capable of, and turning a blind eye has never been one of my strong suits. I like to know what’s happening around me, even when everyone else would rather pretend it’s not there. My job is to know what’s happening.”
“Are you part of one of the old groups? Do you hunt the monsters too?” The man was thin, but muscle could hide on all bodies. Before the lamplighters had taken their sanctioned role as watchmen, there had been a long line of other groups trying to protect Prague. Some had been loved for their secret efforts, some reviled for seeming to be at the heart of all trouble.
“God, no. Pijavice are half my business—they pay for private space at my club to do what they will, and are always curious about the information I can offer them. They’re not cooperative at returning that favor, though. That’s why I’m interested in what you’ve found.”
A business that catered to pijavice. What was the world coming to? “You help pijavice and you still believe I’d listen to a word you have to say? You’re a traitor to humanity.”
“You’re making a mistake. I have information you need. Resources you don’t. I’m a good man to have on your side, Domek Myska.”
“We have different understandings of what makes a good man.”
“Clearly.”
“Stop following me. You know I have the power to take care of myself.” He held up the stake. He had never wielded it against a human, but Bazil did not know that. “Get out of my sight.”
Bazil tipped his hat to him. “You’ll regret this,” he warned, but turned away.
Domek watched until the man was out of sight before he started on a winding route to his next destination. As he walked, he kept one hand on the hawthorn stake in his pocket and the other inside his satchel, resting against the warm jar.
Just in case.
* * *
Once Domek was sure that he wasn’t being followed by Bazil, he paused at a corner and changed directions. This late, the streets were eerily quiet. A handful of people passed, all tucked into their coats as though they could disappear if they didn’t show their faces. Domek wondered what they had been doing, and whether they knew the dangers of staying out so late. Though Domek knew the type of criminals that hid in the darkness, he also knew that innocents were caught outside after sunset. People made mistakes and rash decisions—inadvisable romances, drinking a few pints too many, or just working on a ship that didn’t make it to port until the middle of the night. When Domek had first started working as a lamplighter, he had been frustrated by all the people who continued to venture into the night. Didn’t they realize the danger? If everyone stayed home, Domek wouldn’t have to risk his life to protect them.
Over time, though, he realized that life couldn’t be contained to daylight hours. For every human or pijavica that used the dark to prey on passersby, there were a dozen people just trying to make it home. Prague belonged to all of them, and Domek would be damned if they would be made unsafe in their own city.
Domek cut down a side street. An iron gate was set into a tall stone wall, covered with vines and pointed leaves. Putting his satchel across his body to keep it secure, Domek deftly scaled the gate, using a low, solid tree branch that jutted out near the iron bars to hoist himself high enough. As a child, Domek had scaled innumerable fences to escape his father. Scraped hands were better than the alternative.
The Lights of Prague Page 9