The Lights of Prague

by Nicole Jarvis

  So methodical. Ora wanted to make him lose control.

  One hand tangled into his curls, holding him close, and the other drifted down his back to explore its planes. He was broad and solid, sturdy as a mountain. Making sure her second set of teeth were still concealed—arousal of all kinds activated her predatory senses—she bit his lower lip and tugged.

  Immediately, he stepped back, moving his hands to her shoulders to keep her apart from him. She had to release his hair, much to her regret. His lips were reddened from her attentions, giving him a deliciously mussed appearance.

  “That’s the opposite of what I was hoping for,” Ora complained, trying to move closer again.

  “What are you doing?” His accent was rougher than before, his voice slightly raspy.

  “I would have hoped that would be obvious.” She hooked a finger in his lapel. The fabric was expensive, and smelled of another man. Domek must have borrowed the jacket from a friend for tonight. She found the thought endearing, and wanted to tug him back down.

  He glanced around the quiet street, and back at the closed doors at the front of the theater. There was another couple walking along the river, arm in arm. A carriage clattered nearby. “My lady,” he said firmly, “you can’t kiss me.”

  “I clearly can,” Ora said. When he didn’t move, she asked, “Do you not want to kiss me?”

  “This isn’t appropriate, Lady Fischerová.”

  “We just kissed. You may call me Ora. I’m a widow, Domek. My virtue is no longer in question. No one cares with whom I spend my time.”

  “They may not be able to complain, but they’ll care if they see you with me. I may not be in your circles, but I know that much. You haven’t thought this through.”

  Ora frowned, narrowing her eyes. “I hope you’re not implying that I can’t make my own decisions. Is this about—”

  There was a shout from down the street. It was silenced abruptly, but Ora and Domek jumped apart and turned toward it. Her ears were sharp, but there were no further sounds. “Where is the footman?” she asked slowly.

  Domek was already taking the steps two at a time, running toward the source of the noise. Ora sighed and followed.

  Ora hurried after him, grabbing her skirts to free her legs. Up the street, she could hear the sound of a scuffle. As they got closer, she identified the scent of the footman—and his spilled blood—and the grave dust smell of a poltergeist.

  At her side, Domek seemed ready to jump into the fray. She wanted to pull him back, step in front of him, protect him from the threat he would have no idea how to handle. It was a noble impulse for him to leap in to protect the poor footman, but also alarmingly rash for such a stoic man.

  The footman had been dragged into the tight space between two of the street’s buildings, out of sight of the main road. The thin alley was large enough for no more than two men standing abreast, blocked by buildings on either side, with a walkway connecting the two in an arch across the middle. The space was oddly illuminated by the thin green glow emanating from his attacker. Sharp bones had scored across the boy’s face and chest, leaving vicious, bleeding lines. Behind him, the dark eye sockets and hanging jaw of the glowing skeleton seemed to laugh.

  Death was not the end. In addition to the pijavice, whose mortal bodies were twisted by hatred into an undead existence, the souls of anyone unsettled by death tended to linger. The most common were the ghosts, faded impressions left by the spirits of those unable to untangle themselves from the patterns of life. Others, the poltergeists, were haunted by their sins, stripped down to their skeletons and searching the city for a redemption that would never come. There were stories of a greedy loan shark in Malá Strana who was seen hobbling through the alleys with a coin sack over his shoulder, hunched and alone for all time.

  More malicious were those who had known occult power in life, which let them manifest into powerful, tormented beings like the White Lady in the castle on the hill.

  The footman’s attacker was a poltergeist, though Ora had never seen one attacking a mortal like a wild animal. The skeletons that wandered the city in the dead of night tended to pass unnoticed, too trapped in their own sins to bother with the mortal world. For a reaction such as this, the footman must have pissed on the poltergeist’s grave. She winced when it lashed out again, slicing the boy’s neck and drawing a spray of blood.

  “We should call for help,” Ora said when they paused at the mouth of the alley. If she could get Domek to leave, she could jump in to save the weakening boy.

  “Go back,” Domek instructed. “Now.”

  “Not without you,” she said.

  In response, Domek pulled a silver dagger from his satchel. “Run, Ora.”

  Vaguely, she thought she should feel excited about his use of her Christian name. Instead, her mind was stuck on the object in his hands. Silver. Since when did her normal, humble Mister Myska walk around Prague ready to kill spirits?

  Before either of them could react, a dark figure dropped from the rooftop overhead and landed heavily on the skeleton. The footman collapsed to the ground as the poltergeist lashed out against the newcomer. Ora’s eyes, unaffected by darkness, saw Darina laugh before tearing the skull from the spindly neck.

  Domek bit off a curse, as though Ora would not know the end of the word, and dropped the dagger. It clattered against the cobblestones as he reached into his satchel and instead removed a pair of stakes. Ora could feel the poisonous pulse of the hawthorn from a meter away.

  He had had those in his bag while they kissed.

  Darina saw the stakes and hissed, her teeth a spot of white in the dark alley. She turned and scaled the wall, claws punching through the brick as she skittered toward the roof again.

  Domek took a step toward a nearby ladder, but Ora stepped in his path. “Stop the bleeding,” Ora instructed, pointing at the fallen boy. “I’ll get help.”

  “Be careful,” he said. “I’ll…I’ll explain later.”

  He must have expected her to swoon from the sight of the demons. The fool. “Just save him,” Ora said, and darted from the alley back to the street.

  She waited until she was sure Domek had not followed her, and then searched for a way up the building’s front façade to chase down Darina. Even if her half-healed shoulders were not still aching, her scorched hand prevented her from using Darina’s method. The street was quiet, with everyone either inside the opera house or tucked away asleep. She swore quietly. Darina was nowhere to be seen, the boy’s lifeblood was spilling in the alley behind her, she had spent her night holding hands with a lamplighter, and Ora was no help to anyone.

  With one last glance toward the rooftops, she turned and ran for her carriage.

  * * *

  This was his fault.

  The poltergeist and pijavica must have been there for him. He didn’t know how they had found him again. It was a miracle the demon had not attacked Ora.

  Cursing himself, Domek ran toward the footman and crouched beside him. He pulled off his jacket and pressed it to the worst of the wounds he could see, the deep gash on the boy’s neck. Somehow, the poltergeist’s fingers had not hit an artery, but blood was pooling on the alley floor.

  The boy was even younger than Domek had thought, likely not yet out of his teens, and seemed even younger in his pale stillness. Blood soaked through the cloth, leaving Domek’s hands slick. The scent, copper and pain, was thick in the air.

  Was Domek pressing on the right wound? The blood seemed to be everywhere. The nearest gas lamp was on the road beyond, so the alley was as dark as the night.

  “Wisp,” he called. “Come to me.”

  The flame drifted up from his satchel, flickering and sending an orange glow over the alley. Compared to the sickly green of the poltergeist, the familiar hue was comforting. In the light, Domek could see that the boy had been sliced across his face and chest as well. His uniform was dark with blood. Domek searched for his pulse, and found only a weak flutter beneath his fingertips.


  “He’s dying,” the wisp said, voice like the crackle of tinder. As always, its scent was that of a storm on the horizon, powerful and raw.

  Over the years, Domek had seen many final breaths. Each time was its own small horror, an anticlimax as a living person became only a body. Would the footman’s soul reach heaven, or would he be trapped to repeat the doomed steps of the poltergeist that had killed him?

  “Order me to save him.”

  Domek turned his head to look at the wisp. There was no expression to read, no tone to dissect. The last time Domek had tried to give the wisp an order, it had nearly killed him. Perhaps this was a trick, and Domek’s words would be twisted to hurt the boy worse. But was there a worse fate than bleeding out in this alley?

  “I can do it on my own, but my power is stronger with your energy directing it. Don’t let him die for your pride.”

  “Save him,” Domek breathed.

  The wisp pulsed and drifted closer to the footman. As with the bubák, the wisp seemed to grow impossibly bright. Energy thrummed in the air like a thunderstorm, building and building pressure inside Domek’s ears. Like the first time Domek had summoned the wisp, wind began to whip around them. An old newspaper fluttered and lifted from the ground, swirling up into the air.

  Under the wisp’s magic, the boy’s wounds began to heal. It was a slow process, nearly indecipherable under all the blood. The slashes on the footman’s throat closed first, the skin slowly scarring over. Finally, the cuts sealed. Blood still smeared his pale skin, but the wounds were gone.

  The scratches on his face were next, though they seemed to close more slowly. It was like watching a puddle evaporate on a sunny afternoon, the edges slowly receding toward the center. The gashes had been deep and bled profusely, but after a minute they seemed like they had been healing for weeks.

  The pressure in the air began to fade. Domek squinted to see the boy’s face more clearly, and realized that the wisp’s flame had dimmed to barely a flicker. It could have been the fire from one of the matches in Domek’s pocket, small and temporary.

  “What’s happening to you?”

  “I’m nearly…out of energy,” the wisp told him. Its voice was fading into a whisper.

  “Stop,” Domek told it, sitting up. “You’ve stabilized him. We’ll take him to a doctor. You’ve done enough.”

  The pressure in the air receded entirely, and the wisp seemed smaller for it. Without its power, it was nothing but an insubstantial glow in the night.

  “Will you survive?” Domek asked.

  “I need to…rest.”

  “Go back in the jar,” Domek said. He hesitated, and added, “You did a good thing this night.”

  The flame fluttered and drifted down to his bag, seeming to collapse into it.

  Domek barely had time to check the boy’s wounds again before a man in tailored livery appeared in the alleyway beside him. When he didn’t scream at the sight of them, Domek assumed it was Ora’s driver. “I’ll carry him,” the man said. It was no wonder Ora seemed so confident traveling Prague alone—her driver was nearly double Domek’s width, with arms as large as most men’s thighs. There was a revolver strapped to his belt, its ornate silver barrel glinting in the dim light.

  “Where’s Lady Fischerová?” Domek asked. “Is she okay?”

  “She’s in the carriage,” he replied gruffly. With little effort, the man lifted the footman in his arms. Domek followed, keeping the bloodied jacket in place. Though his neck and face were healed, the wounds on his chest were still deep. They maneuvered awkwardly out of the alley, careful not to jostle the unconscious boy too much.

  Ora opened the carriage door when they approached. Her expression was composed once again, despite the situation. Her curls had fallen out of their bundle on top of her head, and her lip rouge was smeared. Or had Domek done that during their kiss? It seemed long ago. “Get in,” she said briskly, and then moved to the opposite bench so Domek and the driver could leverage the injured footman inside.

  Domek followed her inside while the driver moved to the front of the carriage, and then crouched on the floor by the pale boy to keep pressure on his chest.

  The carriage began clattering forward. Domek nearly fell, but Ora’s firm hand on his shoulder steadied him before he could lose his grip on the boy. It was lucky that the boy had fallen unconscious. The shake and rattle of the carriage was enough to jar Domek’s teeth, and it would have been far more painful with the footman’s injury.

  “How far away do you live?” Domek asked.

  “Less than ten minutes, if Hackett keeps up this pace.”

  Domek nodded, and settled in for the ride.

  * * *

  Ora rushed up the stairs to open the front door for Domek while Hackett whipped the horses forward again to go collect Dr. Roth. Domek carried the footman carefully, taking the steps with a slow efficiency that made Ora want to scream. If she had just left him behind like she had considered, she could have had the boy inside the house already. Instead, she had to play the simpering human who couldn’t have lifted both Domek and the boy with one arm.

  “Lina!” she shouted. The rest of her staff lived outside the home, so that she did not need to feign sleep for an ignorant team of useless servants, but Lina’s room was on the ground floor. She ushered Domek into the dining room. She swept aside the tablecloth and candelabra with one deft motion, ignoring the clatter they made as they hit the floor. “On here,” she directed, stepping back.

  Domek set the footman onto the table, careful to keep one hand on the wound while not jarring the boy’s body. “He’s still unconscious,” he said.

  Lina stumbled into the room in her nightgown and a robe, her hair braided over her shoulder. She scowled at Ora, and then her expression slackened as she took in the tableau. “What in heaven’s name…?”

  “Lina, take Domek to the linen closet. Domek, grab as many as you can carry and then come back. Lina, heat up a bucket of hot water. The surgeon will need it when he arrives. Go, now!”

  They both hurried from the room, and Ora tore off a new piece of her gown to press against the boy’s chest. She had been worried the boy’s neck had been cut, but it seemed his chest was the worst of his injuries. She had wanted to stay close enough to monitor the footman’s fluttering heartbeat, but a rush of dread flooded her chest as soon as she was alone.

  The smell of blood was horrifically appealing, coppery and bright.

  The idea of harming this injured child turned her stomach, but her jaw twitched at the heady scent. Her horror at her own reaction soured and swirled with her predatory instincts, making her feel sick and weak. A sudden vision of her own mouth striking the hot wound overwhelmed her, and she closed her eyes.

  What darkness was inside of her that it surged to the surface even when her heart and mind found it so horrific? Even as she fought to save this boy, was that instinct inside of her proof that she could never truly overcome the drive built by biology and a past of cruel indulgence?

  The footman groaned, and his eyes fluttered open. From the way his breath hitched, Ora thought it would have been a mercy if he had stayed unconscious. Her hands slick with his blood, she leaned down so he could see her face. “Hush,” she told him. “You’re safe. We’re getting you patched up. Hold on.” The boy’s mouth opened, but no words came out. His throat flexed beneath her hands, and she shushed him again. “Just breathe. It will be okay.”

  Domek returned before Lina, carrying a stack of crisp, white linen. He noticed that the footman was awake as soon as he stepped through the door, and he hurried to the boy’s side. “My name is Domek,” he told the boy as he deftly moved Ora’s makeshift bandage aside and replaced it with the clean linen. “We’re going to take care of you, okay?” His deep voice was soothing and confident.

  Ora flinched back when their hands brushed, unable to reconcile Domek’s softness with the revelation about his true nature. How could a man like Domek be a hunter by night? This was not a man
she would have thought could kill. How many pijavice had the broad hands pressing against the boy’s wound murdered? Was there a bloodlust lurking inside of him, just as it was inside of her?

  Ora felt betrayed by the new knowledge. If they had met in a dark street, they would have been mortal enemies. The mild-mannered mechanic she thought she knew had a double life.

  Ora circled the room, lighting the candles in the wall sconces. With her drapes in place, it was a wonder that Lina and Domek had even been able to follow her voice. The candles’ dim light made the scene worse. In the darkness, her vision was flat and monotone. The light added violent color. Red. So much red.

  She glanced up at Domek, wringing her hands as though she could flick away the blood still smearing her pale skin. “Did you see who attacked him?” she asked.

  His eyes flicked up at her, and then he looked back at the boy. “It was dark.”

  She supposed he could not reveal the existence of the monsters in the shadows in front of the boy even if he had wanted to tell her, but she didn’t think he would have brought her in on his secret either way. There were depths to Domek, slow-moving currents invisible at first.

  He glanced back up at her, eyes sharp. “Could you tell?”

  She shook her head and moved to open the heavy curtain over the dining room window to see if Hackett was close. The streets outside were empty.

  The boy groaned again. Had he realized what was attacking him? In her experience, victims often were too turned around by the darkness and the speed of the attack to comprehend that it was fangs or bone sinking into their flesh rather than blades.

  If Hackett did not hurry up, it would not matter if the boy had potentially seen a poltergeist and pijavica that night. Blood was staining the fresh linen like a horrific sunrise, and he needed medical help to survive.

  Lina came into the dining room, hefting a heavy pail from which steam swirled. Though stronger than her slender frame suggested, Lina still needed to hold the handle with both hands. Ora crossed the space to help her, taking the bucket from her and setting it on the edge of the table where the boy would not accidentally kick it.