The Lights of Prague

by Nicole Jarvis

  Domek was still murmuring reassurances to the boy. Ora could smell his sticky lifeblood and weak heartbeat, but Domek’s voice was so confident and gentle it was impossible not to believe him.

  Perhaps Ora was wrong to doubt Domek. Though he was clearly capable of violence, he was not a man predisposed to it. Sokol could not have been so gentle with an injured boy, not with the instinct inside him clawing for him to solve his problems with fists, guns, and blades. There was no urgency in Domek’s voice, no fear, though Ora could hear the worried pounding of his heart.

  Lina did not have the same composure. “What is happening?” she hissed to Ora, giving the table a wide berth.

  The front door opened, and Ora’s head lifted a moment before Lina or Domek noticed the noise. “That’s the doctor. I’ll collect him,” she said as she left the room.

  Dr. Ludwig Roth was frowning beside the looming form of Hackett just inside her door, cravat loose around his neck and hair rumpled with sleep. Though his crooked fingers were spotted with age, they were still clever and nimble. He was a transplant from Vienna, and only spoke German despite having lived in Prague for nearly forty years. “I’m too old to learn a new language now,” he’d said early in their acquaintance. Ora herself, of course, never needed medical care, but she and the doctor attended some of the same scientific salons, and she’d hired him twice before: once when Lina had scalded her leg on the boiler, and another time when Nedda, her cook, had sliced a bloody chunk from her own thumb.

  “Gute Nacht, Dr. Roth,” Ora greeted him before sending Hackett to care for the horses. “Thank you for coming over so late.”

  “Your man was quite insistent, Lady Fischer,” Dr. Roth said.

  “It’s an urgent matter,” Ora explained as they entered the dining room. “We’re in need of your expertise quite desperately.”

  “Mein Gott,” the doctor said when he saw the tableau. He immediately opened his case of instruments on the table and leaned forward. “What happened here?”

  “A mugging gone wrong, I believe,” Ora said. “We found him on the street. Can you save him?”

  Dr. Roth pushed Domek aside so he could inspect the wound, and the larger man conceded gracefully. The doctor hissed through his teeth when the still-bleeding gash was revealed. “This is a nasty wound, though it could have been worse. He seems to have been grazed on his face as well. I will do my best.”

  “How can we help?” Ora asked.

  “You can give me my space,” he said. “There are too many eyes on me right now. Get out, and let me work.”

  “I don’t know much German,” Domek said quietly, coming up beside Ora. “What’s he saying?”

  “He wants us gone,” Ora said.

  “Tell him I can help,” Domek said. “I’m strong. He’ll need another set of hands.”

  “Not a set that can’t understand his instructions,” Ora pointed out, and Domek flinched. Though nearly everyone spoke Czech due to the recent revival of the native tongue within Prague, German remained a standard of the upper classes. Domek, from his rough hands, would likely have never been given the chance to learn it.

  “I’ll stay,” Lina said quietly. “In case he needs something.”

  “No. I will,” Ora said.

  “My lady, it’s not proper.”

  “I don’t give a fuck about propriety,” Ora snapped.

  Lina tapped her own cheekbone in warning.

  Damn. Ora turned away and took a deep breath to collect herself. Now that Lina had alerted her, she realized that her face was still on the verge of ripping back into her monstrous form. The first step, the pupil dilation that stained her irises black, must have already begun. Her skin crawled from the effort of resisting the change provoked by the stink of fear and blood in the air. How obvious was it, if Lina had noticed? Domek, trained to hunt pijavice, would not remain oblivious for long.

  “You’ll tell us if you need more hands,” Ora ordered both Lina and Dr. Roth.

  The doctor ignored her, already wiping blood from the wound. The boy whimpered, a pained, terrified sound that made the hair on Ora’s arms rise. Lina nodded. “I left extra hot water in the kitchen. You can get tea, if you need it.” Ora didn’t drink tea, so the implicit ‘if you need something to do’ rang loudly.

  “Good luck, doctor,” Ora said, and then forced herself to leave the room.

  Domek leaned against the wall outside the living room, a cup of cold tea in his hand. He and Ora had retreated to the kitchen in a tense silence while the doctor had begun his work, and had returned to wait outside the door without needing to consult about it.

  Ora, who had not even sipped from her teacup, stared at the door. The doctor and Ora’s servant were quiet on the other side. The boy had whimpered for a while, but had fallen silent. Had he slipped back into unconsciousness, or had the surgery failed? Domek prayed it was the former.

  When he had seen how much the wound had continued to bleed under the candlelight in Ora’s dining room, he had been certain they would lose the boy despite the wisp’s efforts. Even as he had held his hand and comforted him, Domek had been sure he was giving false promises.

  The smell of the blood was cloying and bitter.

  “Maybe you should go to bed,” Domek said finally, a hoarse croak in the silent hallway.

  “There is not the slightest possibility of that happening,” Ora said crisply. “Perhaps you should leave.”

  Domek didn’t move. They lapsed into silence again.

  “I know you’re scared,” he said. “It’s okay.”

  “I’m not scared.”

  “He’ll make it.”

  “I don’t need false platitudes, Domek. Don’t waste your breath on me.” She was resting her head against the wall, arms folded over her knees.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “When you followed me into that alley…I was terrified for you. I thought you would end up like that boy in there, and the thought was more than I could bear. You’re right. I can’t promise things will work out. But I would die to keep you safe.”

  She laughed, tipping her head back to look at the ceiling and exposing her long, pale throat. “How are you real?”

  He had never seen her like this, jagged as a glass shoved off a table. He had never been good with words. He reached out his hand, leaving it palm-up on the floor between them. Slowly, without looking at him, Ora slid her hand into his.

  Finally, the doctor emerged from the room, and they both stood to greet him. His ancient form was slow and uneven, as though the work had sapped more life from his bones. He said something to Ora in German, his body language unreadable.

  Ora murmured something in another language—something guttural that was not German nor Czech—and then slumped against the wall and let out a shaky breath.

  “He’ll be okay?” Domek asked. She nodded, and he felt the tension sap from his shoulders like a physical blow. “Thank God.”

  Ora thanked the doctor—a German phrase even Domek knew—and paid him his fee before seeing him to the door. Domek slipped into the dining room on quiet feet, holding his breath. The boy was pale, and his eyes were closed, but his bandaged chest rose and fell steadily.

  They had saved him. The wisp had saved him. If Domek had gone through with his plan to kill Kája, the boy would have died. He had nearly rejected the wisp’s help, and even with it, the doctor had barely been able to stop the chest wounds from bleeding. The gashes Kája had closed on his throat had been far deadlier—the boy would have had no chance.

  “He’s asleep,” Lina told him softly from by the boy’s bedside. She brushed a wet cloth across his brow. “It’s for the best. It was all too much for him, especially with the brandy I gave him.”

  “Are you all right?” Domek asked. Ora’s maid was pale, and the sleeves of her robe were soaked in blood.

  She looked away. “I’ll be fine.”

  “You helped save a boy tonight,” Domek told her softly.

  Ora returned, brushing a curl of pale
red hair from her face. Her up-do, which had been so perfectly coiffed at the start of their night, had fallen entirely. “Lina, go to sleep. Domek, help me carry the boy to a guest room. I’m not leaving him on the table overnight.”

  Domek nodded and carefully cradled the boy to his chest. Thick gauze covered his wounds, and Domek ignored the urge to peel back the bandages and reassure himself that the gashes in his chest were closed. He had to trust that the doctor was competent, and believe in the slow breathing from the frail body in his arms.

  Ora took a candle and led him up the stairs to a small bedroom, which was in pristine order. Domek set the boy on top of the plush quilt and stepped back. “Someone should stay with him.”

  “I’ll hear if he wakes up,” Ora said confidently. She ushered him out of the room and shut the door. She looked up at him, and her fingers gently enclosed his wrist. “Come with me.”

  Domek allowed Ora to pull him down the hallway, away from the stairs, and into another bedroom. By candlelight the fabrics on the vast bed were lush and inviting, suggesting softness and luxury—along with other, more active, pursuits. This bedroom was larger than the guest room, but just as pristine. Ora’s maids must have worked constantly to keep the rooms looking so untouched. Ora set the candle on a dresser while Domek looked around to find what she had wanted to show him. Carefully, she untied her shawl and spread it across the bed.

  She prowled across the room back toward him, her eyes dark and hungry. She put a hand in the center of his chest, forcing him back until he was pressed against the wall. “Ora,” he breathed. His body flushed with heat, chasing away the lingering chill of the night’s events.

  “Who are you, Domek Myska?” she asked. “You did not need to follow me home to make sure he survived, but you did anyway. How can someone be so prepared to fight and still be so soft with the victim?”

  “I fight for the victims,” Domek said. He spoke roughly—her hand was on his torso, yet he felt as though there were a grip around his throat.

  “You,” she said, running her hand down his stomach, “are so damned noble, aren’t you? What are you doing here with me?”

  It was a good question. Ora was alive and eager in his arms, but they were only just down the hallway from the evidence of how quickly that could change. What was he doing? He was dangerous to be around, especially with the wisp hidden in his bag. Ora was vibrant and beautiful, and the thought of carrying her limp body in a desperate bid to find a surgeon chilled him.

  “We shouldn’t,” Domek murmured, turning his head away from her inviting, pale skin.

  She huffed a sigh that he could feel against his neck. “Hang up the nobility for just this night, Domek.” She put her hand on his cheek to lure him back down.

  “I can’t,” he told her. “I’m sorry.” He took her hand and kissed her knuckles, and then moved it away from his face. “We can’t.”

  “You want me,” she said, unwavering. “Don’t deny it.” When he didn’t answer, she pressed closer, aggressive. “I can’t believe I thought the fact that you are absolutely no fun was endearing. Perhaps instead of telling me how I should behave, instead of protecting me from myself, you could do what we both want to do.”

  “There are things you don’t know about me.”

  “I know everything I need to.” She shook her head and took a step back. “The next time, it could be you or I on the brink of death. I hope you don’t regret this.”

  Instead of answering, Domek leaned forward to capture her lips. She gasped into his mouth, and then surged against him like a storm cloud bursting over the city. Caving to the instinct he had resisted before, he threaded his fingers through her soft hair to cup the back of her head. Gone was the teasing hesitance they’d entertained in front of the opera house. He was lost in the sensations, and she seemed eager to drown with him.

  Her skin was cool to the touch, enticingly so. He felt overheated, flushed, and pulling her closer seemed the only cure. He dragged his mouth from hers so he could explore the rest of her face, kissing those high cheekbones, tugging on her small ears with his teeth, and then pressing his lips in a trail down her neck.

  “Domek,” she murmured, tilting her head encouragingly. One hand still in her hair to keep her where he wanted her, he teased the thin skin of her neck. She reacted with small gasps and pleased sighs, pressing herself into him.

  The heady, blurry pleasure of her lips against his and the desperate grasping of her hands was a sharp contrast to the vivid fear of the last few hours. There was nothing to worry about beyond the feel of her lithe body against his.

  There was no world beyond the touch of her hands and the taste of her mouth.

  * * *

  Ora was dancing with fire, and could not resist sticking both of her hands into its deadly core.

  The man in her arms was a hunter, and she was his prey. Tonight, she had hunted him, and now she had him where she wanted him.

  He kissed down her neck as his hands roamed over her body. His beard scratched against her collarbone, and she wished for the downy soft skin of her youth. She wanted to have marks to feel tomorrow. The veil of caution he hid behind had lifted. His hand was firm on her waist, dragging slowly upward. He unlaced the ribbon at the back of her dress, and her neckline loosened. His questing lips moved toward her shoulders, and Ora had just enough of her mind left to realize it would be dangerous to let him feel the wounds still healing from Czernin’s attack.

  Instead, she tugged at his curls until he kissed her mouth again, and ushered him back toward the bed. She pushed him onto it, leaned over to blow out the candle, and then crawled on top of him.

  She helped him strip her from her clothes. She wanted to feel the heat of his hands on her skin. Ora had done nothing but make mistakes for days—for centuries—but feeling Domek beneath her was right.

  She pulled off his shirt and explored the body hidden beneath.

  Ora had been with many lovers over her long life. Darina had been as hard and slender as a steel cable, with jagged edges which could tear Ora to pieces. Vihaan had been in his fifties, still far younger than Ora’s true age but more settled into his skin than her other lovers. Clara had been as soft and powdered as the beignets she had adored. Franz had been gentle, and had only grown frailer with age. She had needed to be careful with him, plucking and teasing out the reactions she wanted.

  Domek was as solid as a mountain. The trimmed black beard on his face was matched by the sparse, unruly patches on his chest and arms. He was stoic under her ministrations at first, but she made it her mission to break him.

  Finally, he surged up and twisted them over. She let him secure her beneath him, raising her arms over her head and luxuriating under his heavy heat. Finally, he continued the trail of kisses he had begun against the door, tracing from her neck to her collarbone to her breasts. By the time he made his way between her legs, she was certain she would shake out of her skin before he began in earnest. He was firm but methodical, and Ora was too fragile to be teased tonight.

  “Domek,” she said. She tried to find the words to express what she needed, but her mind was a haze. “Please.”

  He took mercy on her, moving back up to kiss her mouth. She spread her legs like a flower blooming, and they moved together.

  The fire she had been bathing in all night now burned her from the inside.

  She dragged her nails down his back and he groaned, kissing her again. He was a risk, but so solid and unmoving that she could throw herself at him and be as sure he would catch her as would the ground.

  They moved together like a sunrise, slow and subtle before growing into an all-encompassing, blinding phenomenon. She closed her eyes against it. Ora felt scalded and protected at once, torn open only to have her dark abscesses filled with the softest silk. Life was all around her, from the pounding of the blood in Domek’s veins to the pleasure blooming through her body. In Domek’s arms, she was someone new, someone worth loving. He was tearing down her walls, taking her ap
art—and would piece her back together.

  She let herself shatter.

  * * *

  “Ora,” Domek murmured as they collapsed down onto the bed together. He felt loose-limbed and content. It had been years since he had last bedded a woman, and had never felt so enraptured. Sweat warmed his skin, and he could not stop running his hand through her hair. “You’re so beautiful.”

  She blinked her eyes open and turned to him.

  He shouted and lurched backward, nearly falling off the edge of the bed. “Your eyes,” he breathed, standing up on unsteady legs. Vast pupils reflected bright green in the darkness, more feline than human. More monstrous than human.

  Domek stumbled away and flung open the closest curtain, ripping the nails from the wall. The gas lamp outside spread a faint blue glow across the room.

  Ora reached up to her face. Her claws touched her distended cheek. The sting in Domek’s back from her nails resolved into a more vicious ache. “Domek,” she breathed. Her fangs glinted.

  He dove for his satchel and the hawthorn stakes inside. A pijavica. This had been an unusual way to catch a lamplighter unawares, but Domek cursed himself for being fooled. Heat turned to ice in his veins. “I suppose now I know why a lady wanted a lamplighter to escort her home,” he said. The stakes were a familiar weight in his palms. “I’m surprised you didn’t just snap my neck and steal it in the alley when your friend showed up.”

  “It’s not what you think.”

  “You’re a pijavica!” he accused. “Are you going to deny it? I can see your fangs. I’ve fought enough of you to know.”

  “And you’re a pijavica hunter,” Ora shot back. “How do you think I felt realizing I’ve been flirting with someone who kills for a living?”

  “I kill those who kill us,” Domek argued. He wished he weren’t nude. “And I hopped into your carriage like a fool. What was your plan? Is the footman still alive?”