The Lights of Prague

by Nicole Jarvis

  “Of course he is.” He scoffed, and she glared at him. “Lord, I wanted to fuck you, Myska, not kill you.”

  He readjusted the grip on his weapons. “I have trouble believing that.”

  “Then that’s on you. I’ve never lied to you. I haven’t told you everything, but obviously neither did you,” Ora said.

  “What did I have to tell you? I thought I was protecting you. I didn’t know you were the monster.”

  She stood up from the bed, leaving the sheet behind. Had he never noticed how truly pale she was? He had never seen her in the sunlight—their meetings had been in gaslit shops and deep into the night. She had shown up at the museum and the bookstore and acted as though it had been fate. How long had she been following him? Was she part of the cabal that was searching for the wisp? He glanced back down at the satchel at his feet. He had abandoned the weakened wisp and its jar without a thought as soon as she had kissed him.

  Slowly, inexorably, like the moon rising in the night sky, she approached him. In the dim light, there was something entrancing about the too-wide stretch of her lips and her gleaming eyes. She held up a hand toward his wrist. “You know me, Domek.”

  She smiled gently and began to push his wrist aside, and he moved his other stake up to press against her ribs.

  She went unnaturally still. She was no longer breathing.

  “You won’t have the chance to fool me again,” he told her.

  Suddenly, she fell backward, leaving his stake to jab into the air. She twisted and ducked beneath the blow, red curls flashing. Slamming her forearm into the back of his calves, she knocked his legs from under him.

  Domek fell to the hardwood floor, barely avoiding landing on his own weapon. Ora straddled his torso and pinned his hands to the floor. She squeezed the bones in his wrists until the stakes clattered from his grasp. “I tried to do this kindly,” she snarled.

  “You’re not capable of kindness.”

  She flinched, and he used the momentary lapse in her strength to flip them over. It was disturbingly reminiscent of their bedplay. He managed to pin her arms by leaning his full weight onto one hand, and scrabbled for one of the fallen stakes with the other.

  “I would never have hurt you,” Ora told him.

  Domek held the stake to the base of her jaw. In one movement, he would be able to sever her spine. That quick laugh and broad smile would be turned to dust. Why hadn’t she killed him earlier? Why play with his heart, why let him see her vulnerable, if she were going to murder him and take the wisp for herself? Ora was a mischievous person. Perhaps their entire relationship had been a perversity, like a cat batting about its prey.

  She stared up at him, and she was as beautiful as ever.

  He tightened his grip on the stake, but his muscles were locked like the gears of a broken watch. She had taunted him, teased him, but his emotions—those had been real.

  “I don’t want to see you again,” Domek said lowly. “Whatever game you were playing, it’s over.” He moved the stake away and climbed to his feet. She stayed on the ground, hair sprawling like a sunburst. “Stay across the room. I’m leaving. I’m going to regret this, but I can’t do it like this. Don’t believe I’m soft, though. The next time we meet, I’ll know that you’re the enemy.”

  Ora looked away. “I suppose if that happens, then I’ll know you’re mine.”

  Domek walked backward out the door, grabbing his satchel as he went and holding it close. In the hallway outside, he waited for her to burst through the door after him, but the house was still.

  And he was still naked.

  Body tensed for an attack, he went to the guest room, pulled a robe from a hook on the wall—from the scent and silk, it belonged to Ora—and then pulled the footman from the bed. The boy groaned in protest, but Domek could not leave him in the house with a pijavica. Fortunately, the boy was dazed enough not to protest, but aware enough to stumble alongside Domek down the stairs.

  Finally, Domek dragged him to the street and hailed a hack. Before the driver drove away, Domek looked back one last time.

  The house was preternaturally still behind them, a mausoleum waiting for new corpses.

  Ora stared up at the ceiling.

  There was a new injury to add to the day’s collection. She could feel the phantom press of the hawthorn in a blister on her stomach.

  Once she heard the front door close, she levered herself to her feet. She found a clean dressing gown, washed her hands and face, gathered Domek’s abandoned clothes, and went downstairs. She went into the sitting room, threw her bundle of cloth onto the hearth, and searched the mantle for a match.

  She smelled Lina’s approach, and did not jump when she commented, “Mister Myska isn’t staying?”

  “You should be asleep,” Ora said, staring at the dark fireplace. “It’s been a long day.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  Ora abandoned the clothes and went into the parlor. With a clink that echoed in the quiet house, she poured several fingers of brandy from a crystal decanter.

  Lina trailed after. “My lady, you know what alcohol does to your system.”

  “I do,” Ora said. “This is for you.”

  Lina accepted the glass and took a bracing sip. Her hands were shaking slightly, and blood streaked the back of her forearm where she had missed a spot cleaning up.

  “I’m sorry,” Ora said, remaining by the liquor cabinet. She traced a finger over a crystal glass. “I’m sorry about everything. You should not have seen any of the things you saw today—my own actions included. Are you all right?”

  “Part of me wants to say yes just so we don’t have to have this conversation,” Lina said. “But I’m not.”

  “I know,” Ora said softly. “I appreciate your honesty.”

  “That wasn’t a mugging that did that, like you told the surgeon,” Lina said. “It was…”

  “A poltergeist,” Ora said.

  “One of you.”

  Ora turned around to look at her long-time maid. “You’re frightened. Of me.”

  Lina slammed down her glass on a table. With only her human strength, the crystal stayed intact. “I’m angry. I’m angry that someone with your power attacked that poor boy and nearly killed him. I’m even angrier that pijavice like your old master are still out there running estates full of human cattle. And of course I’m terrified. What if it was me bleeding out on the dining room table?”

  “I was trying to stop that from happening. If I had hovered over you while we were there, Czernin would have known that you were my weakness. And you are that, Lina. You’re very important to me.” She hesitated, but forced herself to keep going. “But if you decide you want to leave, I’ll write you the most glowing recommendation in Prague.”

  Lina sighed. “I’m not scared of you, Ora. Mama told me what you were when I was growing up. You were a lady, you were a gadji, and you were a pijavica. In every sense, you were different from me. In all those ways, you had power that I couldn’t dream of.”

  “I never wanted your mother or you to feel that way.” Like Ora, Lina’s parents had been wanderers before they’d joined her in Mělník, part of a migrant group that had only been supposed to stop in Bohemia for a few months. Instead, Lina’s mother had broken from their group to live with Franz and Ora in their country house. Her husband had died—she had never said how—and her pregnancy had been a difficult one.

  She had stayed with Ora for fifteen years. She was as gifted with horses as Franz had been, and her light touch with the household management had suited both Franz and Ora’s personalities well. Through Franz’s long illness, she had helped Ora search for new cures, and then, near the end, palliative medicines.

  Though she had followed Ora to Prague afterward, city life was too much for her wandering sensibilities. She needed fresh air, space away from the press of the crowds. She had left after a year, finding another caravan to join. By that point, Lina had been sixteen, and had made her own decision to stay with Ora r
ather than searching for a new life.

  “You know my mama loves you,” Lina said. “What I’m trying to say is that you have the ability in so many ways to hurt my family. But you never have.”

  “I nearly did today.”

  “If you had really tried, you wouldn’t be the one who had gotten hurt,” Lina pointed out, nodding to Ora’s burnt hand. “If there are monsters like Czernin out in the world, your side seems to be the safest place to be.”

  “I’d protect you and your family with my existence,” Ora assured her.

  “I know,” Lina said. “So, thank you for the brandy, but stop trying to politely get rid of me. You couldn’t survive without me even if you wanted me gone.”

  Ora smiled. “I adore you.”

  “Repay me by letting me sleep until noon tomorrow,” Lina said, knocking back the rest of the brandy.

  The doorbell rang, and Ora frowned. Had Domek changed his mind? And if he had, was he back to apologize or to kill her? She sniffed the air, and her frown only deepened. “Go to bed, Lina,” she said. “I’ll deal with this.”

  Darina slouched inside as soon as Ora opened the door. She took one look at Ora’s dressing gown and laughed. “Between this and the half-naked man I just saw getting into a hack outside your house, I’m assuming your night did not go well. I waited to hear any screams or breaking glass, but I decided you were either handling it well or dead.”

  Ora resisted the urge to tie her dressing gown more tightly closed. “Your contribution earlier did not help. Have you forgotten the art of subtlety?” Ora hesitated—the dining room would still smell of fresh blood, but she did not want to let Darina deeper into her house. Finally, she led her back to the sitting room.

  “That was always your strength. I saved that boy. I didn’t need to interfere,” Darina said.

  “Then why did you? Selflessness on you makes me nervous.”

  “I’m trying to prove to you that I’m here to be on your side. You would be thanking me if that human hadn’t soured your mood.” She picked up Lina’s empty brandy glass and sniffed. “I never thought I was your true love, but I’m a bit offended in hindsight if he’s to your taste.”

  “Is this the sort of gossip you’ll be taking back to Czernin?” Ora asked.

  “Czernin isn’t as innocent in all this as he made you believe,” Darina said. “He sent me to be sure you’re not interfering with his plans. He’s been in contact with the Zizkov coven. You think their new leader, Mayer, would have had the mental capacity as a newly turned to build such a strategic family? Czernin has been guiding him, nudging him in the right direction.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know the details. You saw Czernin—he doesn’t trust anyone.”

  “But he trusts this Mayer?”

  “He created Mayer. Not with his venom, but with his shaping. He nudged him into position. He stopped trusting his own family—now he’s creating followers without giving them his teeth. Mayer was turned by the Zizkovs. Czernin can wash his hands of this if it turns sour.”

  “And you don’t know what they’re planning?”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing you would approve of. You’re domestic now. Czernin’s games would ruin your fun, no matter his aim. I’ve seen the spies’ reports about you and your little human pets, for all that they can be believed. They’ve been running circles around him for years now, you know. Thieves and liars, the lot.”

  “Even if that’s true—why are you telling me?” Ora asked. “You’ve never been interested in being ‘on my side’ before.”

  “Czernin is losing his grip on reality. He’s been in Prague since there has been a castle on that hill. Prague’s golden era is behind us now, and so is Czernin’s. I took the gift of immortality because I wanted a long life. Being trapped in that dark hell with a mad old monster and his butler was never part of the offer. Undermine his work here, start to loosen the threads of his hold around this country, and maybe one day we will both be free.”

  “I’m already free,” Ora pointed out, crossing her arms.

  Darina’s eyes went to her bare hand, blackened from the sun. “Are you?”

  “How am I meant to stop Czernin when I know nothing of the Zizkovs’ plans? There have been rumors of some type of cure—I assume, if Czernin is involved, it would send the pijavice back into the sun without altering our other abilities.”

  “What other type of cure is there?”

  “The type where we become human again.”

  Darina laughed. “You really have grown soft.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Ora said, waving a hand. “The entire premise is impossible. What’s done can’t be undone. We have our weaknesses. Death changes everything, even us.”

  “You’re so sure?” Darina asked.

  “It’s never been done before,” Ora pointed out.

  “And we all know tradition is the only reliable source of information. I thought you were more creative than that. Aren’t you curious to see what they believe they can do?” She pulled an envelope from her sleeve and set it on the mantle. “The Zizkov family is looking for new members. They’re hosting a party at their home tomorrow to meet some pijavice in town. It’s no masquerade ball, but I’m sure they’ll bring out whatever impressive bits they can. They’re new money, but they’re desperate to seem established. Czernin told them he would be sending me. Go in my place and tell them I sent you.”

  “If you’re trying to help me stop Czernin, why wouldn’t you go?” Ora asked. “Any pijavica with an ear in Prague knows that Ora Fischerová is not interested in their squabbles.”

  “Pick another name. I, certainly, have better things to be doing with my time,” Darina said. “And if this cabal of pijavice gets intercepted by that soldier friend of yours, it won’t be my neck on the line.”

  It had been a century since Ora had seen Darina, and the woman had not changed at all. As mutable as the mortal world was, Ora’s old life seemed set in stone. “It’s been a long time since we worked together. Me heading into danger while you sit back feels quite familiar.”

  “It’s how we work best,” Darina said with a wicked smile. “Prague should gird its loins.”

  * * *

  The next afternoon, Domek found Cord in his study, scribbling a note at his oversized mahogany desk with his dog asleep at his feet. With so much of Cord’s apartment sitting at the cutting edge of style, Domek could always tell which decorative pieces had been directly influenced by Cord’s family. He may have thought himself separate from his father, but the man’s traditional influence lingered in the places where Cord wanted to show his seriousness. In contrast, Cord’s outfit today, which had enough bright colors to mimic the early spring flowers that were blooming in squares around the city, was all himself.

  Cord grinned. “You’re no longer allowed to mock me for sleeping in,” he declared. “It’s past noon.”

  Domek ran a hand through his disheveled hair. He had settled the injured boy at a hospital, emptying his pockets to afford the bed, and then had stumbled into Cord’s apartment to sleep the rest of the night. He’d left Ora’s purple dressing gown spread across the floor like a puddle. “I have reasons beyond drinking until dawn.”

  Cord laughed, unfazed by the caustic tone. “Reasons, you say? I hope this is a sign that your date went spectacularly. I wasn’t sure you’d be back last night at all, to be honest.”

  Domek sat in the chair across from the desk and picked up a decorative glass paperweight. “She’s a demon, Cord.”

  “Hm, then perhaps it did not go so well,” Cord said.

  “A pijavica,” Domek clarified, examining the twin blue rivers twisting through the glass orb. “A bloodthirsty monster.”

  “Lady Fischerová is a pijavica? You’re sure?”

  “The fangs gave it away,” Domek said. “She was right in front of me. There was no mistaking it.” He sighed. “Cord, I let her live. What kind of fool am I?”

  “The kind who does not kill the
woman who had just paid for his opera ticket,” Cord suggested.

  Domek turned to glare at him. “This is serious, Cord. I’m a lamplighter. It’s my duty to protect Prague, and I let a demon slip through my fingers. I had her under my stake, and I left.”

  “And she let you leave?”

  “I had won the fight. She knew she could not win if she pursued me.”

  “The Lady Fischerová I met did not seem the type to fear anything. Have you considered that she had no plans to kill you? I told you, I’ve met pijavice before. The ones who operate in the upper echelon have had to learn restraint.”

  “Or so you believe. I always thought I’d know a pijavica whenever I saw one. I’ve fought enough. We all know there are rich pijavice, but we’re lamplighters—we can’t break into a palace and kill a nobleman, no matter how many people they’ve killed.”

  “I can’t speak for what goes on behind their closed doors, but they’re more rational than you give them credit for. Surely they can’t all be bathing in blood.”

  “You’re as rich as anyone, Cord. You know well that you get away with more than any poor man ever could. Money makes a difference. It can hide evil.”

  “It can. I’ve seen the worst of men from all social strata. But Ora didn’t seem like one of them. What if you’re wrong about her?”

  “I saw her eyes. I know what she is.”

  “But do you know who she is?”

  “What do you suggest? That I look away and hope that she’s not killing innocent people in her parlor every night? That there are some monsters who are different?”

  “I’m not a lamplighter. I don’t make life or death decisions. I prefer choosing the wine with dinner,” Cord said. “If you want to know my opinion, then, well. You know where she lives. Watch her. See if you were right about her. Why rush and make a decision you may regret? You’ve never been a rash man. Why start today?”

  Cord’s butler cleared his throat from the doorway. “Anton Beran is back,” he announced. “Shall I let him in?”

  “You told him yesterday you didn’t know where I was, didn’t you?” Domek asked.