The Lights of Prague Read online

  Soon, she could make out a hunched figure in the darkness. It stopped a few yards away. “I can smell you,” he said softly.

  Ora stiffened. Another pijavica. Humans couldn’t smell someone at that distance, especially when the scent of her powders should have been masked by the tunnel’s heavy dampness. A bubák could have detected her, but they had no physical form to scuff against the ground like that. No other creatures would lurk underground and confront one of her kind.

  “Are you with them?” he asked. His eyes, glinting in the darkness, flickered over her hiding spot. “I’m n-not going back. I-I can’t.” He stuttered over his words, rushing over some and then lingering unexpectedly on others.

  Uncloaking herself, Ora said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  The pijavica shuddered. “The cure hurts,” he hissed. “I never wanted it.”

  Cautiously, Ora stepped forward. “I’m just moving past.” She kept her voice calm and composed. Hopefully, if she designated herself as the authority in the situation, he’d let her by without lashing out. She wasn’t dressed for a fight.

  “I won’t go back!” the pijavica snarled, and darted forward. Instead of attacking or taking the path beside her, he ducked into the side tunnel between them. He scrambled up the steps using both feet and hands to crawl toward the surface.

  “Wait,” she called, stepping forward but stopping short of following him upward. “It’s dawn! You can’t—”

  It was too late. At the top of the steps, the pijavica opened the door. For a split second, she glimpsed the early morning light illuminate him, and then she ducked into the shadows. She pressed herself to the wall, panting though her body did not need the air. The morning light cast a spotlight on the tunnel wall across from her, and she saw the silhouette of the man just before the door slammed shut.

  Gasping, Ora peeked back up the dark stairs. Had that man just committed suicide in front of her? Even pre-dawn light was enough to slay a pijavica in moments, and he’d just locked himself out of the tunnels.

  He must have been mad. It happened far too often, especially with the newly turned. The bloodlust and the restrictions, the emptiness—it all weighed on the mind until it snapped.

  Ora winced when she brushed the back of her hair and felt the dampness from the walls. Frowning, she stared up the stairs to the dark door above.

  In the morning, Domek sat down with a bucket of water. He scrubbed his skin clean of blood and grime, and used the rest of the water to rinse his stake. Standing by the light of the window, he examined the bruise on his ribs. It had turned a sickly yellow, stretching across his skin. Hopefully it would heal on its own. After several years in the monster-hunting business, he had seen the effects of unstopped internal bleeding, and he had neither the funds nor the time to see a surgeon.

  The flat Domek shared with his roommate Anton was large enough that they each had their own room. A luxury when some of his neighbors had to fit large families in a similarly sized space. Working as a lamplighter did not pay well, but with careful spending and the extra money Domek brought in with part-time tinkering they could just afford it.

  The two lamplighters lived in a large gray tenement at the edge of Nové Město, the New Town that cupped the Old like a broad hand. Only alongside the ancient roots of Prague would a neighborhood five hundred years old be considered ‘new.’ The city had been steadily expanding around the central hill for longer than memory, an ancient metropolis as eternal as the river running through it.

  Domek could tell as soon as he had woken that Anton wasn’t home yet. His roommate’s snores would have been audible even if the walls hadn’t been paper-thin. Anton worked the second lamplighter shift, and often found somewhere else to pass his mornings. It was for the best—Anton would have overreacted to his injury.

  Domek pulled on a shirt and then rattled around the kitchen for a quick breakfast before his busy day. Despite the pain in his side, he felt energetic. He had saved a woman last night, and—aha!—had the jar of honey his mother had brought him back from her visit to the countryside.

  The fog from the night before lifted, leaving clear skies behind. The blue peeking over the orange rooftops was nearly blinding to his tired eyes, bright and vivid after days of rain. He ate the bread and honey on his way, savoring the sweet flavor as he dodged passersby and carriages on the winding streets. Prague was lively in the spring. Hooves clattered on the cobblestones, vendors called for customers, and tourists from Germany and France annoyed everyone by strolling four abreast toward the closest spa.

  On Charles Bridge, the sunlight revealed hidden details. By night, the ominous statues were masked in shadow, but by day they were crowned with glints of warm gold: a cross, a crown, a sword. The metal was bright against the blackened stone. He paused by the statue of the lady Saints Barbara, Margaret, and Elizabeth. In the late morning light, there was no indication that two people had nearly died there last night.

  After he had finished igniting all the lamps on his route last night, keeping an eye on the darkness of the streets around him and an ear out for any disturbances, he had patrolled the long stretch along the river until his relief appeared. The church bells across the city had just tolled one in the morning, signaling the start of the graveyard shift with a single resounding tone. In early March, the nights were just starting to balance with the days, the great scales of time equalizing for a breath after a long winter. Three months ago, darkness had sat over the city from four in the afternoon until eight in the morning, but now the city’s watchmen were able to work between the day’s two six o’clock bells.

  After telling the lamplighter on the second shift about the encounter on the bridge, Domek had trekked east back home and fallen into bed with the dust of the destroyed pijavica still coating his skin.

  The path to Imrich Lanik’s home was as familiar as his patrol route. As Domek crossed under the tower into the Lesser Town, or Malá Strana, he glimpsed the copper domes of St. Nicholas Church ahead, more gold glinting at the tops.

  The inside of Imrich’s apartment building was like a rabbit’s warren: dark, warm, and full of unexpected branches and dozens of unseen inhabitants. The scent of boiled cabbage was heavy in the air, and children giggled behind closed doors.

  Despite his age, Imrich lived on the top floor, sitting on top of the building like a hawk watching its domain. On his floor, the children were either silent or absent. Did Imrich have children or grandchildren? If so, Domek had never met them. He was unsure if the old man had even ever married.

  Domek rapped on the paint-chipped door. Though he hadn’t sent Imrich a warning that he was coming, the elderly man answered the door almost immediately.

  Imrich stared at him, his liver-spotted face unmoving beneath what remained of his hair, which was wispy and white as raw cotton.

  “Oh, it’s you,” he said. His eyes ran over Domek as though assessing an undersized fish in the market before he stepped aside to let him in.

  In sharp contrast to the familiar smells of cabbage and meat from the surrounding apartments, Imrich’s home was filled with the astringent tang of chemicals and metals. For Domek though, entering Imrich’s domain was the same as a child visiting a confectioner, if the store were run by an unamused authoritarian. Every inch of the small space not filled with books was covered in the detritus of Imrich’s alchemical experiments.

  There were beakers and coils scattered about, filled not just with the expected liquids, but also with moss, rocks, and small animal bones.

  “I did not expect you back so soon.” Imrich moved to sit in an armchair in between two towering stacks of books. The leather-bound columns gave the threadbare chair the gravity of a throne.

  Due to Domek’s mechanical background, the leader of the lamplighters had volunteered him as an unpaid, part-time assistant to the alchemist for the last four years. Paluska paid Imrich for consultations not with money, but with the promise of passing along any interesting artifacts or creatur
es the lamplighters found during their work. Some people—scholars, librarians—collected knowledge for the sake of knowledge. Imrich collected knowledge for the power it might provide him. He shared his field’s eternal goal of finding immortality—though he would have settled for gold.

  It was beneficial for the lamplighters to keep a man like Imrich around, but there was a reason he stayed on the outskirts of their organization. His experiments sometimes drifted close to witchcraft, and most of the lamplighters kept a healthy distance. Domek did not share his colleagues’ fear of witches, but Imrich’s prickly attitude did little to endear him.

  Domek stepped closer to a machine on a table in the small open kitchen. Four glass bulbs were interlinked by metal tubing, all leading to a long copper candlestick. The candlestick held two pieces of whittled charcoal an inch apart. “Is this an arc light?” Domek asked. The design was distinct. When activated, the batteries would send blinding electricity sizzling between the pieces of charcoal, like contained lightning. As with all of Imrich’s experiments, there was an unexpected element. Wires trailed from the copper base, ending in a metal circlet. The shape and size… “Tell me this isn’t supposed to go on someone’s head.”

  “Are you an alchemist now?”

  “No, but trying to connect this type of power to—”

  Imrich barreled over him. “Then do not tell me how to run my experiments. Sit down and explain why you’re here outside our appointed time.”

  Domek sat. “I thought you’d want to know that I tested the kalina stake last night.”

  The old man leaned forward, suddenly eager. “And?”

  “It didn’t work.”

  “Are you sure?” Imrich raised one wispy eyebrow. “You might not have hit a fatal area.”

  Domek suppressed a sigh. “I stabbed it through the heart. It laughed and pulled it right back out. It didn’t even flinch from the wound, and handled the stake with bare hands. Kalina is not a weakness for the demons.”

  Imrich hummed. “Where is it? I’ll resharpen it and you can try again. You must have made a mistake. I’ve done the experiments—the properties of the wood should be the same.”

  “I threw it away,” Domek said. “I can’t go onto the streets with a weapon I know doesn’t work. I couldn’t risk accidentally using it again.”

  Imrich’s scowl was like a thundercloud, sweeping over his face and casting it in darkness. “You can’t abandon an experiment due to one failed test. Do you know how long I searched for a kalina bush with a large enough heart to create that stake? I don’t know why Paluska sent me an idiotic thug like you to help me.”

  “The kalina doesn’t work,” Domek insisted, keeping his voice low. Compared to the frail old man, Domek often felt like an oversized oaf. “Lives are on the line. I would not have been the only person to die last night if I hadn’t had the hawthorn on hand.”

  “There’s no reason why the hawthorn should be the pijavice’s only weakness. The kalina bush flowers just the same and produces its own fruit. The lamplighters are limited by the traditions of its past. We’ll never evolve as a species if we never question common knowledge. Paluska assured me that you would be a helpful assistant.”

  “I understand that,” Domek said through gritted teeth. “I’m here because I agree that there’s still more for us to learn. But I can’t risk innocent people for an experiment.”

  “Innovation requires risk,” Imrich sneered. “I would not have thought a lamplighter would be so cowardly.”

  “I’ve been on the ground out there for almost ten years. People die when I make mistakes,” Domek snapped. “I spend every night risking my life while you theorize, safe at home. You think I’m the coward here?”

  Imrich pressed a hand to his chest. “Who do you think you are?” he demanded. “I should have a word with Paluska. He said you were the best they had. I’m not sure I believe it.”

  Would Paluska take Domek’s side against the alchemist? The leader of the lamplighters was practical above all else—and with his knowledge of local history and the supernatural, Imrich was more valuable than Domek. Domek could be fired. “I apologize,” he said finally. “It was a long night.”

  “Come back this weekend as planned.” Imrich waved a hand, dismissing Domek. “I’m expecting a delivery of glass from Vienna you’ll need to carry up, and I’ll have a new stake for you to try. There are more flowering woods to test until I can find more usable kalina. This time, don’t throw it away the moment you’re met with opposition.”

  Domek nodded stiffly and left the old man’s flat. He closed the door gently, though he longed to slam it hard enough to knock the delicate experiments from Imrich’s tables and send them smashing onto the ground. If Domek had been the thug Imrich thought him, he would have.

  Somehow, the high ground did not make him feel better.

  * * *

  One of the things Ora missed the most about mortality was sleep.

  It was strange. While she’d been alive, it had seemed like an inconvenience. Having to shut down and recharge for hours every night took away from all the other things she could have been doing. Time had always felt so short during her hungry youth, and sleeping drained it away more quickly.

  Now, with time stretching out endlessly in front of her, Ora just wanted to take a nap.

  Some days, she pretended. Either at night while the rest of the household was boring and asleep, or during heavy golden afternoons when there was a drowsy sense of peace to the rumblings of carriages outside, Ora would lie still and watch dust float through the air.

  Or times like now, when Ora simply wished for the clocks to stop.

  Someone rapped against her door.

  Ora did not move from her position on the chaise lounge. “Come in,” she called.

  The door opened and her maid, Lina, stepped into her sightline. Ora was draped on the chaise, staring at the velvet curtains nailed over the library’s window. Her maid was wearing Ora’s favorite dress of hers, made of a rich orange cotton that complemented her dark Romani hair and skin beautifully. Ora, who had inherited the criminally pale skin of her German ancestors and had become nearly porcelain after centuries without sunlight, longed for such bright colors.

  “If you’re trying to put me in a good mood, you could have brought up some breakfast,” Ora said.

  Lina huffed and crossed her arms. “I don’t only wear this dress to cheer you up,” she said, as though Ora had not learned her tricks after watching her grow from a child. “Come downstairs if you want a drink. You’ve been in here all day. Mila said you sent a note to Sokol and then locked yourself away. It’s midday and you’re still in your robe.”

  “I’m sure it’s been no more than a few hours. You’ll wrinkle if you keep worrying all the time,” Ora said. “Did you see the gown?”

  “I’ll be able to get the stain out,” Lina said, waving a hand. Ora must have truly looked pitiful for Lina not to scold her. “What happened? You seemed to be…happy yesterday.”

  “I can’t have one quiet morning without you sounding the alarms?”

  “The last time you had a quiet morning like this, you stayed in your bedroom for two weeks. The mattress was permanently dented and we had to buy out the butcher’s shop so you wouldn’t starve,” Lina said briskly. “I won’t be letting that happen again.”

  “Lina,” Ora said, voice cracking. “I watched a pijavica kill himself this morning.” The concern in Lina’s voice had shattered the shell Ora had hastily constructed overnight. Lina occupied an amorphous role in Ora’s household: paid maid, part goddaughter, and part mother hen. Ora had been there for her birth, seen her wailing and bloody taking her first gulps of air. When had Lina grown so much? It seemed that if Ora blinked, Lina’s mother could have been standing there instead.

  Lina sat on the edge of the chaise and put a hand on Ora’s arm. “Oh, Ora,” she said.

  “He was mad. He must have been.” Ora sat up and rearranged her loose hair. Lina still watched her w
ith those compassionate, anxious eyes. The window beyond the curtains loomed behind the maid, a siren’s song. “I’m perfectly all right, Lina.”

  “You will be,” Lina said. “Why don’t you invite Lady Horáčková over for dinner tomorrow? She’s good company.”

  “Anastazie was just over last week,” Ora pointed out.

  “And you never did confirm if you were going to the Beckers’ ball next week,” Lina pressed on. “You’ve been looking for a chance to wear that new dress in from Paris.”

  “The Beckers are horrible and you know it.” Ora put her hand over Lina’s and squeezed it. “Thank you, dear. You don’t need to push me out the door. I promise I will be fine. I always am.”

  If Lina did not believe her, she was kind enough not to say.

  As part of his training regime, Domek had often run up the long corridor of steps leading to Prague Castle. It was a steep trek, one most residents bore with reluctant grace. Though Domek no longer wheezed from taking the steps, the view from the top never failed to take his breath away. In the afternoon light, gold glinted like stars on top of the orange and pale green rooftops. The Vltava snaked through the center, and the twin spires of Týn Church were visible across the city.

  The current resident of the castle was Ferdinand V, who had been emperor before his nephew had taken the throne in Vienna. Like Prague itself, the castle was a relic of a grander time. Though it was now used as a retirement home, it had once been the very center of Bohemia.

  As with all old, beautiful cities, Prague drew in many tourists. Young Englishmen came through on their Grand Tour of Europe, frail French maidens and aging German lords traveled the long roads for their healing spas, and even the occasional American writer came through. The palace square was dense with sweating people waiting to enter the castle. Domek had been inside the sections open to visitors when he was younger, holding his mother’s hand and gaping at the vast halls and the half-built cathedral at the center. Even in a city as steeped in beauty as Prague, the grandeur of the castle was undeniable.