The Lights of Prague E-Book

Nicole Jarvis

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

For readers of VE Schwab and The Witcher, science and magic clash in atmospheric gaslight-era Prague.In the quiet streets of Prague all manner of otherworldly creatures lurk in the shadows. Unbeknownst to its citizens, their only hope against the tide of predators are the dauntless lamplighters - a secret elite of monster hunters whose light staves off the darkness each night. Domek Myska leads a life teeming with fraught encounters with the worst kind of evil: pijavica, bloodthirsty and soulless vampiric creatures. Despite this, Domek find solace in his moments spent in the company of his friend, the clever and beautiful Lady Ora Fischer - a widow with secrets of her own.When Domek finds himself stalked by the spirit of the White Lady - a ghost who haunts the baroque halls of Prague castle – he stumbles across the sentient essence of a will-o'-the-wisp captured in a mysterious container. Now, as it's bearer, Domek wields its power, but the wisp, known for leading travellers to their deaths, will not be so easily controlled.After discovering a conspiracy amongst the pijavice that could see them unleash terror on the daylight world, Domek finds himself in a race against those who aim to twist alchemical science for their own dangerous gain.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Dedication

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Epilogue

Acknowledgements

A Note on the Author

LEAVE US A REVIEW

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The Lights of Prague

Print edition ISBN: 9781789093940

E-book edition ISBN: 9781789093964

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd.

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First Titan edition: May 2021

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

© 2021 Nicole Jarvis. All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

To my mom, my first reader.

PRAGUE, 1868

Dark water reflected the line of gas lamps along the path, the rippling lights echoing the stars stretching overhead. Fog twisted around the lamps behind Domek, the fire inside illuminating the mist like streams of smoke. The Old Town was quiet at this hour. Buildings were cramped and towering along the river, looking as though they might tip forward if not for their brothers holding them in place. Ahead, Charles Bridge arched over the Vltava toward the castle. After the recent storm, the river was swollen and heavy.

Domek nudged the next lever with the end of his pole, and a stream of gas flowed into the lamp. Flipping the pole, he used a match and red phosphorus block to strike the wad of cotton aflame and lifted the fire to the open glass casing.

He could tell the moment just before the flame touched gas, like a breath of anticipation.

After a moment of stillness, the first mantle ignited into blue flame. And then, with a series of small pops, the other three burst to life. The sudden light was a welcome visitor in the dark evening. Lingering for a moment, Domek watched the flames dance inside the glass lantern. Then, he pulled away his pole, blew out the small fire, and moved on.

Cobblestones gleamed underfoot from the rain earlier in the evening. Like a giant sated after a hearty meal, Prague after a storm was content and slow. Most of the citizens were tucked away in their homes and would stay there until dawn.

For Domek, though, the night was only beginning.

Domek stopped at the next lamppost and set the metal end of his pole to the gas valve, then froze when a scream pierced the night. High and shrill, it echoed across the river and cut off after a staccato burst.

It was what he had been waiting for. Leaving his pole behind, Domek moved forward into the darkness, feet light and swift on the uneven cobblestones. The lamps ahead were unlit, and only the light from the crescent moon overhead fell onto his path. Spying nothing along the river, he slid onto Charles Bridge where sandstone and copper statues of venerated saints lined the rails, a row of guardians black-stained and decaying from centuries of pollution. As he walked, holding his bag at his side to hide its rattle, he kept a careful watch on the looming statues. Some featured only one figure, others depicted a twisting group. In the night, any could hide a monster.

Finally, at the base of the statue of Saints Barbara, Margaret, and Elizabeth, he saw a still pair of figures intertwined in the shadows, a coarse mimicry of the statues above.

They were difficult to parse in the night, their edges blending with the darkness, but the moon caught on a woman’s pale, slack face. A man stood behind her, one arm across her bosom to keep her pressed back against him, the other cradling her head to bare her neck.

Moving silently until he was only steps away, Domek barked, “Hey!”

The man jerked his head toward Domek.

And it was no man.

The creature’s bloody mouth gaped like a wound across its face. It blinked at Domek, and bared fangs that glinted in the faint moonlight. These were not simply elongated canines, as on an alley cat, but a mouthful of thin, razor-sharp needles erupting from a vast jaw. It hissed, and the high, eerie sound grated on the quiet bridge. Horrible mouth smirking with triumph, it leaned back toward the woman.

Without hesitating, Domek pulled a hawthorn stake from his pocket and closed the distance between them before the pijavica could resume its meal. He grabbed the creature by its dark curly hair and jerked it away from the woman. Without its hold, she slumped to the ground, unconscious. Her neck was smeared with blood, a spreading shadow in the darkness.

Yanking the pijavica toward him, Domek aimed his stake at its heart, but the monster used the momentum to slide inside of Domek’s reach. Its reflexes were unnaturally fast, and Domek had to drop to the ground to avoid having his head taken off by a snap of the creature’s jaws.

His teacher would have told him to stab the pijavica immediately while it was distracted earlier, despite the risk to the victim.

Now it was his life on the line.

Even with his eclectic training, and even though he had at least two stone on the lithe creature, he was severely outmatched by a freshly fed pijavica. Without the element of surprise, his only advantage was that he understood what he faced. He knew the monster’s many strengths, and its few weaknesses.

He dodged another swipe but caught a glancing fist to his ribs. It knocked him back against the stone railing. He tumbled to the ground, palms scraping against the stones. He panted, fighting for breath. The pijavica crouched over his chest, grinning with bloody teeth. “You shouldn’t have interrupted me,” the monster said, teasing its claws along Domek’s throat. The sibilant words carried the stench of hot blood from its gaping mouth. “Fortunately for you, I have places to be tonight, so I can’t drag this out.”

Domek bucked but had no leverage against the creature. Taking a steadying breath, he twisted the stake in his hand inward along his forearm and bent his arm sharply. The carved hawthorn tip sliced through the fabric of his coat at his elbow, piercing his skin underneath.

At the smell of fresh blood, cloying and metallic on the damp air, the pijavica jerked its head sideways, pupils ballooning. It knocked the hawthorn stake from Domek’s hand, sending it clattering on the cobblestones. Domek used his other hand to grab the monster and flip them both sideways so that Domek could move again. The pijavica, still distracted by the scent of his bloodied arm, didn’t notice Domek pull out his second stake. It was slenderer than the hawthorn, made of a pale wood whittled from the trunk of a kalina bush.

Domek lunged and used both hands to ram the thin stake into the demon’s chest, aim true from years of practice. The pijavica’s eyes widened, and it fell back against the ground. They stared at each other for one brief, tense moment.

Then, the pijavica reached down to its chest and pulled out the stake, slick from the blood of its victim. Its smile was triumphant and horrible, gaping from ear to ear.

Swearing, Domek scrambled away across the cobblestones. The monster leaped after him, tackling him to the ground. Domek twisted and rammed the fallen hawthorn stake into the pijavica’s neck, feeling the sickening crunch of its spine.

There was a brief moment of suspense, like the catch of a lamp igniting, before the hawthorn did its job. One second, the monster was crouched over him, open mouth dripping venom and painted with blood. The next, it dissolved into dust, leaving its clothes to fall onto Domek’s chest.

Domek resheathed the hawthorn, bundled the abandoned clothing in his blood-smeared arms, and stood. He wavered on his feet and blinked to focus. The clothes had been expensive—made of a better material than Domek’s uniform—but torn and covered in the pijavica’s dust they were now worthless. Worse, bloodied clothing without a body would raise questions that could lead ignorant authorities his way. He shoved the bundled clothes into his fallen satchel.

Something heavy fell from the pijavica’s coat, and he fumbled to catch it before it hit the cobblestones. It felt like a small flask, just big enough for the palm of his hand, and was tightly wrapped in a dark cloth. Considering pijavice couldn’t stomach human food or drink, it was likely filled with something even more suspicious than the abandoned clothing, so, despite his distaste, Domek put it into his satchel as well.

Domek retrieved the kalina stake from where it had been abandoned, glinting dark in the moonlight. Scowling, he chucked it over the bridge’s railing, sending it spiraling toward the Vltava below.

He went over to the injured woman, who had regained her consciousness, if not her feet. He knelt and examined her wounded neck. The dark had made it seem worse than it was. Blood pricked from dozens of small points, but the fangs had not cut deep. Pijavice could bite their victims and barely leave a mark; the toxin in their teeth had a powerful anesthetic that impaired memory. If they could control themselves, a pijavica’s victim would wake up none the wiser with only a spread of needle pricks on their neck and a slight headache. However, most pijavice lacked such control, and their extended jaws could rip a throat in half in one bite. Tonight’s victim had been lucky.

“Are you all right, madam?” he asked.

“Someone attacked me,” she said. Her hand shook when she went to check her neck, but Domek intercepted it. Feeling the blood would just make her panic. He grabbed the pijavica’s shirt from his bag and wadded it into a makeshift bandage. “Hold this to your neck,” he instructed, setting it carefully against the wound.

“Did you see where he went?” she asked. Her gaze was unfocused, her mind struggling against the numbing effects of the shock and the venom.

“He was gone by the time I arrived,” Domek told her. “Are you missing any valuables?” He knew the answer before she patted down her pockets. The monster hadn’t been interested in petty cash or false jewels.

“Is there somewhere I can take you?” he asked.

“No, no,” the woman said. She allowed him to help pull her to her feet, but she stepped away without leaning on him.

There was a movement in his peripheral vision, and Domek whirled, stake in hand. There was a pale woman in the shadow of the looming tower at the base of the bridge, watching him with eyes like the night sky, the only disruption of a flawless white image.

She was floating a meter off the stone, her dress fluttering in an absent wind.

“My husband can help me,” said the victim, diverting his attention away from the apparition.

“I can at least get you safe off the street,” Domek said. He glanced back down the bridge, but the spirit was gone. Still clutching his stake, Domek focused on the other woman. “You shouldn’t walk alone. You lost a lot of blood, and you were unconscious when I found you.”

“I’m awake now,” she replied, holding the bundle of cloth tightly to her neck. “I can handle these streets fine on my own. I’m not far from home.”

“You’re injured,” Domek argued. “I won’t be able to sleep unless I’m sure you’ve made it to safety.”

The woman laughed, and then winced. “Haven’t you heard? Nowhere is safe in this town.”

There was something melancholic yet comforting about a silent library. So much knowledge sat unlearned. Books without readers were only paper.

Ora Fischerová sat on a plush, velvet-lined chair in front of a table piled with texts. By candlelight that night, she had immersed herself in a fascinating botanical treatise from a professor in Bologna in the original Italian. No doubt inspired by Charles Darwin’s book published a few years earlier, the man had taken a similar approach to the evolution of flowers. It was impressive how dull the professor had made the subject sound. If anything should have contained some inherent romance or a touch of the sentimental, it should have been flowers.

She sighed and laid the book on the table. Academics were so intent on proving that their thoughts contained only mathematics and Latin that they could squash even the most interesting subjects into tedious boxes. Despite their dull approach, she was constantly amazed by the speed with which their scientific breakthroughs changed the world before her eyes. Acquiring such knowledge was worth slogging through a professor’s written efforts to pat himself on the back.

Sometimes she wished she could spend all her time in the library, but then she could have become as dreadfully boring as the men whose work she read.

Ora was many things, but she refused to be dull.

She blew out her candles and stood, her skirts swishing loudly in the dark room. She frowned toward the windows, hesitating. The sky outside was a dark purple, already beginning to lighten to gray along the horizon. She’d been reading longer than she had thought. She had arrived well after midnight, restless after an orchestra concert and unwilling to hide in her home the rest of the night. The librarian was a friend, and would reshelf the books before the library opened for the day. He was fastidious in maintaining his illogical bibliographic system. Ora had learned it was easier to let him take on the extra work than attempting to return the books herself. By day the Charles University library would be filled with students far clumsier with the books than she.

She left the library through a service entrance, taking a staircase down, down below the city.

The tunnels beneath Prague were as much a feature of the city as its heavy fogs, cobblestone streets, and dark spires. Well before Ora’s time, the Old Town had been nearly six meters lower than today’s street level. When the regular flooding became too much for the citizens to bear, they began a century-long project to raise the city. Houses and streets were buried beneath a layer of earth, and the new city was built on top. The underground had been used for centuries as cellars and dungeons for the buildings above. The long-abandoned passages that connected Prague’s basements were a secret city for those wishing to remain out of sight. The ground, a blend of forgotten streets and the interiors of abandoned homes, was made of rounded river pebbles, uneven beneath her slippers.

The remains of the underground not absorbed into modern basements were poorly maintained and notorious for cave-ins. The pale rock had withstood centuries of pressure, but nothing could last forever. There were stories of those who had been lost underground, having gotten disoriented, fallen into one of the deep, empty wells scattered throughout, or trapped behind a cave-in. However, for someone like Ora, the dark labyrinth under the city was worth the risks. Dawn would be cresting over the horizon now. Without the tunnels, Ora would have been trapped inside for half of her life.

Underground, everything was almost silent. Almost, but not entirely. The meters of dirt all around muffled the daylight world, but created an echo of anything within the tunnels. Every scratch of a rat’s foot, every exhalation from hidden men, seemed louder and closer than they were in truth.

Her townhouse was across the river, so she’d need to traverse the entire city via the tunnels. If she had realized tonight was going to include such a long trek underground, she would have dressed for the occasion. Her evening gown had been lovely for her night at the orchestra, but the bell skirt made traversing the tunnels more difficult. She wished she’d brought a change of outfit so she could spend her morning somewhere closer—and less boring—than home. Unfortunately, she couldn’t have her carriage wait for her overnight, despite the convenience. Her driver needed to sleep, even if she didn’t.

There was a scuff on the ground ahead of her, and she froze. It was pitch black in the tunnels. The nearest exit, which was a set of stairs just ahead, led to the street directly, but a tightly sealed door prevented sunlight from seeping through. Even with her eyes, it was difficult to make out shapes in the darkness at a distance.

The scuffing resolved into unmistakable footsteps.

Ora wasn’t the only one who used the tunnels. One lesson she had learned over the years was that those who spent their time underground rarely did so for the pleasure of stale air and mud. They needed the darkness.

She pressed against the side of the tunnel, wincing as she felt the slime at her back. The walls were coated in mold and damp this far below ground. Lina would have her head if she ruined another gown. She took a deep breath, and then cloaked herself in the darkness. Though she couldn’t hold it indefinitely, she would seem invisible to anyone who passed. Her nature clung to the shadows.

The approaching footsteps were erratic. At moments, the other person in the tunnel broke into a sprint, and then subsided into a meandering, confused zigzag. They moved like a leaf in a storm wind, erratic and difficult to trace.

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 creatures 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 with 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.

Today, Domek passed the towering gates of the palace and went into the garden alongside instead. He was meeting a friend for an exhibit at an art gallery nearby, but with Imrich’s quick dismissal, he had time to update his journal before his friend arrived, an indulgence he rarely had the time for. His handwriting, when sketches weren’t enough, was painstaking and uncoordinated, but he needed the space to let his ideas take form. Like a tree in a clay pot, his mind could never hold all of his own questing roots.

He found an isolated spot in the garden overlooking the forested drop of the hill on the other side of the castle.

His journal had fallen to the bottom of his bag, and he had to dig past the pijavica’s dusty jacket and pants. He would have to remember to add the spare clothes to the pile that the lamplighters collected to dispose of at their guildhall.

He reached deeper into the bag, and then hesitated when his hand closed over something unexpected. The pijavica’s cloth-wrapped bundle. He had forgotten about it. Disgusted, he began to push it aside, but hesitated. Since last night, the cloth wrapping had loosened, revealing not the blood-filled flask he’d expected, but a clay jar. It was engraved with a delicate, swirling pattern, and had been fired without glaze.

Domek glanced around, ensuring he was still alone in the park, and then carefully loosened the lid and peered inside.

The jar was filled with fire.

The clay grew hot in his hands, as though he’d grabbed a poker from the hearth, but when he tried to drop it, he couldn’t move his fingers. He jumped to his feet as the jar shuddered in his grasp. The ball of fire, which had seemed to burn inside the closed jar without kindling or air, drifted upward to float in front of him—a strange, flickering orb no bigger than an apple.

The fiery ball hovered over the path. Below, the dirt began to ripple, kicking up dust and fallen leaves which wriggled like worms before being drawn into the growing whirlwind. The fire was at the center of its own small storm, climbing into the sky.

It would be difficult to fight while he was trapped clutching the jar with frozen hands, but Domek braced his feet anyway. He didn’t recognize the apparition. Was it some sort of spirit? Apart from the wraith-like bubáks that lurked in dark alleys, Domek’s adversaries were generally corporeal.

The jar’s heat dulled to a soft glow, like the small warmth of a gaslight. He was finally able to let go of the clay. Keeping hold of it with one hand, he reached for his stake with the other. Hawthorn didn’t work on monsters apart from pijavice, but his silver blade had fallen with his bag to the ground. Did he dare look away to find it? His hair whipped around his face, and it felt as though invisible fingers grabbed at his clothes.

“What is this?” Domek murmured. He could hear the chatter of the tourists gathered nearby. How large would this windstorm grow? The devastation it could wreak would be immense. A twig whipped his face like a slap. “Stop!” Domek shouted, holding out his free hand.

Domek was stunned when the whirlwind died. He looked at his palm. It was seared with the symbols from the sides of the jar, though the pain had vanished with the heat. The brands had already healed into silvery scars that shone in the afternoon light. It was like nothing he’d ever seen before. The floating fire pulsed in the air like a man panting for breath after a run. “Stay still,” Domek tried.

The orb stilled, though its flames continued to flicker under the sunlight. Daytime was supposed to be the sane part of his life. Part of him, the part that had once thought monsters were a fairy tale, wondered if the flame was some prank. Domek knew his reputation among the lamplighters. He was a bore, too serious about the things that mattered, and dismissive of the daily problems faced by his peers. There were several who would have been amused by his raving about a living flame to their leader, but none had the resources to pull off something like this. Domek’s shaking hands were still branded with the jar’s intricate, strange pattern.

Was it the scars that gave him power over this thing? It had reacted to his voice. Perhaps it was some new perversion of the pijavice, a mindless servant bound to its owner.

“Lift that stone,” Domek said, pointing to a nearby rock. It had wobbled during the earlier whirlwind, but remained half-buried. The orb of fire pulsed brighter, and the stone rocketed into the air. It flew overhead, and clattered onto the roof of the castle. Domek swore. He should have known that any magical item belonging to the pijavice would be dangerous. There must be some method to control it. If Domek phrased his commands carefully, perhaps he could learn the extent of its abilities—and then its purpose.

He was contemplating an unequivocal way to phrase his next order when he heard a familiar voice from the garden entrance.

“Domek! There you are.”

“Go back in the jar,” he instructed. The light pulsed once, and then drifted back inside the clay jar. It glowed for a moment, as though fresh from the kiln, and then returned to its original dull brown. Domek quickly returned the jar to his bag and turned to the approaching man.

“Afternoon, Lord Bauer,” Domek said.

“You know, most people wouldn’t use a man’s title to annoy him,” Cord Bauer said, shaking Domek’s hand and clasping his forearm. Domek winced, but the man’s silk gloves prevented him from noticing Domek’s strange new scars. Though nearing thirty, he appeared younger than the lamplighter. He wore only a mustache, rather than Domek’s fuller beard, and kept his hair coiffed carefully below his hat. Dressed in a sleek gray suit with a starched white collar and a looming black top hat, he seemed to belong in the nearby castle.

“Most men wouldn’t be annoyed by it. It’d be a shame to waste that. It’s been a while, Cord. Where have you been?”

“Oh, you know. Horse races, dens of iniquity, and various other places my father thinks are draining my life away,” he said. “I’m glad I could convince you to come out today. You need a bad influence in your life.”

“Corrupting me with an art gallery,” Domek said. “What will my mother say?”

“Your mother loves me,” Cord said. He frowned at Domek. “You look as though you could use the break. Are you all right?”

Domek smoothed down his hair, which felt tousled under his fingers from the windstorm. “I had a meeting with Imrich before this,” he said.

“Ah, of course. How is the old bastard?”

“Apparently now I’m a coward in addition to being a general idiot.”

Cord shook his head. “He doesn’t appreciate what he has in you. I still don’t see why you need to waste your time on him when you have Zacharias.”

“My uncle can’t hire me full-time, and lamplighting isn’t enough. Some of us need to work for our money.”

“Well, maybe Imrich will leave you his business, but either way we’ll raise a glass when he finally croaks. For now, distraction. Shall we?”

Sternberg Palace sat near the entrance to the castle. Many of Prague’s most beautiful houses sat a stone’s throw from the castle, built by lords eager to be near the emperor’s influence. The National Gallery had purchased Sternberg Palace at the turn of the century from heirs too destitute to keep it functioning.

Above the grand white façade, dark statues lined the roof like oversized crows. Cord paid their fee, and they went through the ornate entry hall to where the base of a massive four-flight staircase emerged. A crowd of tourists and locals clogged the stairs toward the temporary exhibit halls, so Domek and Cord started with the ground floor.

As they passed a line of paintings, Cord regaled Domek with stories of his adventures. He described a Prague worlds apart from Domek’s, full of ballrooms and gambling halls instead of dark nights and alchemist’s labs.

On patrol a few years earlier, Domek had stumbled on a group of men beating another man in an alley behind a gambling hall. The men had been an entirely human sort of scum, but with odds of five against one, Domek hadn’t hesitated before leaping to their victim’s rescue.

He had stepped in and fought them off, nearly losing a finger to a knife in the process. Cord had bullied Domek into his carriage to get the slice on his finger stitched by a surgeon, and had been determined that they would become friends. Years later, even though Domek was often mistaken for Cord’s servant rather than his companion, he had never regretted stepping into that alley.

On the first floor, paintings framed in ornate gold lined the walls: there was an early map sketch of Europe with Prague drawn in the center, and another where seven planets orbited the sun. This was the world the Bohemians had once imagined, with Prague at its heart and the heavens above.

“How much more is out there that we don’t know?” Domek asked, staring at the swirling planets. His learning was firmly grounded, and the abyss of space disturbed him. It reminded him of the floating fire tucked at the bottom of his bag. There was so much hidden just on the streets of Prague, and worse in the monster-infested tunnels below. What dark secrets could lurk upon the moon or beyond?

Cord waved at him from the next staircase, which led up to the temporary exhibit they had come to see. “I doubt we’ll ever know everything,” he said, shrugging.

Domek sighed and followed.

*   *   *

There was a dark ocean in Ora’s chest. It teemed with sharp teeth and gaping maws and spiked tentacles. Most days, she floated on top in a small rowboat, parasol on her shoulder, refusing to look into the abyss. If she fell in, she was quite sure she would drown.

Despite her inner turmoil, it was a lovely spring day, and the sun was casting its deadly rays over the city unimpeded by clouds. Draped in a hooded velvet cloak, wearing gloves that reached her elbows under her dress, she stepped down from her carriage and was guided to the museum’s entrance by Lina. She had lost her ability to sweat when she had lost her tears and blood, but the heat was still uncomfortable.

“Was this really worth the risk of coming before sundown?” Lina asked as she led her through the halls. Unfortunately, most of the museum was populated by broad windows, and Ora could only watch the tile beneath her slippers.

“You did request that I not lock myself in forever,” Ora pointed out. “This exhibit is supposed to be lovely.”

“I’m sure you could find a way to have the doors unlocked for you if we came back tonight,” Lina said. “This seesaw between sloth and recklessness is going to give me gray hairs. If you are going to risk your life, I would prefer if you didn’t bring me along.”

“I’ve been doing this for more than two hundred years.” Carefully, she followed Lina’s shoes up the steps. “I know how to avoid the sun.”

Lina hushed her, though the stairwell was so crowded with museumgoers that none would have been able to hear her. “Discretion would be advised, my lady.”

“By whom?” Ora asked. “Come, Lina. You know boredom is far worse a danger to me.”

“This was not what I meant earlier and you are well aware. I’m just saying, my lady, it wouldn’t kill you to slow down.”

“Slowing down is dangerous, my dear. I’m incapable of slowing without freezing.”

“Except in Mělník,” Lina said.

Quietly, Ora said, “You’re overstepping.”

“Apologies, my lady,” Lina said, though she didn’t sound apologetic in the slightest. She had never been afraid of offending Ora. They walked through a curtain, and the ambient sunlight was replaced by a dull orange glow. “You can remove your hood, but please be careful.”

Ora looked up to find the promised exhibit spread before her. The space had been transformed since her last visit, during which she had mingled with the city’s artistic patrons with an empty wine goblet in hand. Ornate tapestries from India had made the long boat journey to Prague and had been strung along the walls. The windows in this exhibit were curtained and the halls lit with candlelight to protect the line of ancient fabric from the harsh glare of the sun.

The tapestries were a riot of color, the blues and reds and yellows bright even in the candlelight. Ora stopped before the first tapestry of a man and woman in a carriage drawn by four horses. In only mustard yellow, dark red, cream, and black, the artist conveyed the lush chaos of the scene. Ora took a deep breath, searching for some hint of the spice, marigold, and jasmine scents that had characterized her time in India. It had been many decades ago, just after she had fled Lord Czernin’s estate in the countryside. Her memories of the beautiful country were marred by the shadow of terror that had filled her, the way she had skittered across the sub-continent like a rat in a storeroom, body tense for the fall of the farmer’s ax.