Contents
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
DEDICATION
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 2016 by G.D. Falksen.
Illustrations copyright © 2016 by Lenka Šimečková.
*
Published by Wildside Press LLC.
www.wildsidebooks.com
DEDICATION
To Nikki.
CHAPTER ONE
Christmas, 1898
Prague, Austro-Hungarian Empire
The clock struck twelve. It was midnight. December the Twenty-Fifth had passed and it was a new day. Doctor Varanus closed her book and set it to one side. She rose, took the shotgun from beside her chair, and returned it to its place above the mantelpiece.
“Well,” she said, turning toward Ekaterine, who sat painting by the window, “this has been a surprisingly pleasant Christmas.”
Ekaterine looked away from her work—a snowy street scene taken from outside—and shook her head.
“It isn’t Christmas,” she said.
“You are correct,” Varanus agreed, pointing toward the nearest clock. “By my count Christmas ended just over a minute ago.”
“Nonsense,” Ekaterine replied, “Christmas isn’t for another two weeks.”
“Ekaterine,” Varanus said, turning to her friend and sighing, “we are in the West. Here in the West, we use the Gregorian Calendar, and the Gregorian Calendar says that Christmas Day has finally ended with neither death nor bloodshed. And I consider that to be a successful Christmas.”
She returned to her chair and her book, very pleased with the day’s conclusion. Ekaterine simply looked at her and made a face.
“Doctor, you cannot truly expect every Christmas to result in misfortune. It has been five years since the…unpleasantness back home.” Ekaterine euphemistically avoided mentioning the horrors of the recent civil war by name. “And five years before that your son’s aunt fell to her death. Two tragedies in ten years do not make an ill-omened date.”
“What about Barcelona two years ago?” Varanus countered.
Ekaterine sighed. “Three tragedies in ten years. That is still no reason to assume the worst about one day or another.”
“She is right, Liebchen.”
Varanus glanced toward the fireplace and saw her dearly departed Korbinian lounging on the Persian carpet before the fire, dressed in the black and crimson uniform of a Fuchsburger hussar. Having died in his uniform almost forty years ago, he seemed loathed to wear anything else.
Varanus gave Korbinian an irritated look. As she was the only person who could see and hear him, she could hardly respond without appearing mad to Ekaterine.
“Christmas has been full of tragedy for us, it is true,” Korbinian continued, standing and walking toward her. He gently kissed Varanus’s lips and said, “But not this Christmas, and that is something to be pleased by.”
“I am pleased,” Varanus said softly. “Did you not hear? I even put the shotgun away.”
“Oh, Liebchen, what a wonder you are.”
Varanus kissed Korbinian and returned to her chair and her book. Across the room, Ekaterine had resumed her painting. A quick glance told Varanus that it was coming along nicely. As one of the immortal Shashavani, her eyesight was keen enough to make out every detail of the work even from such a distance.
After a little while, Ekaterine set her painting aside and began sorting through a rather large pile of letters and correspondence that lay heaped in a basket nearby. Varanus tried her best to keep on top of the mail, but it really was a damned nuisance. There ought to be a law against sending society invitations to respectable persons, she mused. It never did anything but cause trouble.
“You know, you really should read some of these,” Ekaterine called to her. “I seem to be the only person answering the post around here.”
“That is why you’re my social secretary,” Varanus answered. “Is there anything interesting?”
“Very little,” Ekaterine said, opening the next envelope with a silver knife. “Oh! Goodness!” she exclaimed, drawing out the embossed card inside. “We’ve been invited to a Christmas ball!”
“Ah…” Varanus said. She made a face. Perhaps she was proving a little slow managing her correspondence.
“This is most exciting,” Ekaterine continued. “I wonder what I shall wear!”
“Ekaterine,” Varanus interjected softly, “today was Christmas. Remember?”
Ekaterine paused a moment and drew herself up in a huff, acknowledging the date.
“You Latins and your wrong Christmas!” she declared, sounding deeply disappointed and throwing the invitation away.
“I am sorry—” Varanus began.
Suddenly, Ekaterine’s expression brightened as her eyes fell upon the next letter. “Oh! This one’s from our old friend Doctor Constantine!”
“Constantine?” Varanus asked. “That is a surprise.”
Well, not too much of a surprise. Varanus had sent a letter to Constantine’s London address when they had arrived in Prague, expressing pleasantries and inviting him to join them for tea if he ever happened to be in Austria-Hungary. Of course, she hadn’t really expected a reply.
“How is he?” she added.
“Quite well it seems,” Ekaterine replied, reading the first few lines of the letter. “He sends his best regards and hopes the letter finds you before Christmas, which technically it has.”
Varanus simply rolled her eyes at this. “Nonsense.”
“Good old Constantine,” Ekaterine said wistfully. She lowered the letter and gazed off toward one of the gas lamps. “Can you believe that it’s been ten years since we saw him in London?”
“Ten years,” Varanus agreed. “Little more than the blink of an eye for us, but probably quite some time for him. I wonder how he is.”
“I’ll bet he’s gone all gray,” Ekaterine announced.
Varanus sighed and said, “Ekaterine, he wasn’t that old when last we saw him.”
“Still,” Ekaterine said. She returned to the letter and continued reading. “Let me see here.… Constantine thanks you for your letter and hopes you’re enjoying Prague. He says he won’t be able to visit. He is leaving for America in the New Year. Something about a lecture tour. It sounds very exciting.” She paused a moment. “Perhaps I should give a lecture tour in America. I’m certain I would be awfully good at it.”
“You surely would be,” Varanus agreed, only slightly sarcastically, “but one must wonder, is America ready for you?”
Ekaterine considered this and then concluded, �
��Probably not.” She sounded rather proud of the fact.
“Anything else from Constantine?” Varanus asked.
“Um.…” Ekaterine continued reading for a bit. Then her eyes suddenly widened and she jumped to her feet. “Oh my word! He says that your son’s in Prague as well!”
“What?” Varanus demanded.
“Well, Zizkov,” amended Ekaterine. “It’s very close by.”
“What the Devil is he doing there?”
“Science, apparently,” Ekaterine replied. “Constantine writes ‘In his last letter to me, dated this past Autumn, Friedrich mentioned that he has taken up residence with some Bohemians in the City of Zizkov and is pursuing his experiments there. What marvelous coincidence that you happen now to be in Prague. I hope my letter arrives in time for you to reunite with your son for Christmas.’ ”
“Bohemians?” Varanus asked. “This is Prague; they’re all Bohemians here. Well, the ones that aren’t German.”
“Oh, no, I believe he means Bohemian artists, not Bohemian Czechs,” Ekaterine explained.
Varanus’s face fell at this. Her son had a dreadful habit of associating with troublesome people. First it had been American wellness enthusiasts; now it was artists! What next?
“Good Lord, artists,” she grumbled. “Well, there can be nothing for it, Ekaterine. We must find him first thing tomorrow and see what sort of a mess he’s gotten himself into. Does Constantine give an address for him? Or must we wander around Zizkov, knocking on doors and asking for directions?”
“Oh yes, there’s an address,” Ekaterine replied. “Although knocking on doors sounds rather fun.” She gasped with excitement. “We could go caroling!”
Varanus frowned at the mention of caroling and said, “I think that England was a bad influence on you, Ekaterine.”
“But it introduced me to scones and Kent!” Ekaterine protested. “What could be bad about that?”
Varanus was about to reply when she heard the front door open and close. The sound was very faint, coming from the foyer of the townhouse they had procured, but Varanus’s hearing was keen enough to notice. There followed two sets of footsteps in the hall, and presently the parlor door opened to reveal a pair of men.
The first was Luka, Ekaterine’s cousin, who entered still brushing snow from his elegant dark moustache. He was dressed simply, as was his custom, and he seemed rather disdainful of his European clothes. He paused by the fireplace and a scowl crossed his face.
“Someone has moved my shotgun,” he announced, sounding very displeased.
“Entirely my fault, Luka,” Ekaterine announced playfully, rising and rushing to embrace her kinsman. “I picked it up and put it back when I heard you downstairs, entirely to spite you!”
Luka did not reply, but he grumbled softly and tried to hide a smile.
Ekaterine kissed Luka on the cheek and added, “Goodness, you’re cold! What ever have you been doing? Standing in the river?”
“Standing in the snow,” answered the second man, Lord Iosef Shashavani, as he stepped into the parlor.
Iosef was a beautiful man with dark hair and pale blue eyes, and he wore his fine suit with far more ease than Luka wore his. Iosef looked impossibly young, scarcely out of his teens, but in fact he had almost two centuries behind him. Though his face was emotionless, Varanus saw a lurking glint of sorrow in his eyes, one that had not left him since the death of his wife five years earlier. But whatever he felt within, Iosef kept it hidden from the others as he continued:
“I did tell Luka that he should wait in the carriage, but he insisted on standing guard for me.”
“What sort of friend waits in a carriage while his sworn brother burgles a house?” Luka replied. He took a pipe from his coat pocket and began packing it with tobacco. “A poor friend, that’s what.”
“A sensible friend,” Iosef said.
“Burgles a house?” Varanus asked. “Do I take it that the auction did not go as planned?”
“It did not,” Iosef replied, the hint of displeasure in his voice. He reached into his pocket as if to draw something out, but instead he kept his hand there as he continued, “The late Herr Hoffmann’s family had already sold much of his collection before the auction itself. The piece I require was not among the objects sold.”
“So you robbed them?” Varanus asked, skeptically.
“Do not be absurd,” Iosef replied. “I entered the house unseen, I examined their papers, and I found a bill of sale. It has told me everything I need to know.”
“Cause for celebration!” Ekaterine announced. “I’ll have the servants bring some wine.”
“That will not be necessary,” Iosef said.
Luka quickly held up a hand. “Let us not be hasty. Wine sounds like a very good idea.”
Iosef looked at him. “You have snow on your moustache.”
Luka made a face and quickly brushed at his face with his fingertips, trying to be both expedient and nonchalant.
“And where is your missing trinket, My Lord?” Varanus asked, returning to the subject.
“It was sold to a man named Mordechai,” Iosef said. “He owns a curiosity shop and bookstore in the Old Town, so tomorrow I will pay him a visit and see what sort of arrangement can be reached.”
“Do you intend to burgle him as well, My Lord?” Varanus asked. It was a cheeky question.
The corner of Iosef’s mouth tilted upward into a slight smile, though the sadness in his eyes remained.
“Of course not, Varanus. One does not rob a man who sells books any more than one would rob a church, for they are both providing a great service to the community.”
CHAPTER TWO
Iosef waited until evening on the following day to investigate the curiosity shop. Arriving after sundown was a necessity. As one of the Living—Shashavani gifted with immortality—his flesh burned at the touch of the sun. And given his relative youth, it would be at least a century more before his body became inured to the light.
The curiosity shop was located in a winding side street in Prague’s Old Town, a short distance from the river. The air was thick with snow and the street was dark, but the light of the moon and stars gave it a pleasant quality like a scene from a painting gifted with greater sentiment than art. The windows of the shop were lit with a warm glow from within, and a weathered wooden sign above the door read “Herr Mordechai, Books and Curiosities” in bright, bold letters.
Iosef reached into his pocket for a moment and drew out the object he kept there. It was an amulet of sorts: a small, flat circle of aluminium, stamped as if by machine with the emblem of an eye encircled by a serpent devouring its tail. The reverse held lettering, imprinted as clear as if by a typewriter, but in an alphabet that Iosef neither knew nor had even heard tell of. He had discovered the amulet in the tomb of a deceased Turkish khan on the shores of the Aral Sea five years ago, only moments before the murder of his beloved wife Sophio.
He closed his eyes tightly at the recollection. The talisman was now all that he had left of Sophio, and he kept it with him always, even as he struggled to uncover its secrets. As if sensing his anguish, the wind began blowing hard against him, brushing through his black hair and stinging his cheeks with frozen kisses. He almost fancied that he heard the wind whispering Sophio’s name in his ear over and over again: “Sophio, Sophio, Sophio”. It was the same imagined sound he had heard the past five years whenever the sky was dark and his thoughts were left free to wander.
“Is this the place?” Luka asked, rubbing his hands together.
He had come with Iosef, of course; Luka would not have allowed otherwise. Indeed, it seemed that since Sophio’s death, Iosef could find scarcely a moment when he was not kept company by either Luka or Varanus. Iosef suspected—indeed, he knew—that it was because they feared he might kill himself over the loss of Sophio. Five years was the blinking of an ey
e, and nothing compared to the century and a half that Iosef and Sophio had spent together. It was certainly not enough time to heal. But still, Iosef was no fool. He lived now for Sophio, as she would have wanted him to live. To take his own life, when she had died preserving his, would be an abomination.
“Indeed,” Iosef replied, shoving the amulet back into his pocket. “Let us see if Herr Mordechai is willing to sell his new acquisition.”
“And if he is not?” Luka asked, taking a long pull on his pipe.
“I would prefer not to resort to theft,” Iosef said.
“But you will.”
“We shall address that when we come to it,” Iosef answered.
He went to the door and gently pushed it open, with Luka following closely behind him. The front room inside was almost as Iosef had imagined it. What might once have been a proper store front, with broad open space before the counter for visitors to admire wares on shelves, was now transformed into a tightly packed maze of bookshelves and display tables, all tightly woven around one another so that there seemed to be half a dozen paths to the back of the shop, and none of them quite large enough for one to pass through. The shelves were packed to bursting with books, most of them recent printings, but with the odd vintage treasure packed in with little care for the difference in age. The curiosities were held in viewing boxes or glass-fronted cabinets, and they proved to be all manner of things, from ancient skulls and exotic trinkets to items as mundane as pocket watches that must have caught the owner’s fancy.
Luka took a look around, tapping his pipe out against the door frame, perhaps appreciating the rudeness in smoking so close to books. Most Shashavani had a great respect for texts, even those freshly printed; and though Luka still walked in the Shadow of Death, he was just as truly Shashavani as one of the Living.
“I am not claustrophobic,” he said, “and yet.…”
“Indeed,” Iosef agreed, staring at the towering shelves. “It is quite enclosed, isn’t it?”
The sounds of rustling papers and footsteps upon the floorboards came from the back of the room. A few moments later, a man appeared from between two of the bookshelves, quickly brushing dust from his sleeves as he came. The man was young, perhaps in his thirties, with dark skin and black hair. He was cleanly shaven and his clothes, while a little disheveled, were of impeccable quality. He seemed too disorganized to be a businessman and too fastidious to be an eccentric. A scholar, Iosef concluded, which pleased him.
A Sojourn in Bohemia Page 1
