Page 39

The morning came in dull gray fragments, for there was no such thing as light in Prague at this time of year. At the foot of the bed, the radiator hissed, clanking and spitting as if resenting its task.

I lay still, caught in that syrupy space between sleep and wake. When I tried to move my arm, the cuff’s resistance brought everything back.

I groaned, more from exasperation than pain, and cracked one eye open. My wrist glinted with runes in silver in the low morning murk, the metal warm where it met my skin.

A low sound came from the couch.

I turned my head to find Remiel curled on his side, facing me with one arm draped over his waist and the other bent beneath his head. He looked…peaceful. Unfairly so.

My eyes narrowed. It wasn’t the restraint itself that bothered me. It was the implication that he thought I’d run, that he needed to keep me close. That infuriating blend of dominance and care.

The shadows softly stirred around my ankles, restless.

I sat up, reached for the rust-colored drapes, and pushed them apart. Outside, the city was wrapped in a morning fog, rooftops curving like the bones of buried beasts and church spires piercing the sky like accusing fingers.

Behind me, the couch creaked, followed by a rustle of sheets. “Why did you have to drug me?” a voice, still hoarse with sleep, asked.

I didn’t turn. “You needed sleep.”

A pause. “Fair.”

Silence stretched between us, long and strangely tender.

“I dreamed you killed me,” he said finally.

I glanced over my shoulder. “I wish I had.”

He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes. His hair was a mess of golden-brown waves around his shoulders, a faint crease from the couch seam marking his cheek. Tension radiated off him in waves.

“We need to find your contact,” he said, his voice all business.

I nodded, already standing. “Then get dressed.” I didn’t wait to see if he obeyed.

The market wasn’t on any map. You had to catch the smell of burned myrrh near Náměstí Republiky, where the tram lines rattled past the Municipal House, and the Gothic spire of the Powder Tower cast its long shadow. Past the arch where soot still blackened the stones from centuries of smoke and war.

We slipped beneath the Powder Tower about an hour later. To passersby, it was only a patch of darkened masonry, but the right knock—five slow, two fast—made the seam stir. With a breath of dust older than the city’s cobblestones, the wall flickered like water under a torch and then parted.

The stairwell beyond sank into shadows. The air thickened with every step, stale with memories. Sulfur candles guttered in sconces of bones, their glow too faint. The deeper we went, the more the city above seemed to fade until only the scents remained: scorched rosemary, dried blood, ink long since faded, and velvet rotted into dust.

He said nothing. His shoulder brushed mine now and then. Deliberate. Steadying.

The market opened at the bottom like a sunken cathedral. Vaulted ceilings arched high overhead, blackened by centuries of age and candle soot. Stalls stretched in rows like forgotten tombstones, each cluttered with forbidden things: preserved hearts in jars, teeth tied with red threads, chalices etched with blasphemous rites, and relics, so many relics, pulsing with faint residual power. Everything here was for sale if one had the right currency.

“You’ve been here before,” Remiel said softly, his voice close.

“Yes.” I didn’t offer more. Just let the shadows, my shadows, guide me through the throng.

He stayed close, his gaze warily flicking between vendors. “You’re sure this place is safe?”

“No.”

A woman walked past us then, carrying a small gray string of severed hands. Child sized. Her eyes were as white as bones, unseeing.

Remiel tensed beside me. “You’re sure you trust your contact?”

“No,” I repeated, a bitter taste in my mouth. “But he owes me.”

That earned a sharp exhale from him, not quite a laugh but not quite disapproval.