The Book of Blood and Shadow (25 page)

Maybe that was why I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching us. Maybe it wasn’t a shadowy killer with a knife and a mission, but simply the careful scrutiny of a skyline of stone saints and the ghosts of heretics past.

I didn’t believe in ghosts.

We ventured into a narrow alley, completely empty and, except for the distant rumble of the abandoned crowd, silent. I kept checking over my shoulder, convinced, still, that someone was there—and if a dark figure was going to attack, what better place for him to strike than this shaded alley, isolated and crumbling around us. But nothing happened, and again, I told myself that what sounded like scuffling footsteps was only branches scraping stone or feral cats tussling for scraps, the flickers of movement only shadows, the prickling sensation on the back of my neck only fear.

Bethlehem Square was only a few turns away. The church
lodged in its northwest corner had no fairy-tale spires or mobs of tourists snapping pictures, just a crumbling Renaissance edifice and a weather-beaten plastic sign announcing times for mass. Inside it was cavelike, dark and cool and damp. Stone walls, stained-glass windows, flickering candles, two beggars asleep beneath a pew, and, emerging from one of the confessional booths, an old priest with the long black robe and stiff white collar I’d only seen in movies and the occasional headline news exposé.

He came to us—to Eli, rather—and started speaking in rapid-fire Czech before we could say anything. Eli interrupted, and for a few moments they talked over each other, the priest’s cratered face an angry red, his flabby arms flapping, Eli speaking slowly and firmly, occasionally stumbling over a word, but refusing to give, until finally the priest crossed his arms and nodded, and there was quiet.

“What did he say?” I asked. “What did you tell him?”

“It’s fine,” Eli said, sounding far from it. “The church isn’t open to tourists, and he says you’re not dressed appropriately for a holy place.”

“Apparently,” Adriane said, shooting a look at the homeless guys.

That didn’t explain why the argument had gone on for so long, or why the priest had been so angry. “Did you tell him we just want to ask a question? Is this even him?” I turned to the priest. “Are you Father Hájek?”

“It’s him,” Eli said. “But he won’t help us. He says he doesn’t know anything.”

“Did you even tell him what we’re looking for?” I asked. Eli was clearly lying. It was pathetic to just stand there and accept it, like we were blind and he was our guide, assuring us the path was safe and clear when, for all we knew, it ran straight into a dead end. Or off a cliff.

“Ask him about the
Hledači
,” I insisted. “Ask him about the
Lumen Dei
.”

“I told you, he doesn’t want to talk to us,” Eli said. “So can we go?”

“Right. We’re just going to take your word for it,” Adriane said.

I opened my guidebook to the section of simple Czech phrases, determined to find a way to ask my own questions, even if I had to use pictures.

But I didn’t.

“
Lumen Dei. Hledači
. Yes. You must hear.” The priest’s voice seemed scratchier in his halting English. He was even older than the man in the library. The church smelled faintly musty, but the damp scent of mold and decay intensified near him, as if he were its source. “
Hledači
, seekers, yes? You understand this?”

“I guess, but that was four hundred years ago. We need to figure out—”

“Yes, then. But also, now. Many, many generations. They will seek until they find. They are sworn, forever.”

“Seek what?”

“You know this. You say it yourself.”

“The
Lumen Dei
.”

He nodded.

“But I don’t know that,” I said. “I don’t know anything. Just tell me what it is—what do they want?”

“It is machine,” he said. “It is miracle and it is curse. It is bridge from human to divine. It is knowledge and power of God in the hands of man. It is abomination. They are abomination.”

“This guy is crazy,” Adriane muttered.

“World is crazy,” the priest said, glaring at her. “
Hledači
, crazy, yes. Machine is real. And dangerous. You want to live? You choose not to know.”

“That’s really helpful, thanks,” Adriane said. “So now that
you’ve told us everything, we’re supposed to forget it or die? Excellent.”

The priest ignored her. “This church honors St. Boethius. You know the story of this man?”

We dutifully shook our heads, obedient honor students to the bitter end.

“Brilliant man, Boethius. Philosopher. Scholar. Bright light in a dark age. He finds an ancient masterpiece. Aristotle. Translates it for his people. You know how they thank him for this gift?” This time, he barely paused to confirm our ignorance. His English was improving by the second. “The king wraps cord around his neck. Pulls it tighter, tighter, until his eyes pop out. Then his people beat him to death. You know why? He asks too many questions. They do not like his answers. He pays price.”

“Very subtle,” Adriane said.

It was remarkable how many creatively gruesome ways of killing people there turned out to be. I wondered, on average, how many corpses needed to pile up before executioners got bored enough to invent new methods. “How do we find this machine?” I said. This wasn’t curiosity; it was need. “How do we find the
Hledači
?”

How had they found us?

He didn’t answer.

“Are we in danger? Is that what you’re saying? From them? From you?”

“
‘Est autem fides sperandorum substantia rerum argumentum non parentum.’
”

I translated on the fly. “ ‘Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.’ ”

The priest offered an approving nod. “Hebrews 11:1.”

“And is that supposed to mean something?”

He turned away, muttering something in Czech.

“Answer me!”

Without facing us, he spoke.
“Nemluvím anglicky.”
Sounding it out slowly and clearly so that even we idiot Americans could understand.

“He said he doesn’t speak English,” Eli said sourly.

“Got that much, thanks.”

The priest hobbled down the central aisle of the church, turning only when he reached the altar. He barked out something short and angry in Czech, then swatted his hand through the air. We were dismissed.

“What did he say that time?” I asked as we stepped out of the church, squinting in the sudden sunlight.

Eli looked faintly sick, like he knew I knew he was about to lie, but there was nothing either of us could do about it. “He wanted to make sure you try
svičková
before you leave town; he claims it’s some kind of once-in-a-lifetime culinary experience.” He shoved his clenched fists into his coat pockets. “But I’ve had it. Tastes like chicken. Trust me.”

12

Adriane’s take, as we returned to the hostel: This was crazy, this was stupid, this was a waste of our time, if we thought Chris was dead because of some hypothetical ancient machine that was basically a telephone to God and a bunch of four-hundred-year-old nutcases who wanted to hook it up again, then she knew of a nice, cozy mental institution where we could recuperate until common sense and sanity returned, if we believed a crazy priest and some old letter, she had a pile of magic beans for sale and a pouch of pixie dust, surely we now realized that any further inquiries in this direction would be a ridiculous waste of time, as perhaps this entire trip had been a ridiculous waste of time, and by the way, had she mentioned that somewhere out there was a real killer
with a real knife, and maybe we should stop chasing shadows and start protecting ourselves?

We crossed the bridge, we pushed our way through the throngs of people, we hiked the Malá Strana hill, and I let Adriane talk, knowing that everything she said made sense—but that none of it explained why a twenty-first-century priest was telling horror stories about a four-hundred-year-old secret kept by a dead girl whose bloody letter I had read and stolen and stolen again. And if Adriane had known about the letter, maybe she would have agreed. But I hadn’t told her; I couldn’t. It was one thing to hold myself responsible for what had happened to Chris. It would be another to see my guilt reflected in her eyes. That would make it too real.

Eli was silent, too, until we reached the lobby and collected our room keys from the front desk. Then he interrupted her litany to say, quietly, “If a machine like that really existed, people would be willing to kill for it. Lots of people.”

“Yeah, and if hot vampires really existed, suicide would be a viable option for wrinkle prevention. Your point?”

“My point is that maybe the
Lumen Dei
is out there somewhere. Real.”

Adriane cut her eyes toward me. “You didn’t tell me he was a God nut.”

“Forget it,” Eli said, and headed for his room without another word. We returned to ours. Adriane had the key, so Adriane went through the door first.

So Adriane was the one who screamed.

13

Our suitcases had been torn open, our clothes thrown on the floor, our mattresses stripped. Razor slices split the lining of the bags; the mattresses and pillows oozed stuffing. Every drawer was
open, and every pane of glass in the room—mirrors, window, even the TV screen—was smashed.

Whoever had been here, they’d left angry.

Or maybe—it occurred to me, long after it would have done me any good to run—they hadn’t left at all.

My survival instincts were constantly letting me down.

Eli was at our side in seconds. Adriane quieted, but she was pale, shaking. We hadn’t moved from the doorway.

“My room, too,” Eli said. He pushed past us, flinging open the closet and bathroom doors: empty. Whoever they were, they were gone. Which meant, what? We were safe?

I started to laugh.

Eli looked alarmed. “Is she …?”

“She’s fine,” Adriane said. Her hand met my lower back with gentle but steady pressure, like she would hold me up if I started to fall.

I laughed harder. “Everything’s fine,” I sputtered, trying to catch my breath, scaring myself now. “Can’t you tell?”

Nothing was missing, and there was no clue what they’d been looking for.

“Maybe our passports,” Adriane guessed.

Maybe not. I still had the passport pouch strapped around my waist. I still had the letter.

“We have to get out of here,” Eli said.

“What gave it away?” I said.

“At least we know he’s here,” Eli said.

“Who?”

“Who do you think?”

“You think Max did this?” I said.

“Who else knew we were here?”

Thanks to my carelessness, the guy at the front desk and anyone with a few crowns in his pocket who might have bribed him
into pointing the way to our rooms, I thought but didn’t say, because it occurred to me that he wasn’t the only one who knew we were here. “You did,” I told Eli.

Eli snorted. “Excellent deduction. While you weren’t paying attention, I teleported back here, used my powers of superspeed to ransack the room in under thirty seconds, and then teleported back before you knew I was gone.”

“Or you decided to abide by the laws of physics and call in a friend,” I said. “For all we know, the guy at the front desk is your long-lost great-uncle.”

He shook his head. “Face it. Your boyfriend was looking for something when Chris got in the way. He tore their dorm room apart. And now he’s suckered you into coming here—which means whatever he wants, he thinks you have it.”

“It makes perfect sense,” Adriane said.

“Adriane! You said you believe—”

She held up a hand to quiet me. “Perfect sense if you replace his name with yours,” she told Eli.

“Give me a break.”

“You followed us to Paris,” she said. “You followed us here. You told us you wanted to help us—”

“Because I do.”

“But first chance you got, you lied to us.”

He shook his head.

“Then tell us what the priest really said.”

He pressed his lips together.

“Right. Come on, Nora. We’re leaving.”

“Nora. You know this wasn’t me. Come see my room, it looks exactly the same. You know I didn’t do this.”

I believed him—and hated myself for it. Trusting him was just more proof that I had to stop trusting myself. I’d made too many mistakes.

“I know it wasn’t Max,” I said. “Anything else is just wishful thinking.”

We stuffed our crap into our bags, then left the Golden Boar with no direction and no idea where we would spend the hours until midnight; we left with nothing but the suspicion that someone was watching us, someone who wanted something and wouldn’t leave us alone until he got it; we left determined not to go back. Eli didn’t try to stop us; he didn’t follow.

“We didn’t need him,” Adriane said. “We’ll figure this out.” She put a hand on my shoulder. I didn’t shake her off. It was getting dark, and overhead, the castle towers carved dark shadows in the gathering twilight. “We’ll find Max on our own.”

I had to tell her.

I should have told her already.

And when I did, when I showed her the note and explained his code, when I told her that all we had to do was make it to midnight and he would be waiting for us, she wasn’t angry. She twirled on her pointed toes, hugged me, and laughed. “Then that’s it,” she said. “This time tomorrow, we’ll be on a plane home. We’ll be with Max. It’ll all be okay.”

We walked in circles, killing the hours, waiting for her prediction to come true, and I kept looking back, expecting to see Eli shadowing us, darting behind trees and cars or maybe just sauntering behind us, brazen with the knowledge that there was no way to stop him.

But block after block, he still wasn’t there. I knew I should have been relieved.

14

The city was different at midnight. Still beautiful—more beautiful, maybe—but uglier, too, with broken glass glinting under streetlights, staticky Madonna blasting from the souvenir stores
that apparently never closed, camera flashes from the summit of every tower, a reminder that someone was always watching.