“Of course.”
They begin in earnest after reminding me once more to remain still, and it’s a slow, peaceful time listening to the language and absorbing its rhythms. The longer it continues, the more relaxed I feel, because building takes longer than destroying. If they meant me harm, I would have felt it much sooner. Orlaith falls asleep, lulled by their voices. Planes fly overhead on occasion and birds chirp, but otherwise it’s just thirteen witches chanting in Polish and an awful stench rising from the boiling cauldron. Near the very end I feel a gentle pressure all over, and my eardrums pop in and then pop out again. All of the coven raise their arms at that point and smile at the sky, a familiar ecstasy written on their faces: Goddesses have worked their will through them. When Gaia speaks through me, I feel the same way.
“That’s it,” Malina says. “You’re blessed, or cloaked, whatever you want to call it.”
I change my vision over to the magical spectrum and look at my hand, not knowing quite what to look for. I never got to see the cloak on Fragarach.
“Feel free to test it with any seer or deity you wish,” Malina goes on. “We guarantee our work.”
There, floating above my aura, the sheerest layer of lilac gossamer tells me that the Zoryas have indeed blessed me. Or, pending confirmation, I should say: That lilac bit wasn’t there before, and something has been done to me.
I will definitely confirm it, but I am already confident that they have dealt straight with me. The cold iron test would be prudent, however.
“Congratulations,” a couple of the witches say, and I smile in response but don’t say anything yet.
Orlaith, will you bring me my amulet, please? I ask as I get to my feet and brush flowers and pollen dust off my shoulders and shake out my hair. She wakes and ambles over, tail wagging.
<Is it time for breakfast yet?>
I think it might be. Thank you, I tell her, retrieving my necklace. I drape it over my head and let it take its accustomed place just below the hollow of my throat. I watch my aura, examining that lavender layer closely on one arm and then the other. It remains strong and doesn’t flicker.
“My thanks to the Zoryas,” I finally say to Malina, shoulders sagging with relief. “And my thanks to you all!”
“Our pleasure. Fulfilling a contract always feels good.”
<What are we doing after breakfast?> Orlaith asks, and I suspect she’s not really interested in the answer but rather wishes to keep me focused on breakfast.
We’re going on a secret mission, because now we can keep secrets, I tell her.
CHAPTER 17
Prague is one of the most beautiful cities in the world—for my money it’s in the top five. The architecture is goth as fuck, pointy bits at the top and stone curlicues underneath, and the squares are full of bronze sculptures that celebrate ideas more than military conquest. It’s a setting that whispers of magic and mystic euphoria and bloody danger too. It was where Leif Helgarson had been turned to a vampire a thousand years ago.
Oberon and I arrived via the tethered trees of Pet?ín Hill, which is situated on the west side of the Vltava River, after nightfall—and also after I had taken some time to catch up on sleep and healing. It was overcast and some mist had rolled in, clinging to the trees, and we both took a moment to appreciate the smell.
<Have we ever been here before?> Oberon asked.
“I’ve been here many times, but this is a first for you.”
<Then I must ask you what I always ask when we go someplace new: What kind of food do they have here that I would like?>
“I think you’d like the beef goulash. Slow-roasted, tender beef in a thick, spicy gravy.” I began to pick my way downhill toward the Charles Bridge, and Oberon trotted alongside.
<That sounds great! Goulash me, Atticus! Uh, is that right? Is goulash a verb?>
“Not normally, but now that you say it, I think it should be.”
<Yes! I am looking forward to goulashing for as long as I can.>
“We’ll see if we can arrange it. We have to be vampire hunters first.”
We crossed the river by way of the Charles Bridge, a wonderful structure graced on both sides by baroque sculptures and handy lights for night walks, and I paused at the statue of St. John of Nepomuk to point out something to Oberon.
“See these plaques at the base?” I said, where there were bronze bas-reliefs of St. John’s death. “Notice how parts of them are shiny?”
<Yeah! Why are those parts so clean?>
“Because people keep touching them, and all those hands have polished those parts to a golden glow. The legend is that if you touch the image on the right side—the one depicting the priest being thrown into the river—you’ll have good luck and return to Prague soon.”