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  Jarek pulled away a little, to see Tristan’s face, as if searching for the reason he had stopped responding altogether.

  Then he reached back to guide Tristan’s hand into his boxers again, slowly. We can still do this if you want to.

  “No, I … I’ll probably be late for work,” Tristan mumbled awkwardly. His excuse didn’t sound credible, and he knew it.

  Jarek backed off and shrugged. “As you wish.”

  Tristan should have said something then, but he didn’t know what, so he just finished washing his plate. The comforting sound of running water helped him to pretend nothing was out of the ordinary.

  “What are you gonna do today?” Jarek asked when the silence after that was starting to get uncomfortable. He was perched on the narrow windowsill, looking outside, apparently studying an uneven beard of icicles along the eave of the opposite house.

  “Uh,” Tristan faltered. “I don’t know yet. It’s hard to predict if a day will be busy or not. Most likely, not.”

  His job as an occult-specializing PA to the art and antique dealer Ambrosius Schwarzenstein was surprisingly far less eventful than his private life. The only interesting problem he’d happened to investigate so far was the case of two artists who had come to cursing each other because of a petty feud, something about the suspicious similarity of their installations—each featured a washing machine, an indefinable tangle of wires, and a set of light bulbs. But the concepts and meanings differed drastically, of course.

  The funniest thing was, the rivals seemed to have approached the same warlock in order to obtain an illegal spell, and he’d been either a lazy bastard, or a person with a peculiar sense of humor because said spells had turned out to be totally identical, just like the two artworks, and neutralizing one another. The amateur conjurers had been thoroughly disappointed with the results. Tristan had kindly reminded them that if they continued their exchange of hexes or made an attempt to curse him for interfering, the matter would be reported to the police.

  A few days later, he’d heard they had started a collaboration, building up a maze of broken mirrors, which was to symbolize the dangers of magic. Probably. With modern art, you could never tell anything for sure.

  The happy reconciliation couldn’t count as Tristan’s sole achievement, though. So after more than a month of work, he had no real accomplishments to boast about. Several other occurrences with magic possibly involved hadn’t required any intervention on Tristan’s part at all. Yes, there had been a strange case of the vanished papers supporting a claim that one of the items in Schwarzenstein’s antiquities collection might be of an inapposite origin—all of a sudden, they had turned into dust in a locked drawer, before the issue could be pursued. Also, Schwarzenstein’s rival collector had suffered temporary paralysis at an auction, fortunately with no grievous consequences to his health, when he’d been about to raise the stakes while bidding for The Munich Manual of Demonic Magic, a fifteenth-century grimoire the baron had especially craved to acquire. And another art dealer had suddenly changed his mind about buying a medieval suit of tapestry hangings—a subject of interest for Schwarzenstein as well—because the damn things were haunted. Tristan could only imagine what it meant, for the baron, on the contrary, had experienced no harm from them and was very pleased with his purchase.

  All of these mishaps—half-comic, half-dramatic, depending on the point of view—had been to the baron’s benefit, so why would Tristan dig into the matter, especially since his employer could have been the one who had organized them? Besides, as far as Tristan knew, there was no official proof of conjuring having taken place, or perhaps the authorities hadn’t been diligent enough in looking for evidence and tracing the spells, if there had been any, because the baron seemed to have useful acquaintances in the right departments.

  Therefore, Tristan had been mostly idle. He’d thought Schwarzenstein would have more work for him. Being paid practically for nothing was nice, but somehow unfair. Maybe it wasn’t his conscience but vanity speaking. On the whole, Tristan’s current employment was a waste of his talents and knowledge, which he found mildly annoying. He’d been much more effective while working as a freelance magician. On the brighter side, having no need to squander energy on spells was a good thing for his general health. He’d been careless during the three years on his own, using all the power he’d had. It was probably time to have a respite.

  As for his employer, Tristan was still at a loss what to make of him. There was an abundance of rumors about the Black Baron and his involvement with occultists of questionable reputation, but those gossips might have been as little trustworthy as most of them usually were. As for the dubious incidents of presumably magical nature, it all could have happened according to his order … or not. So, Tristan decided to withhold his opinion about Schwarzenstein for now, especially since no one was asking for it.

  Thus, he had little to tell Jarek about his work, and not because he didn’t want to speak about it. But maybe Jarek didn’t see it that way. He sighed at Tristan’s answer, trailing a finger along the window glass.

  Tristan came close, prodded at Jarek’s shoulder with a finger, in a clumsy attempt to be playful.

  “You’re not sulking at me, are you? What do you think I’m going to do? Have a nice orgy with the Black Baron and his friends, if he has any?”

  Jarek made a face. “I hope not. I don’t know why you people are so obsessed about orgies at all. It’s messy. Sweat, bodily fluids everywhere…”

  “Ugh! You spoiled my dream.”

  “Maybe it feels better when you’re not on the receiving end,” Jarek added thoughtfully.

  Tristan didn’t know how to respond, so he just changed the topic, as he often did. “What will you be doing?”

  Jarek shrugged. “Not much as well. This place doesn’t need lots of housekeeping.”

  So far, he’d taken up to cooking, which he was better at than Tristan. From small remarks, Tristan had gathered that someone must have taught him that, for Jarek to be a better companion, but who exactly and how long ago—it remained unclear. Jarek also made attempts at keeping the apartment in order, but less successfully. He had weird nestling habits: an unmade bed with scattered pillows seemed to be more appealing to him than tucked in sheets. Maybe because it had the look of a lived-in home, and not a perfectly arranged hotel room.

  Tristan couldn’t help asking, “What did you usually do when you had free time? I mean, before we met?”

  “Mostly, I was bored.”

  As if sensing Tristan’s discomfort at his curt answer, Jarek salvaged it with a smile and added, “It’s fine, I’m used to it. I’m well aware I’m unlikely to get a proper job—no one would employ incubi for something else rather than our intended purpose. So it’s good that at least one of us is busy.”

  And of course it didn’t make Tristan feel better in the slightest.

  ****

  Prague had been preparing for the Christmas season well in advance, from the end of November, and now everything was set. The city became a winter wonderland, with tall Christmas trees at major squares, all draped in blazing lights in contrast to the dark Gothic skyline. There were lots of fake angels everywhere, white-winged and shimmering with electric radiance, in company with numerous lanterns, bells, and gingerbreads—all the usual festive stuff. Tristan caught glimpses of this splendor as he crossed the city going to Schwarzenstein’s house or his gallery and back home, but the difficulties of settling in a new place in addition to regular work hours kept him from exploring it properly.

  Jarek had dragged him out to the Christmas market at Náměstí Míru, Peace Square, not far from where they lived, slightly away from touristy crowds. But that was it for now. Tristan suspected that other markets dotting the city here and there looked pretty much the same and consisted of identical wooden huts selling bright-colored toys, woolen gloves, scented candles, and mulled wine of course, along with sugar-coated pastries. But Jarek would be glad to leave their tiny apartmen
t and see these mistletoe-covered clones anyway. He usually needed so little to cheer him up, and Tristan felt bad for not granting him even that. In consolation, he kept telling himself that surely he would have more free time closer to the New Year. So there was nothing too terrible about putting the fun off for a little while. He would make up for it soon.

  The quiet Troja quarter where the Black Baron resided looked less Christmas-themed than the center of the city. If not for a few garlands adorning windows in a house or two, one wouldn’t think of holidays at all. Schwarzenstein’s abode was predictably not contaminated with excessive decorations either—they wouldn’t go well with its solemn wood-paneled interiors.

  As usual, Tristan was ushered in by Schwarzenstein’s secretary, Šimon, a frail, slender youth with blond hair so meticulously combed back that it seemed like he was afraid his employer would chastise him for a loose strand. Maybe he would. The Black Baron gave an impression of a demanding perfectionist, at least when it came to others.

  If so, Šimon was his ideal choice for the job. Always cleanly shaven and smartly dressed. Always ready to serve, always knowing the information his master might require. To a large degree, Schwarzenstein’s business matters were run by Šimon. Tristan suspected it might have been his suggestion that Schwarzentein should need another personal assistant, so it would reduce his own abundant duties. But despite the important role he played in Schwarzenstein’s commerce, Šimon was quiet and unobtrusive, just a vague presence in the shades of the house, seemingly with no ambitions of his own. Although he was good-looking, he had an easily forgettable face. Standard, regular features—nothing special that would catch someone’s attention. There was something indistinctly familiar about Šimon’s appearance, but Tristan couldn’t place what exactly. Maybe he looked like some young actor Tristan had briefly seen on a TV screen—to be honest, he didn’t know much about modern celebrities, so no name came to mind.

  Today, Šimon seemed to be fairly distressed. He nervously adjusted his tie that didn’t need adjusting and straightened a few inexistent creases on his gray suit.

  “He’s, um, a little agitated today,” came his warning.

  Agitated wasn’t the right word, as it turned out. Two other words would probably describe Ambrosius Schwarzenstein’s mood much better: cold fury.

  “And this man flatters himself with the title of artist!” he declared bitterly as he paced across the library, the flaps of his magenta dressing gown apart and flailing in his wake, like the cloak of a fierce warrior or an enraged magician of ancient times, and revealing a crispy white shirt and dark trousers underneath, which was considerably less heroic. “It’s three days until the exhibition. Three days.” He stopped and punctuated his words with three vicious jabs to the edge of an empty reading stand. Fortunately, it was oaken and felt nothing. “And what is he doing? Is he actively advertising his works on social media? No. Is he giving interviews? No. He’s locked himself in his studio and refuses to take part in public events. He wouldn’t even talk to anyone. How audacious is that?”

  Tristan hadn’t seen the baron so annoyed yet. Usually he maintained a lazy, nonchalant attitude to problems at hand, mostly because he always had someone else to solve them. This time, the matter was somewhat personal. The artist whose exhibition was mentioned in such an irritated manner clearly was supposed to be Schwarzenstein’s prodigy, his sensational finding. Someone he could show off and brag about. And now this prodigy was out of control. It was offending. It was intolerable.

  “Is he a genius?” Tristan asked.

  “God forbid! It’s much easier to deal with geniuses after they are dead. I prefer it that way, just like any reasonable connoisseur. More profit, less drama. No, this one is simply not too bad. At least he has recognizable consistency in his style. I could build a story around him. It’s always the story that sells, not pictures, unless they are meant solely for decorative purposes. If you want to see what he does, there must be one of his paintings somewhere in the house. I think my secretary might have put it in his study, out of sight. It was at odds with the rest of my collection. Anyway, with him, I could redeem my investments and make considerable profit. But now he’s as much as missing. Considering that his exhibition is looming, it’s … rather inconvenient.”

  Tristan had a feeling Schwarzenstein wanted to use a cussing word instead of rather, but his good manners took over.

  “How can I be of help?” Tristan wondered. He wasn’t a psychologist after all.

  Schwarzenstein waved at him dismissively. “I don’t know, think of something. Enchant him. Make him comply.”

  That would be illegal. Surely it wasn’t a serious order?

  Or was it?

  “I’m sure magicians know a few mind games. That might be of use,” Schwarzenstein said. “Besides, the reason he became a recluse is of a nature not unrelated to magic.”

  “What happened, exactly?” Tristan asked.

  “He purchased some magical token. I don’t know any details, but it was something people buy unofficially, you know. As it often occurs with objects of such kind, the effect didn’t match his expectations. It made him very, very upset. But that’s not all. He was careless enough to mention it on his blog. Without going into particulars as to what had occurred, but that’s even worse. If rumors start spreading, it might tarnish the gallery’s reputation. Why people can’t keep quiet when they do something illicit?”

  Why indeed.

  Tristan had suspicions that Schwarzenstein’s antiquity business wasn’t entirely legal either. Maybe it was him who had provided the poor bastard with said magical token, hence this burst of annoyance. Schwarzenstein’s interest in occult objects and books on demonology might have led him along the path of dubious merchandise and off-record deals. Some rare artifacts were hard to acquire otherwise. But while everyone involved with magic knew of black-market commerce, it was bad taste to be caught at participating in such affairs.

  “So, what is my task?” Tristan inquired. “To bring him to the exhibition opening? Or to make sure he doesn’t talk much about certain things?”

  “Both. Look into this situation, take care of possible problems. Remove the token from him, whatever it is, and get rid of it. Give him a lecture on inappropriate behavior, threaten him, beg him. Do whatever it takes to prepare him for the big show. He must be ready for interviews, mingling with guests, all that social trickery. From what I know, he’s too depressed now for any interactions. I hope he doesn’t make an attempt at his life. It would be disastrous. But who knows these artistic people? They have no sense of obligation towards others.” Schwarzenstein suddenly became thoughtful. “On the other hand, I could make him into a genius then, I suppose. That would be the only way to sell out his works. In the future, though, I will probably stick to dealing solely with antiques. Dead artists make nicer public than still living ones.”

  “Where does he live, by the way?” Tristan asked, choosing to ignore his employer’s philosophical reasoning. He had doubts any painter would appreciate being made into a genius post mortem. On the other hand, this took place so often that maybe it was like being proclaimed a saint, which also occurred mostly after death.

  Schwarzenstein made a face, as if such small, unimportant details as addresses were beyond his scope. “Ask my secretary.”

  He always said that, without mentioning a name. Tristan wondered if Schwarzenstein cared to remember it.

  A few minutes later, Šimon showed Tristan the picture Schwarzenstein had talked about, which indeed was decorating a wall in his small study. Tristan stood, transfixed, before the dark canvas. Oh yes, it wouldn’t match the rest of Schwarzenstein’s collection. There wasn’t enough gild on the frame.

  The picture itself was nothing fancy either. Just a whirlwind of black feathers, or eels, or flakes of soot—and a figure falling through it. Down, down. That was all.

  But this blackness was mesmerizing in a very uncanny way, like it was a living and maybe even sentient substance.
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  Ego relictus in tenebris, tenebrae factus, the inscription on a small metallic label declared. It could be read in two ways: “Having become darkness, I was left in the darkness” or “I was left in the darkness, so darkness is what I became”. Tristan wondered if this vagueness was deliberate.

  “Nice, isn’t it?” Šimon asked behind his back.

  It wasn’t a definition Tristan would give to this particular work of art, but everyone had their own ideas of nice.

  ****

  Prague lay vague and immense amidst the winter mist, the brightness of red-tiled roofs dulled with a dusting of snow. Poor freezing gargoyles of St. Vitus Cathedral had grown fake white beards of icicles and looked utterly displeased with the unwanted masquerade whenever they were shown in the local news. For a few days in a row, the imperial forecasters kept promising better, sunnier weather, but as always, their premonitions were inaccurate. Nature refused to cooperate.

  Tristan hadn’t bought a thicker coat yet, like he’d intended to, because there had always been some other matter to take care of, so he wore a flannel shirt under a sweater for additional warmth, gloved hands bound up in pockets. Despite that, he felt no better than one of the iced-up gargoyles when he finally arrived to his destination, a shabby panelák—a panel building, as ordinary as any other in its neighborhood.

  He’d thought that Petřiny, a district close to the old Břevnov Monastery, elegant in its white-walled simplicity, was a historical one, but nope. All the houses seemed to have been built a few decades ago, maybe in a former wasteland. They weren’t proudly tall and overly modern, mostly fitting the definition, “That would do”. Boleslav Valenta had a working studio on the first floor of such an apartment block, and lived there as well. Tristan had imagined painters should rather prefer sunny attics with better lighting, or at least places with more artistic charisma, but apparently, some of them had to adjust to whatever lodging was available.