by Karen Kincy
Ardis glanced at Wendel. “And the necromancer?”
Konstantin thinned his mouth. His jaw clenched and unclenched. He looked the necromancer up and down, then met his eyes.
“You belong to the Order of the Asphodel?” Konstantin said.
Wendel’s voice and face remained emotionless. “Yes.”
“They will be looking for you,” Konstantin said. “And I can do nothing to stop them.”
“True,” Wendel said.
“But you won’t turn him in?” Ardis said.
Konstantin shook his head. “Necromancy does not fall under the jurisdiction of the archmages. The Order will deal with him.”
“Excellent,” Wendel said. “Now that everything is settled…”
He climbed onto the train platform, shouldered past Konstantin, and opened the door.
“Where are you going?” Ardis called after him.
Wendel paused, then let the door swing shut behind him.
Ardis sighed, her breath a long plume of white, and clambered onto the train. Konstantin touched her arm to stop her and gave her a serious look, like people usually did when they thought she was being foolhardy.
“Do you know who he is?” he muttered.
“A necromancer,” she said, “from Prussian nobility.”
Konstantin’s eyes sharpened. “Which family?”
“I don’t know. He wouldn’t say.”
“Ardis.” Konstantin looked in her in the eye. “The archmages have heard rumors about a necromancer from Constantinople. One of the Order’s new favorite minions. A boy from a powerful family.”
“A boy?” She tilted her head. “He’s not a boy.”
He shook his head. “He’s younger than you might think. And they have been training him since he was no more than a child.”
They haven’t seen me since I was eleven years old, Wendel had said.
“Do you know which family?” she said.
Konstantin shook his head. “The discovery of a necromancer would be kept as a closely guarded secret. Though there are those who suspect the defect originated among the nobles in the House of Hohenzollern.”
“Hohenzollern!” she said.
The same as Wilhelm II, the King of Prussia and the German Emperor.
I still managed to inherit bad blood.
Ardis met Konstantin’s eyes. “What do you know about the Order of the Asphodel?”
The archmage shook his head. “An ancient society of assassins, with a particular interest in black magic. Officially, the archmages of Vienna have a truce with the Order, but that was signed over a century ago, and we unofficially do not approve of their actions. They tend to believe the end justifies the means.”
“One of these means being necromancy?” she said.
“Exactly.” Konstantin studied the lightening horizon. “Now if you will excuse me.”
She nodded curtly. “I’ll let you get to work.”
“Thank you,” he said.
Before she could leave, though, he held out his arm to halt her.
“And Ardis?” he said. “Don’t trust him.”
She looked into his eyes for a moment, but she didn’t know what to say. So she nodded and stood for a moment, watching the dawn. Railway employees had started hacking at the frozen earth to dig graves for the dead. One of the men covered their fallen conductor’s sightless eyes, but left the rebels to stare at the sky.
~
Wendel wasn’t in the cabin. After checking the dining car, Ardis ventured reluctantly into the lounge car. Judging by the forest green carpet, leather chairs, and lingering scent of cigars, the lounge was meant to be a bastion of masculinity. But this early in the morning, there were no gentlemen to request that she leave at once.
Discounting, of course, Wendel—though she wasn’t sure he was a gentleman.
The necromancer sprawled in a chair, a glass of green-gold liquid in his hand. He sipped his drink, then smiled languidly at Ardis.
“Please,” he said, “sit.”
She remained standing, and frowned.
“What are you drinking?” she said.
“Absinthe.”
“Why?”
Wendel lifted the bottle to his face to inspect its contents. The color of the liquor within resembled his eyes remarkably.
“You heard the medic,” he said. “Plenty of fluids.”
Ardis sighed. “Not those kind of fluids. Alcohol isn’t a good idea.”
“Why not?” He sipped his drink. “It helps to dull the pain.”
She reached across and took the bottle of absinthe from the side table, then helped herself to a glass. She kept the bottle. Clearly, he didn’t need any more. The absinthe scorched her throat, and she winced at the burn of alcohol.
“Not bad,” she rasped, and she swallowed a cough.
“Brave of you.” He dipped his head. “I never drink absinthe straight.”
She glanced at his glass, and realized his drink was indeed paler than her own.
“May I recommend a little sugar to cut the bitterness?” he said.
Blushing, Ardis spotted a bowl of sugar cubes on the table, alongside a carafe of ice water and a slotted silver spoon. She remembered there was a ritual for drinking absinthe properly, though she didn’t know how.
“To tell you the truth,” she said, “this is my first time.”
Wendel arched one eyebrow. “An absinthe virgin?”
She grimaced at his choice of words. “Not anymore.”
“You don’t drink much, do you?”
She shook her head. “I don’t drink fancy booze.”
“Booze.” He smirked. “Absinthe is too upper crust to be booze.”
Ardis smiled tightly. “And I suppose you know a lot about the upper crust?”
He shrugged and swirled the absinthe in his glass.
“Perhaps the House of Hohenzollern?” she said.
Wendel looked at her over his glass. “Who told you that? Konstantin?”
“He did,” she said. “Is he wrong?”
“No.”
She drank more absinthe, and rolled its fire on her tongue.
“Do you want to tell me more?” she said.
A strange look passed over Wendel’s face like a shadow. He set down his glass too hard, and it wobbled before he steadied it with a finger. He mustered something resembling a smile, but she saw the darkness in his eyes.
“What does Konstantin think he knows?” he said.
“He said the Order of the Asphodel has been training a necromancer since he was a boy. But he didn’t say much more than that.”
“The archmages really should hire better spies.”
“What kind of training?” she said, testing him.
Wendel’s false smile vanished. He looked out of the window at the sunrise creeping between the clouds and the fog.
“One more day,” he said, “until Vienna.”
“Do you have family in Vienna?” she said.
He knocked back the last of his absinthe. “No.”
She held out the bottle to him, but he ignored it.
“I don’t exist, Ardis,” he said. “Not to them. You won’t find me on any of their family trees. I’m not a part of their lineage anymore. If I die, they will have an easier time erasing me from their reputations. An easier time forgetting.”
Ardis was distantly aware of her heartbeat thumping, and of a tightness in her throat.
“When a necromancer dies,” she said, “does he die like a normal man?”
Wendel’s eyes glittered with a molten emotion she couldn’t name. She found it hard to look at him, but she didn’t dare look away.
“God,” he said, “I hope so.”
She still held the bottle of absinthe out to him, and when he took it from her, the very tips of his fingers touched hers. A shiver of electricity skittered down her backbone, as if she could feel the latent necromancy in his skin.
For some strange reason, she wanted to touch him again.
Ardis fought the urge, until Wendel looked away and she glimpsed a split second of his face. He was struggling to hide his fear, and this made him look more vulnerable than she had ever seen him before. Deliberately, her muscles tense, she sat in the chair opposite him and touched the back of his hand.
Wendel’s stare snapped to her fingers. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to touch you,” she said.
He looked into her eyes, and his own were inscrutable. “Don’t.”
Ardis stared at him for a second longer, then curled her fingers into a fist. She leaned back in her chair and folded her arms.
“I figured it might be practical,” she said, “if I can touch you without feeling disgusted.”
This was of course a lie. She hadn’t thought twice about touching him during the battle. But he had utterly ruined the moment.
He sneered at her. “Lovely.”
She drained her glass of absinthe in one swig, to fortify her nerves, and climbed to her feet. Her legs felt a little wobbly, and she wasn’t sure if it was because of the alcohol or something else entirely.
“Not everyone hates you,” she said, “until you give them good reason.”
Wendel’s eyebrows shot skyward, but he raised his glass as if toasting her.
“Hate?” he said. “Already? Bravo.”
“Don’t mock me,” she said. “You know what I meant.”
Before he could respond with more sarcasm, she walked out of the lounge car and didn’t look back. She made it to the cabin, slid the door shut, and locked it for good measure. Lightheaded, she sat on her seat and rested her elbows on her knees. She let her hair fall into her face, raking out the tangles with her fingers.
What was she thinking? Trying to touch a necromancer. To show him she cared.
Did she?
Ardis looked at her reflection in the window. Her face looked pale and tired. So much had happened in the past twenty-four hours, she wasn’t even sure what any of it meant anymore. Her common sense had dried up and blown away like dust.
There was a rap on the door.
“Who is it?” she said.
“Konstantin.”
She sighed, climbed to her feet, and opened the door.
It was Wendel.
“I lied,” he said. “I thought you might unlock the door for the archmage.”
Ardis found it hard to catch her breath standing so close to him.
“May I come in?” he said.
She hesitated. “I—”
“I suppose I don’t need to. Let me apologize for being unnecessarily rude.” A smile quirked his mouth. “Or necessarily rude.”
“Did you come here to joke?” Ardis said. “It’s not very funny.”
“No.” Wendel sobered and stepped toward her. “Damn, let me try again. I’m not used to anyone wanting to… touch me.”
He held out his hands and stared at his fingers.
“I understand why I disgust you,” he said. “I’m a necromancer. I’m untouchable.”
“Obviously.”
Ardis knew it was easier to reply sarcastically, but she grimaced. She didn’t want to sound too much like he did, like nothing mattered. Although this time, when she searched his face, there was a sincerity in his eyes.
Wendel lowered his voice. “But I keep my hands clean.”
“Clean?” she said. “What makes you think I’m any less dirty? I have slept in the snow, and in the rain, and in the mud. I’m a mercenary, Wendel. You know my hands have had blood from who knows how many men on them. But what bothers me is the way you touch the dead, and do it to bring them back.”
He narrowed his eyes. “The dead were once the living.”
“Once,” she said. “Past tense. You… you undo what shouldn’t be undone.”
“Before you get too sanctimonious,” he said, “let me tell you a story.”
“Sanctimonious?”
“Yes,” he said, “sanctimonious.”
They stared at each other through the doorway. Ardis clenched her hands. Wendel’s face was shadowed, but she saw fire in his eyes. She stepped aside to let him into the cabin, and to prove she wasn’t intimidated by him.
“Sit,” he said, and he shut the door. “This isn’t that long of a story.”
She did as he said, her jaw clenched.
Wendel sat opposite her and stared out the window at some distant point.
“There was a cat,” he said. “A kitten, really. I had him when I was little, and I named him Maus. My mother made me keep him in the stables. She didn’t like cats. I would visit him every day after I finished lessons with my tutors. One day, Maus vanished. The stable boy told me that the cat had been kicked by a horse. Killed.”
“What do cats and horses have to do with anything?” Ardis said.
Wendel silenced her with a raised hand. “I went looking for Maus. I found him lying by the rubbish heap. His body was so—pathetic. Tiny and limp. I went to pick him up. I remember wanting to touch him one last time.”
Ardis kept her face stony, but her eyes were stinging.
“When I petted Maus,” he said quietly, “he woke up.”
“You didn’t know, did you?”
“I didn’t.” Wendel swallowed hard. “I brought Maus to my mother and father. I didn’t understand why they were so angry with me, or why they told the groundskeeper to bring Maus into the woods and burn him to ashes.”
Ardis hesitated. “How old were you?”
“Eleven. That was a month before they said goodbye.”
“When they sent you to the Order of the Asphodel?”
“Yes.” He laughed with immense bitterness. “Because, by then, I was hopeless. Ruined. But do you at least understand why I did it? I wanted to touch my cat one more time. Even if he was dead, he was still Maus.”
Ardis forced herself to look Wendel in the eye. A vague ache lingered in her stomach. She opened her mouth, closed it again, and looked out the window. Why was it so hard to say what she really wanted to say?
“Did you hate yourself for it?” she asked at last. “Do you still?”
“I won’t lie,” Wendel said. “When I first discovered my talent for raising the dead, I was… unhappy. But I learned to appreciate it.”
“In what way?” she said.
“Necromancy is fascinating,” he murmured. “There’s a certain repulsive elegance about the magic. With it, I can recover memories long lost. I can speak to the dead who left this world days, weeks, even centuries ago.”
His eyes gleamed in the dusk, and she wasn’t sure it was sadness for his childhood pet. She thought she heard pride in his voice.
Then he looked at her, and he smirked.
“If I’m an abomination,” he said, “I might as well enjoy it.”
“And you expect me not to be sanctimonious?” she said, but she couldn’t help smiling.
“I do tend to bring that out in people,” he said flippantly. “I aim to please.”
“Please who?” she said.
“Those whose fancy the repulsively elegant.”
“Or despicably handsome?”
A slow grin spread on Wendel’s face. “That too.”
Ardis cleared her throat. She was not about to admit that she found him handsome. Unless she already had, which was a mistake. Clearly he knew about his good looks, considering how much he resorted to charm. Not that she found him charming.
But after so much banter, he had reacted so badly to her touching his hand.
“Why?” she muttered.
“Pardon?” he said.
She blinked a few times. “Nothing,” she said.
Wendel nodded, though there was a tightness around his eyes. Ardis stood and tugged her jacket straight brusquely.
“I had better check on Konstantin,” she said. “Since I technically take orders from him.”
When her hand closed on the door handle, Wendel walked behind her. She heard him sigh, felt his breath stir her hair.
“Ardis,” he said.
She faced him and saw him offering his hand as if to shake it. He had a half-smile on his face, but his pale eyes said so much more that she didn’t understand. She decided to play it safe, and clasped his hand for a brisk shake.
“There,” he said. “Truce?”
She raised her eyebrows. “I wasn’t aware we were at war.”
His half-smile became a whole one. “Touché.”
Touché. To touch. She wasn’t sure if he meant that to be a pun, or if he knew how different it was to touch him like this. A handshake seemed so banal for who he was, knowing what magic crawled beneath his skin.
Ardis slipped her fingers from his. “You know where to find me.”
Wendel nodded.
As she closed the door behind her, she realized the look in his eyes was one of regret, and she desperately wanted to know why. She wanted to tell him the truth. She hadn’t touched him out of pity, or practicality, but because she had felt for him.
But it was too late. The moment had passed.
Konstantin stood in a circle of trees near the train. The sun lifted itself above the horizon, and shafts of brilliant light lanced the fog. The archmage squinted at Ardis as she approached, and lowered a pair of aviator goggles over his eyes.
“Watch your step!” he called out. “My preparations are nearly complete.”
Ardis stopped in her tracks and took in the scene.
A dozen or so passengers clustered around the archmage. Gentleman, mostly, their cigar smoke curlicuing into the frigid air, but a few ladies, too, chattering and fanning themselves as if waiting for a show to start. A flighty lady in a fox-fur coat nearly stepped on a bloody splatter in the snow and shrieked for the benefit of the men.
“Your preparations for the Hex?” Ardis shouted to Konstantin.
“Don’t meander too close,” a gray-bearded gentleman told her. “I’m afraid this is rather too complicated for a feminine mind.”
She glared at him. “Do I look very feminine?”
Konstantin waved her forward impatiently. “Ardis, come closer. Just be careful not to step on the quicksilver or the selenite.”
“What does selenite look like?” she said.
“It’s a clear crystal,” he said. “Looks rather like ice.”
She glanced around and saw that he had drawn a vast triangle in quicksilver. The mirrored liquid quivered on the surface of the snow. At the three points of the triangle, he had planted clear crystals, each nearly a foot long.
