by Karen Kincy
Sven grabbed a key from his pocket. His eyes looked empty as he unlocked Wendel’s handcuffs. His hands fell limply at his sides.
Wendel tossed aside the handcuffs and rubbed the welts on his wrists.
“Now,” said the necromancer. “Leave this car. There, jump off the train. Walk—crawl, I don’t care—until you can’t anymore.”
Sven climbed to his feet and shambled toward the door.
“What have you done?” Ardis said hoarsely.
Wendel said nothing. He shadowed the dead man down the passageway. Sven groped for the door, yanked it open, and lurched outside. Ardis followed them. Her heartbeat thumped with dread. Sven plodded to the platform and leaned over the railing. He teetered, then fell from the moving train and rolled into the ditch.
Ardis craned her neck and peered down the length of the train.
Sven crawled from the ditch and dragged himself away from the tracks. Wendel watched until the dead man was out of sight.
“He had to be stopped,” he said.
His eyes had lacked emotion earlier, while killing the man, but they smoldered now. He held out his hand. It was slick with blood.
“I will admit,” he muttered, “that could have been a cleaner kill.”
Ardis shook her head. “He wasn’t bleeding.”
Wendel glanced down at his shirt and saw the widening red stain. His struggle with Sven must have torn the stitches over his wound.
“Ah.” He looked at his hand again. “Now I’m starting to feel it.”
His head bowed, Wendel clutched his ribs and trudged back into the car. Ardis pursued him, her hand tight on Chun Yi’s hilt.
“You didn’t have to kill him,” she said.
He didn’t look back. “He was working for the Order.”
“Yes. Working. You were just another job to him.”
He shot her a glare. “And you have a moral objection to killing on the job?”
Ardis blushed and shut her mouth, afraid to admit he was right.
Wendel knocked on Konstantin’s door with his bloodied hand. When the archmage saw him, he sucked in his breath.
“God,” Konstantin said, “what happened?”
Ardis leaned around the doorway. “He killed that man.”
“Necessarily.” Wendel gestured to his wound. “How much would it cost me?”
Konstantin blinked several times. “For what?”
“For you to heal me, archmage.”
“I’m not a doctor!”
“You do know at least some medical magic?” Wendel curled his lip. “And I’m not talking about money as payment.”
Konstantin backed away from him, then waved them both inside his cabin.
Wendel lowered himself onto a seat and doubled over with a groan. “Make up your mind, archmage, before I look elsewhere.”
Flustered, Konstantin shook his head. “I doubt anyone else on this train can—”
“Then name your price.”
Konstantin pressed his lips together, his eyes bright, then caught the necromancer’s gaze. “A week of your time.”
Wendel glowered at him. “A week?”
“That won’t be an easy wound to treat.”
Wendel sighed. “Three days. That’s all the time I can spare.”
Konstantin nodded and folded his arms. “Then allow me to start. Ardis? Fetch that suitcase from the luggage rack.”
Ardis did as he said, but frowned. “Three days of what?”
“I can explain everything later,” Konstantin said.
The archmage knelt by his suitcase and unbuckled the clasps. When he opened it, Ardis realized it wasn’t a suitcase at all, but an apparatus built into its own carrying case. It resembled the one he had used to patch the Hex, with less in the way of knobs and more in the way of sliding switches. She wished she knew more.
“I almost didn’t bring this,” Konstantin said. “Luckily for you, I did.”
Wendel eyed the apparatus. “What does it do?”
“Temporal magic.”
“Archmages and their technomancy gadgets,” Wendel muttered. “I suppose it came to this. Making a deal with the devil.”
“And you think that I am the devil?” Konstantin said.
Ardis cleared her throat and stepped between the two of them. They peered around her to glare at each other, then broke eye contact.
The archmage rummaged in a bag and tugged on his leather-and-steel bracers.
He glanced at Wendel. “I need you to…” He waved his hand vaguely.
“Excuse me?”
Konstantin’s face reddened, and he cleared his throat. “This won’t work if you insist on wearing that filthy shirt of yours.”
Wendel arched his eyebrows and shrugged off his coat. “Squeamish?”
Still blushing, the archmage fiddled with the temporal magic apparatus. Ardis took Wendel’s coat from him as he unbuttoned his shirt. The cloth, wet with blood, clung to his wound. He winced as he tugged it away.
Ardis inspected his injury. She was right, the stitches had torn open in the fight.
“Do you think two weeks will be enough?” Konstantin said.
Wendel hesitated. “Make it a month.”
Konstantin looked sharply at him. “You are aware that will double the pain?”
“Pain,” Wendel said. “I understand.”
He unbuckled his belt and looped it in his hand, then lay down on the seat, breathing shallowly, blood still seeping from his injury.
Konstantin moved closer. “Ardis? You may want to hold his arms.”
Her stomach somersaulted. “Why?”
“This magic works by accelerating the healing time of the wound, but it also accelerates the sensations of that time.” Konstantin paused and adjusted his bracers. “Wendel will feel a month of pain in one instant.”
“Wonderful bedside manner,” Wendel muttered.
Ardis met his eyes, and he nodded. He put his belt between his teeth and bit down on the leather, like he had done this all before.
“Ready?” Konstantin said.
Wendel raised his arms above his head, and Ardis grabbed his wrists. His heartbeat pulsed beneath her touch, fast with fear, but the necromancer was doing an excellent job of keeping his emotions from his face.
Konstantin moved his hands as if shaping an invisible sphere. Between his fingers, a green glow flickered into a burning ball of light. He inspected the magic with care, his eyes gleaming with fierce concentration. He murmured something to himself, then carried the magic over to Wendel and poured it onto the wound.
Sizzling light dazzled Ardis’s eyes. Blinded, she blinked fast.
The moment the magic touched him, Wendel bit down on the belt to stifle a scream. Konstantin lowered his hands over the wound and drove the magic down. Wendel’s back arched, and his arms flexed beneath Ardis’s grip.
“Hold him!” Konstantin said.
Ardis put her weight into pinning Wendel, but he was still strong enough that she struggled. He threw back his head, the tendons in his neck taut, and let out a long moan. Sweat glittered on his skin, which felt feverish beneath her fingers.
“And… done.”
Konstantin lifted his hands, and Ardis released Wendel.
The necromancer collapsed on the seat, then slid onto the floor. He spat the belt from his mouth. Shaking violently, he curled sideways and wrapped his arms around himself. His breathing came in quick gasps.
“Wendel?” Ardis crouched beside him. “Are you all right?”
“What,” he panted, “does—it look—like?”
Sarcasm. That was good.
She took him by the shoulder and rolled him onto his back. Besides the blood, nothing of his wound remained except for a long white scar across his chest. He sucked in a breath, then blinked as if seeing her for the first time.
“But thank you for asking,” he said, pain still roughening his voice.
Ardis leaned away from him. “No problem.”
Konstantin tugg
ed off his bracers and grimaced at the blood on his fingertips. He opened the door to the bathroom and washed his hands in the sink. Ardis saw his reflection in the mirror, and the curiosity in his eyes.
Wendel grabbed the edge of the seat and hauled himself to his feet. He swayed, his hair in his face, and staggered a few steps forward. Ardis caught him by the arm so he wouldn’t fall, but he shrugged off her touch.
“I should clean up all this blood,” he said. “Before anyone sees me.”
Konstantin nodded and stepped aside to let him into the bathroom. As the archmage dried his hands on a towel, he snuck a glance at Wendel.
“That didn’t go too badly,” he said, “all things considered.”
Wendel stared into the sink, his eyes distant, as he washed the blood from himself. He gave special care to his hands, picking beneath his fingernails, scrubbing at his knuckles. Long after he looked clean, he let water wash over his skin.
Ardis wondered if he was thinking of killing Sven. No, of bringing him back.
“Can you start tomorrow?” Konstantin said.
Wendel twisted the faucet handle. “What?”
“Your three days. Does tomorrow work for you?”
“No.”
Konstantin frowned. “But we—”
“Don’t worry, archmage,” Wendel said quietly. “I will give you what I promised. Even if I can’t do it immediately.”
But he looked at Ardis when he said it.
“Two hours until Vienna,” she said. “At most.”
Wendel shrugged his coat over his shoulders. His fingertips lingered on his scar. He traced the length of it, then buttoned his coat.
“Please,” he said, “excuse me. I should rest before our arrival.”
As Wendel turned to go, Ardis glimpsed a grim kind of hope in his eyes.
~
Ardis sat alone in the observation car, still wearing her sword, and rested her head against the back of the seat. Mindlessly, she watched the scenery go by. The tracks rattling under the train reminded her of a clock ticking down.
Dread pooled in her gut. What did Wendel plan to do in Vienna?
He wouldn’t tell her the truth, even if she asked, of that much she was sure. He was distant again. Their kiss felt so faraway. She exhaled slowly. It was best if they parted ways in Vienna. If she forgot about him.
Though she wasn’t sure she could.
Ardis’s eyelids slipped shut, and she let sleep creep over her mind.
“Ma’am?” Someone touched her shoulder. “Excuse me, ma’am?”
She jolted awake and saw a conductor leaning over her. She realized her hand was on the hilt of Chun Yi, and she forced herself to relax.
“Where are we?” she said.
“Vienna,” said the conductor. “This is our last stop.”
“Oh, no.”
Adrenaline flooded her blood. She had overslept.
Ardis lunged to her feet, ignoring the conductor’s protests, and sprinted to the sleeper car. Their cabin was, of course, empty.
She ran back down the passageway and darted through the nearest open door.
Plunged into a crowd, Ardis fought to see her surroundings. The ceiling of the Vienna train station vaulted overhead, iron and glittering glass holding the night sky at bay, and all around her were people, swarms of people.
She zigzagged through the crowd. Their train had halted at the rightmost platform in the station, and she hurried along its length. Her mind whirred through possibilities. Wendel could have escaped at the earliest possible opportunity.
Or the Order of the Asphodel could have found him already.
Sven hadn’t been too cunning, but he was barely more than a messenger. If she were trying to catch a necromancer, she would post guards at his point of arrival. Undercover guards, of course, waiting at every door of the train.
Ardis let her mind slip into a state of observant calm.
Nearby, a man leaned against a column, his hat shadowing his face. He had no suitcase, and he was definitely looking for someone. Farther along, at the entrance to the lobby, a man stood with his arms crossed and his head high. Another stood at the doorway to the baggage area, not even trying to look inconspicuous.
Clearly they hadn’t seen Wendel, if they were still waiting.
Ardis scanned the lights overhead. There wasn’t enough darkness here for the shadows of Amarant to be effective. If she were Wendel, she would have disguised herself and left the train station as fast as possible.
Keeping her head down, she followed the flow of the crowd out into the night.
Rain hushed from the sky over Vienna. Puddles glittered with the lights of the city, and spray hissed from the wheels of passing automobiles. Ardis flipped up the hood of her jacket and strode to the center of the plaza.
She tasted bitterness in her mouth. Wendel was gone. And she—
“Ardis.”
A voice in the crowd, faint, but not too faraway. She spun around, searching, but she didn’t see anyone familiar.
“Ardis!”
A hand closed on her wrist. She spun around—it was Wendel.
He dragged her from the plaza and into the darkness. He pushed her against the bricks of a wall, his grip tight on her wrist.
Her breath fogged the air. “I thought you were gone,” she said.
Wendel looked into her eyes, rain sliding down his face. In the shadows, they were all but invisible to the passersby on the street.
“I will be,” he whispered, “in a minute.”
She glowered at him. “Then why did you—?”
He kissed her, hard and fast, the length of his body pressing against hers. She couldn’t decide where to put her hands. She slid them down his neck, his back, lower still. Shivering electricity washed over her skin, and she didn’t know if it was because of his necromancy or her own nerves coming alive under his touch.
He broke away from her. “Goodbye.”
“No.” She nearly growled the word.
Ardis shoved him back a few steps, then spun him around so he was the one pinned against the wall. She wasn’t going to be gentle this time, not now that he wasn’t wounded, not now that he wanted to leave her.
His eyebrows shot skyward, and he opened his mouth to speak.
She kissed him again. He returned the kiss with the same feverish desperation she felt building inside her chest. She knew they only had a moment together in the shadows, but damn it, she was going to make it last.
They broke apart after too short of a time, both of them gasping for breath.
“You can’t leave me like this,” she said, her voice uneven.
He looked into her eyes. “You know I have to.”
She stared at him, her skin still tingling, and licked her lips.
“Then promise you will come back,” she said. “Promise me.”
Wendel bowed his head, backed away, and nodded. His hand closed on the hilt of Amarant, and shadows swirled around him. In an instant he had dissolved into the darkness, leaving nothing but the memory of a kiss.
There had been a look in his eyes. A look both sad and terrifyingly familiar.
He was afraid he was never coming back.
Ardis tilted her head and stared into the sky. Rain splashed on her upturned face. Then she pressed her fingertips to her eyelids.
She had to forget him. She had no future with a necromancer.
It had been a thrilling dream, but that dream was over. With a steadying breath, she stepped from the shadows into the light.
The night was still young when Ardis arrived at the Hall of the Archmages. She nodded at the guards as she entered, noting how useless their ornamental halberds would be in battle. The archmages certainly loved pomp and circumstance. Her boots clicked on the marble floor, the sound echoing under the vaulted dome. Out of habit, she glanced heavenward at the dome’s celestial mosaic of blue and gold tiles.
Once she had found this all magnificent. Now it merely wearied her.
The
doors to the Council Chamber stood open, flanked by guards. She glanced inside. The High Council had convened, all the archmages dressed in velvet robes. They spoke ponderously, like every word was profound.
With a sigh, Ardis sat on a marble bench and waited.
Her eyes felt gritty, her muscles exhausted, even though it couldn’t be past seven o’clock. She rubbed her face with the heels of her hands, then inspected her sword’s scabbard. The sharkskin had begun to crack over the wood. Ardis wondered if the scabbard was original, since her mother claimed Chun Yi was over a hundred years old. After the archmages paid her, she would look for a decent swordsmith in Vienna.
At last, after an eternity or two, the archmages shuffled out of the Council Chamber.
Ardis climbed to her feet and stood at attention. She waited for Archmage Margareta, an elderly woman whose sleek pewter hair shimmered above crimson robes. The red color signaled her expertise in incendiary magic.
“Ma’am?” Ardis said.
Archmage Margareta acknowledged her with a nod and a keen blue-eyed stare.
“Ardis,” she said. “Walk with me.”
Ardis followed the archmage down the hall and through several twists and turns, until they reached her office. Oak paneled the walls, and a maid tending the fireplace curtseyed before scurrying out of sight. Archmage Margareta lowered herself stiffly, afflicted with arthritis, into the leather armchair behind her desk.
“Ma’am.” Ardis took a seat opposite her. “The mission went well enough.”
“The Serbian spy is dead?” Margareta said.
Ardis nodded, then unclasped a chain at her neck and removed a gold-and-sapphire ring.
“I took this from Tiberiu,” she said. “As requested.”
From his cold dead finger, though she had washed off the blood.
Margareta squeezed a loupe onto one eye, then pinched the ring between her fingers and inspected the inscription on the inside.
“Veni, vidi, vici,” she muttered. “Tiberiu was a cocky fellow, wasn’t he?”
Ardis shrugged. “Easy enough to find and kill.”
Maybe she didn’t have a moral objection to killing on the job.
Margareta slid open a desk drawer, took out a coin purse, and tossed it to her. It hit the desk with a satisfying clank that could only be gold.
