by Karen Kincy
After she could catch her breath, she kissed him, and his lips felt like heaven.
“Wendel,” she sighed.
He smiled, then swung his legs over the bed. She propped herself on her elbows and watched him walk from the bedroom.
“Wendel?” she said. “Where are you…?”
He returned from the bathroom with the tin of preventives, shaking his head.
“Never can remember to keep these around,” he muttered.
Ardis wanted to tease him for being forgetful, but she was equally guilty. She sprawled languidly on the bed and stared at his nakedness. Sweat glittered over the lean length of his body. He was clearly ready for more.
“Tonight,” he said, “you belong to me.”
He held himself over her and slid inside, slowly, so that she could feel every inch of him. She pressed her face to his chest. He breathed in the scent of her wet hair, then let instinct take over. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t halt, thrusting and clutching her close until he groaned and shuddered in sweet release.
Spent, he sank down beside her on the bed and kissed her on the neck.
Ardis sighed. “That was amazing.”
“Thank you,” he said.
Laughing, she swatted him on the shoulder. “Don’t take all the credit.”
He arched an eyebrow, but seemed too satisfied with himself to protest. She rested in the curve of his arm and closed her eyes. Bliss sang through her blood. As she drifted into sleep, a single thought surfaced in her mind.
Of all the places she had been, here and now in his arms was where she belonged.
~
When Ardis woke, the cool purple shadows of evening stretched along the wall. She reached across the bed for Wendel, but he wasn’t there. Blinking away sleep from her eyes, she clutched the sheet and sat upright.
“Wendel?” she called.
No reply.
Her heartbeat quickened, and she drew a deep breath. He wouldn’t have left her, not now, not like this, unless—she shoved her doubts away and climbed out of bed. On the nightstand, she spotted a piece of paper with scrawled handwriting.
Ardis,
I will return soon. I suspect you will also be thirsty and hungry when you wake.
Wendel
He had written it in English, and she wondered if he remembered her reading the German newspaper on the train. She shook her head, laughed to herself, and wondered why he had never spoken English around her before.
Probably because he didn’t care to, and he was Wendel.
She showered, then dressed in a bathrobe and stood by the window. The glittering splendor of Vienna outshone the stars in the sky. Standing here in the hotel, looking down on the city, she felt a curious sense of longing.
A key clicked in the lock, and the door swung open.
Wendel strode inside, his clothes still damp from the rain, carrying a bottle of absinthe. He held it high triumphantly.
“I return victorious,” he said.
Ardis slipped the bottle from his hands and stared at the ornate golden label.
“How much was this?” she said. “It looks like it cost a fortune.”
He measured a pinch of air with his fingers. “A tiny fortune.”
She sloshed the absinthe in its bottle. “Let’s not drink any on an empty stomach.”
“Oh, I already ordered dinner for us both.”
“Ordered?” She furrowed her brow. “Where?”
“In the hotel restaurant,” he said, as if this were obvious. “Don’t worry, I asked the concierge if they could deliver it all to our room.” He smiled charmingly. “Which means you don’t even have to get dressed for dinner.”
Ardis angled a look at him. “I’m keeping the bathrobe on.”
Wendel’s smile turned wicked. “You look your best in nothing.”
When she started to scoff at him, someone rapped on the door. She clutched her bathrobe closer, feeling very nearly naked already.
“That should be dinner,” Wendel said. “Unless I missed a stray assassin.”
Ardis rolled her eyes, but she slid her foot closer to Chun Yi.
Wendel cracked open the door. “Yes?”
“Your dinner, sir,” said a man in a hotel uniform.
Wendel swept open the door, and the waiter wheeled in a trolley laden with covered platters and more than enough silverware and china for two. With a flourish of a bow, the waiter revealed each of the platters.
“We have lamb in mint sauce,” he said, “and grilled flounder in chervil butter. Followed by ragout of venison with butter dumplings, red cabbage with glazed chestnuts, and finally rhubarb cake with cream for dessert.”
Ardis breathed in the aromas shimmering on steam, her mouth watering.
“And thank you,” Wendel said, “for liberating the absinthe paraphernalia from the bar.”
“Most welcome, sir,” said the waiter. “Will that be all?”
“For now.”
Ardis tore her stare away from the food long enough to see him tipping the waiter with a generous handful of koronas. Silver korona coins, to boot. After the waiter bowed from the room, Wendel locked the door.
“Did you order half the menu?” Ardis said.
“Possibly.”
She made a faint noise of disbelief. “I’m not sure I want to know how you are so rich.”
He took back the bottle of absinthe and shrugged.
“Guilt,” he said. “My dearest beloved family cut off all communication with me the day they banished me to Constantinople, but I found out later that they arranged for a monthly allowance in a bank account under my name.”
“How much?” she said.
“Only a pitiful fraction of my inheritance, but enough to convince them I wasn’t living in squalor.” Wendel had a faint sneer. “I hadn’t touched a cent until the night I arrived in Vienna, when I promptly withdrew it all.”
Ardis stared at him. “All of it?”
“Before the Order could freeze the account.” He tilted the bottle of absinthe and peered through the glass. “Though I’m not sure I will have the time to spend it all. There’s enough for another week or two at least.”
A week or two? Ardis narrowed her eyes at Wendel’s pessimism.
“What happens after a week or two?” she said.
“By then I will be in Constantinople,” he said airily, “and won’t need the money either way. If I’m alive, then I can loot what I need from the Order. If I’m dead, then hopefully I will have died happily bankrupt.”
He made it sound like a joke, but she saw the truth in his eyes.
“You don’t expect to come back,” she said, “do you?”
“Ardis,” he said, “I told you, it runs in the family. The two traits go hand in hand. Necromancy and not living very long.”
She cocked her head. “Your great-great-great-grandfather? How did he die?”
Wendel shrugged. “From what I was told, that necromancer decided to threaten the King of Prussia. That ended rather badly.”
“Then don’t make any powerful enemies.”
He laughed. “Too late.”
She crossed her arms. “Let me rephrase that. Don’t make any powerful enemies that you know you can’t possibly defeat.”
He laughed again. “That is such a mercenary thing to say.”
“God, Wendel, this isn’t a joke. I’m not letting you run off on some suicidal revenge mission. You need help.”
His jaw hardened, but he smirked. “Help? Do you fear for my sanity?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Sorry, I don’t.”
“I’m coming with you to Constantinople.”
That knocked the bastardly smirk off his face. He swallowed hard, sighed, and set the bottle of absinthe down on the trolley.
“You want to come with me on my suicidal revenge mission?”
“Yes,” she said.
“And I can’t say anything that would stop you?”
“What do you
think?”
Wendel ran his tongue over his bottom lip. “All right. You can come.”
“Really?” she said. She had expected more of a fight.
“After dinner, of course.”
She sighed, since he obviously wasn’t taking her seriously. She eyed the bottle of absinthe, then glanced back at him.
“Could you show me how to serve absinthe correctly?” she said. “You never did.”
His stance relaxed. “Certainly.”
“After dinner, of course,” she added, with a wry look.
If he wouldn’t tell her the truth sober, then a little liquor never hurt.
Ice clinked in the carafe of water as Ardis tilted it over the glass of absinthe. The carafe chilled her fingers, but Wendel’s steadying hand warmed her own. He angled the carafe to slow the water. It trickled onto a sugar cube in a slotted spoon, balanced over the glass. The sugar melted and swirled into the absinthe below.
Drop by drop, sweetness clouded the verdant green.
“This brings out the true essence of absinthe,” Wendel murmured. “Some call it la fée verte, the green fairy, who visits them with waking dreams. Not that I have ever seen such things. I merely enjoy the taste.”
“And this tastes better than drinking it straight?” Ardis asked.
He laughed, then tilted the carafe upright. “Taste it yourself.”
She took a long slow sip of absinthe. The chilly water mellowed the fire of alcohol, and a licorice taste lingered on her tongue.
“Agreed,” she said.
Wendel toasted her with his empty glass, then slid the bottle of absinthe nearer and started to make himself a drink. Ardis returned to her plate at the table and surveyed the remains of dinner. They had demolished all of the lamb in mint sauce, and only a sliver of flounder remained. She helped herself to another bowl of ragout of venison, then took the last slice of rhubarb cake with a healthy dollop of cream.
Near-death experiences did tend to whet the appetite.
Wendel stoppered the carafe and dropped onto the couch, glass of absinthe in hand. He kicked off his boots and stretched out with a sigh.
“I’m finishing the cake,” Ardis said.
“I can see that,” he said lazily. “Mind if I make myself more comfortable?”
She shook her head and licked cream from her fingers.
Wendel set his glass on the table, then shucked off his coat and tossed it on the floor. As he unbuttoned his shirt, he stared brazenly into her eyes. Her cheeks blazed when she realized she still had her finger in her mouth.
“Your plan won’t work,” she said.
“Plan?” he said.
“To seduce me right after dinner.” Still blushing, she reached for a napkin. “I’m too full of food for anything like that.”
Wendel tilted his head heavenward as if expecting a halo above himself.
“Your expectations amuse me,” he said.
He stripped away the last of his clothing, then lounged back on the couch. She let her gaze wander over his nakedness, her breath quickening. He sipped his absinthe, closed his eyes, and sank deeper into the cushions.
Ardis licked her lips and cradled her glass. Questions. She had to think of questions.
“If you weren’t a necromancer,” she said, “what life would you have now?”
Wendel opened his eyes a crack. “I would be trying my hardest to ruin my reputation. Though that might not be enough to stop them from marrying me off to some duchess or princess to uphold the Hohenzollern honor.”
She scoffed. “Duchess or princess?”
“Only the bluest blood,” he said, with a shameless smile. “I am the eldest son, after all.”
“Eldest son? So you have brothers?”
“One.”
“Is he as horrible as you?” she teased.
“Hopefully.” His smile faded. “I haven’t seen him since I left home. Or my sister.”
Ardis sipped her absinthe and rolled the bitterness on her tongue. She waited for him to speak, but he merely stared at the ceiling. Feeling a bit jittery, she swigged the rest of her absinthe and reached for the bottle.
“Let me refill your glass,” she said.
Wendel glanced sideways at her, then finished off his absinthe and handed her the glass. He watched as she rested the absinthe spoon over his glass, balanced a sugar cube there, and twisted the cap off the absinthe bottle.
“Backwards,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“You did it backwards. Add the absinthe first, then the sugar, then the water.”
“Oh.”
Wendel swung his legs over the couch and leaned against her back. He snaked his arms past her waist and reached for the glass.
“Like so,” he said, his voice tickling the nape of her neck.
Distracted by the heat of his skin, she turned in his arms. He stared down at her with a glint in his eyes. She was struck by just how much taller he was, and just how masculine he felt against her. Blood whooshed in her ears as she brushed her fingertips across his bare chest, feeling the scars crisscrossing his skin.
“Why so many scars?” she whispered, with a shy glance into his eyes.
“I have been hurt many times.”
Wendel leaned over her shoulder, and she heard the clink of metal on glass, then the gurgle of absinthe pouring from the bottle.
“You must be thirsty,” she said. “You want the absinthe more than me.”
His lips twitched. “I find you infinitely more charming. But I’m not seducing you, remember? My intentions are innocent.”
“Innocent?” she said, with a glance downward. “You look guilty to me.”
He couldn’t hide his nakedness, or the shadows in his eyes when he smiled.
“If only you knew,” he said.
She shivered at his words, and wondered if she wanted to know the truth about him. But she couldn’t keep trusting him blindly. Not when he wouldn’t talk to her about the Order of the Asphodel, or about her father.
A penny-sized scar puckered the skin above his collarbone. Her fingers lingered there.
“What is the story behind this scar?” she said.
Wendel laughed, surprisingly, and the sound reverberated in her chest.
“That particular scar,” he said, “was from a duel before the Hex.”
She flicked her eyebrows upward. “You were shot?”
“I lost the duel.” He rubbed the scar absently. “I can’t always be amazing.”
“There must be more to that story.”
He snorted. “In the infinite wisdom of my youth, I provoked a spy from the Russian Empire and challenged him to a duel. I had been sent to interrogate, then assassinate him. Rather than go to all the trouble of knifing him in a dark alleyway, I decided to take care of things in a duel. It sounded more sporting at the time.”
“A duel to the death?” she said.
“No. First blood. But that didn’t stop the spy from trying to kill me.”
She arched her eyebrows. “Damn.”
“He must have realized who I was, and that I didn’t need him alive to ask my questions.”
Wendel poured ice water into the absinthe, his smile equally as cold.
“Conveniently,” he said, “the dead never lie.”
Ardis felt like she should muster some disgust, but she couldn’t convince herself that this was all that different than her own assassinations. He had a point. His necromancy could be gruesomely efficient.
Wendel retreated, the glass of absinthe held high, and waved at the couch.
“Shall we talk about something other than my scars?” he said. “As much as I love to relive my failures, I had other plans.”
“Failures? Surely they can’t all be your fault.”
“True.” He tilted his head, his eyes full of darkness. “Please, sit.”
She sank onto the couch and stared up at him. He turned his back on her and flexed his shoulders forward, his skin tautening. Stark white scars
raked across his shoulder blades and ran down the length of his back.
“The scar below my left shoulder blade,” he said. “See it?”
“Which?”
“The thickest one. About as wide as a dagger.”
“A… dagger?”
“Yes.” He sipped his absinthe, then laughed hoarsely. “Stabbed me in the back.”
She shrank back on the couch. “You survived?”
“Backstabs are easier to survive than you might think.”
“Now I have to know,” she said. “Who stabbed you in the back?”
His shoulders stiffened, and he didn’t say anything for a moment.
“An assassin from the Order of the Asphodel,” he said.
She sucked in her breath. “They tried to assassinate you?”
“That’s not what I meant.” He glanced back at her and grimaced. “This bastard didn’t like me, that’s all. Never did, once he found out that I was a necromancer. He always thought I was overshadowing him.”
She chose her words carefully. “He was one of your colleagues.”
“Exactly. The moment they healed me, I hunted him down and finished him.”
She cocked her head. “Healed?”
“Oh, temporal magic. Like Konstantin’s technomancy.” He shrugged. “To be honest, I have lost count of how many times I returned a little worse for the wear, and they patched me up and sent me right back out again.”
“I wouldn’t call a backstabbing a little worse for the wear.”
“You grow accustomed to pain.” He drained his glass. “As I’m sure you know.”
Ardis pressed her hand to her neck and looked across the room at Wendel. She couldn’t stop staring at his back. The assassin’s dagger had left its mark, yes, but most of his scars were far older, far deeper. They slanted across his back in parallel lines, like a tiger had clawed his skin, though she suspected the ugly truth.
“Whipping scars,” she said, under her breath.
He glanced sideways at her. “Pardon?”
“You were whipped. Weren’t you?”
“Obviously,” he said.
His voice was rough from alcohol or emotion. He poured himself a shot of absinthe and drank it straight, then grimaced.
“When?” she said softly.
Wendel set down his glass and stood with his hands clenched at his sides. His skin looked paler than usual. Uncertainty shadowed his face.
