by Karen Kincy
She leaned forward and rested her elbows on his desk.
“I was under the impression,” she murmured, “that this was a professional establishment. One that would have already mastered the art of discretion. I left one of my valuables in the room. Once I have it back, I’ll leave.”
The concierge stared at her with the coolest look she had ever seen.
“Very well,” he said. “You may borrow the spare key if you return it at once.”
She smiled at him as she folded her fingers around the key, then walked briskly to the staircase. Once he was out of sight, she clung to the railing, her lungs burning for air. She hoped this sickness wouldn’t last much longer.
But she didn’t have the luxury of time.
Panting, Ardis hauled herself upstairs. By the time she reached the room, she had to trail her hand along the wall to keep herself steady. A maid narrowed her eyes and strode past, her heels clicking on the floor.
Well, maybe she just looked drunk. That was an easy enough cover story.
The teeth of the key pressed into the palm of her hand. She turned the key in the lock, but the lock didn’t click. Heart thudding, she gripped the doorknob. What if Wendel had escaped already and returned to the hotel? It had to be no more than a wish, but the hope made Ardis giddy. She turned the knob and swung open the door.
A man stood staring out the window. His pale hair glinted in the sunlight.
Her breath caught in her throat. Hands shaking, she backed away. He wasn’t alone. Two men in gray cloaks flanked him.
“Stop,” the man said, his voice soft and husky.
Ardis glimpsed Chun Yi lying carelessly on the couch—not where she had left it, or ever would—and gritted her teeth. She couldn’t abandon her sword, but she doubted she was quicker than the assassins, especially today.
“Don’t you already have Wendel?” she said.
The man turned around. “Why do you ask?”
Ardis stepped backward, shaking all over. Maybe she was delirious? Maybe dreaming?
The man’s gunmetal gray eyes gleamed with fierce intelligence. He had cropped hair and a beard like the devil’s. His tanned, battered face looked like it had been sculpted by years of hard weather and harder fighting.
Her father.
Of course he was with the Order of the Asphodel. Hadn’t Wendel admitted that, at least?
“You knew Wendel,” said the man. It wasn’t a question.
“Are you—?” Her voice failed, and she tried again. “Are you Thorsten Magnusson?”
The man raised one scarred eyebrow.
“Who are you?” he said.
Ardis’s knees threatened to betray her. She clutched the doorframe and tried not to seem so weak, though she suspected it was far too late for that. How helpless she must look, unarmed, breathless, in this oversized coat.
She forced herself to meet his eyes. “I have a photograph of you.”
The man who might be Thorsten narrowed his eyes.
“Do you?” he said. “Who sent you?”
“No one sent me.”
Ardis fumbled for the chain at her neck and lifted the locket from the neck of her gown. The brass heart was warm from her skin.
“Look,” she said. “Just look.”
The pale-haired man stepped forward and took the locket. The chain looked tiny in his hand. He tugged off his glove and wedged his thumbnail into the locket. As soon as he saw the photographs, he looked back to Ardis. He had an expression of sharp scrutiny in his eyes, one that served to hide his emotions well.
“Who gave you this?” he said.
She sucked in a slow breath. “My mother.”
He didn’t blink. He curled his fingers around the locket and tilted his head.
“Impossible,” he said. “I will ask you once again. Who sent you?”
“I already told you.” Ardis said. “No one sent me. I came here looking for Wendel.”
“Why were you with Wendel?”
She blushed, and his mouth hardened.
“I see,” he said. “You may prove valuable.”
Valuable? Anger uncoiled inside of Ardis. She wouldn’t stand here and be judged by this stranger, even if he might be her father.
“Is that what you think of women?” she said, and she bared her teeth. “Leo?”
One of the assassins stepped forward. “Sir?”
The pale-haired man raised his hand to halt the assassin.
“No,” he said to Ardis. “You know my name is not Leo.”
She lowered her head. She couldn’t look at him any longer.
“Thorsten Magnusson,” she said with cold confidence, “I’m your daughter.”
Thorsten reacted with remarkable calm. Like he didn’t care at all.
“I would like to speak with you,” he said.
When Ardis let go of the doorframe, she couldn’t disguise how her legs shook. Her stomach felt sour. She didn’t want to fight this argument. She suspected the winner would walk away with only disappointment.
A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Are you well?”
She shook her head, since pretending was pointless. And he looked like a man who might take pity on a vulnerable woman.
“I was in a fire last night,” she said. “Breathed in too much smoke.”
Thorsten’s eyes glinted. “You were there? At the Sofiensaal?”
“I was.”
He glanced at the assassins. “Leave us for a moment.”
“Yes, sir.”
Their obedience prodded Ardis with worry. If Thorsten outranked these assassins, how high did he rank within the Order of the Asphodel?
“Please, sit,” he said.
Ardis lowered herself into a chair by the window. Thorsten dropped onto the couch. His stance gave her the impression of a tiger who had returned from a successful hunt, and was now feeling indulgent toward his prey.
He had, after all, caught Wendel.
“What is your name?” Thorsten said, his words far gentler than she had expected.
“Ardis.” She looked down at her hands. “I go by Ardis now.”
“Now?”
She glanced into his eyes. “After I left America.”
“Why did you leave?”
Might as well tell the truth.
“I killed a man,” Ardis said.
Thorsten flicked his eyebrows upward. “Why?”
“Self-defense.”
“And then?”
“I left America.” Ardis glanced at Chun Yi. “My mother gave me enough money to travel to Europe, where she said I could find my father.” She glanced into his eyes. “I don’t know why she thought it was so important for me to find you. We did fine without you then. And I’m doing fine without you now.”
His mouth tightened, and an emotion darted through his eyes too fast to name.
“I know I was never your father,” he said, “and I never intended to be. It would have been impossible for me to stay.”
“Why?” she said, the question that had haunted her for years.
“My life is with the Order of the Asphodel.”
She held her breath, then let it out in a sigh. “Wendel said he knew you.”
Thorsten reached across the short distance between them and placed his hand over her own. His hand felt rough and warm. Like she had imagined her father’s touch would feel, when she was a child, when she was lonely.
She blinked back tears and fought the feeling of being small and helpless.
“I know him,” Thorsten muttered. “I know that he is a sad and twisted man.”
Ardis jerked away from his touch, but he trapped her hand under his.
“He has lied to you,” he said. “I can see it in your eyes. And I know that he would not have brought you this far with the truth.”
All of Wendel’s words rang in her ears like a deafening silence.
“I know that he is a necromancer,” Ardis said, “and that he was born a Prince of Prussia. I know that he was running fr
om the Order of the Asphodel because of what they have done to him. That he wants revenge.”
Thorsten looked at her without judgment in his eyes.
“What have they done?” he said.
She glanced away, unsettled by his calmness.
“I saw his scars,” she said.
“And you believed the stories he told you?”
“Yes.”
“How long have you known Wendel?”
She thought back. “No more than two weeks.”
Thorsten leaned back and crossed his legs.
“That would be long enough,” he said, “for him to gain your trust. Perhaps more.”
Her face burned with shame. She couldn’t pretend she hadn’t shared her bed with Wendel. Especially not in this very hotel room.
Ardis clenched her jaw. “Are you saying I’m a fool?”
“Not at all.” Thorsten softened his voice. “Even among assassins, Wendel was known to be remarkably arrogant and ruthless.”
Arrogant, she couldn’t deny. And ruthless…
“Do you know how many men he killed in Vienna alone?” he said.
“Nine,” she said. “At least.”
“He has killed many more in his lifetime.”
“By many more, what do you mean?”
“Wendel was one of our best. By his own hand, perhaps ninety. By his undead minions, more like nine hundred.”
Ardis locked gazes with him. “I don’t believe you.”
“He wants to kill me,” Thorsten said mildly. “He told me himself.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “He wants to kill all of us.”
“Maybe he has good reason.”
Thorsten’s eyes looked glacial. “You will regret saying that.”
She bit the inside of her cheek, then climbed to her feet.
“I’m done here,” she said. “This family reunion didn’t go the way I thought it would.”
“Ardis.”
Thorsten stood, and she saw herself reflected in the stubborn set of his jaw.
“I won’t be in Vienna much longer,” he said. “I return to Constantinople soon.”
“With Wendel?” she said.
His eyes narrowed. “Of course.”
“Where is he now?”
Thorsten merely shook his head. “I realize you may have grown attached to the necromancer, but you need to let him go. He belongs back with the Order, in Constantinople, where we can help him.”
Ardis laughed bleakly. She suspected their brand of help constituted torture.
“I should go,” she said.
“Before you leave,” Thorsten said, “take your locket.”
He cupped the necklace in his hand. Careful not to touch him, she retrieved the locket and dropped the chain back over her head.
“And my clothes?” She waved at her borrowed coat. “I’m still wearing a ball gown.”
Thorsten paused, then nodded. His face could have been carved from granite. She didn’t want him touching her clothes, so she strode to where she had left them, folded on the bed, and bundled them into her arms.
Chun Yi lay on the couch. Almost within reach.
“Take it,” Thorsten said.
Was that a threat?
The muscles in her legs tensed, but she held her ground. Thorsten handed her Chun Yi in its scabbard, his face blank, his eyes gleaming. When her fingers closed around the pommel, he held her wrist with his free hand.
“Ardis,” he murmured, “I’m sorry to disappoint.”
A prickling shiver crawled down Ardis’s spine. She yanked her arm free.
“What a nice sentiment,” she said.
To her own ears, she sounded cavalier, but she wondered if he could see how her eyes stung with tears. Thorsten held the door open. She turned back to look at him, to thank him with a nod, and he looked at her with an intense stare.
“Goodbye,” he said.
Ardis turned her back on her father, her shoulders stiff, her head high. She heard the soft click of the door. Then she sagged against the wall and pressed her fingertips to her eyes, feeling her hopes shatter under the weight of reality.
~
Evening fell on Vienna. The dying sun’s fingers slid down the sky. Walking through the streets alone filled Ardis with a vague paranoia. She tugged her borrowed coat tighter around herself as the wind tossed her hair into her eyes.
Something gnawed in the pit of her stomach. Loneliness? Despair?
She breathed in through her nose and touched the pommel of Chun Yi. Now wasn’t the time to lose focus. She needed to find Wendel.
Dusk softened the hard angles of the Hall of the Archmages. She leaned against the doors and slipped into the cool silence. Her footsteps echoed as she walked briskly to Konstantin’s office. She rapped on the door.
“Who is it?” called a muffled voice.
“Ardis,” she said.
The door swung open, and Konstantin stood there, blinking like someone who had spent too much time alone in the dark. His curly hair had been mussed to a spectacular degree, a pair of aviator goggles pushed up over his head.
“I see you found your sword,” he said, and he smiled.
“I did,” she said flatly.
His smile faded. “Is something the matter?”
Ardis bit her lip. She didn’t know Konstantin well enough to want to tell him the whole story about her father.
“I’m a little tired,” she said.
He cocked his head, took a breath, and then shook his head.
“Better come inside,” he said. “I have something to tell you.”
Ardis crossed the room, sat on the couch, and hunched with her elbows on her knees. Konstantin shut the door.
“Wendel is still in Vienna,” he said, “and I know how to find him.”
His voice was muffled by the shadowy stillness of the office.
Ardis almost agreed with him, then realized she wouldn’t have known about Wendel without meeting Thorsten Magnusson first.
“How?” she said, keeping her face blank.
“The automatons,” he said simply.
“The automatons in Project Lazarus?”
He glanced at the door, then dragged a chair closer to her and sat.
“It’s brilliant!” he murmured, his eyes bright. “The technomancy involved in the automatons’ control systems was inspired by Wendel’s own necromancy. Specifically, his ability to control the dead remotely.”
“Wendel told me,” she said. “Called it really clever magic.”
Konstantin blushed. “We have a lot of work ahead of us. Still getting problems with interference. The technomancy is, at best, only a crude approximation of Wendel’s magic. A necromancer can control an army of the dead as a legion, or command each man independently. We still don’t have the level of precision required to pilot more than one automaton. Commands sent to one interfere with the others.”
She chewed on the inside of her cheek. “I don’t see how this helps us find Wendel.”
“Ardis, the interference. Each of the automatons responds to Wendel’s necromancy. We can rewire the control systems to find him.”
“Like a compass?” she said.
He broke into a smile. “Exactly.”
It was brilliant. Ardis felt herself floating from a dark place.
“How long will it take?” she said.
“I already started,” he said, and he grinned. “There’s only one problem.”
She dug her nails into her palms. “What?”
“I need a pilot.”
The way he was looking at her, with that glint in his eyes, made her mouth go dry.
“Me?” she said. “But Margareta will murder me.”
“Please.” Konstantin sniffed. “I’m the technomancer who’s loaning out a top secret automaton to go rescue a necromancer.”
Ardis laughed. “Good point.”
“Can I take that as a yes?”
She tugged her jacket straight. “I can�
��t say no.”
The archmage sprang to his feet, and she hoped she wouldn’t regret this. But at the same time, she was glad to have any hope at all.
~
The Academy of Technomancy resided in a monumental brick building that looked as if it might house something as mundane as a bank or government office, if the place didn’t always smell peculiarly like a thunderstorm. And in the evening, Ardis saw the windows flicker with tiny wisps of escaped magic.
The archmages weren’t officially part of the University of Vienna, but they had the political clout to treat the campus like a playground. It wasn’t so shocking, then, that the Academy of Technomancy had burned to the ground after a magical containment issue a few years back. The laboratories had just been rebuilt.
“This is it?” Ardis said.
Konstantin nodded and held a finger to his lips. He veered from the main entrance to the Academy and walked down an alleyway. The archmage stopped outside an unmarked door and fumbled in his pocket before finding a key ring.
“A key?” Ardis said.
Konstantin glanced at her with wide eyes.
“Seems a little simple,” she said, “for security purposes.”
“Oh,” he said, and he shrugged.
He unlocked the door and stepped inside. She followed him into a dimly lit concrete stairwell that spiraled down. The rapping of their shoes echoed. It smelled like mildew and stale air, the concrete walls slicked with damp.
At the bottom of the stairwell, Konstantin unlocked another door and held it open.
“Ladies first,” he said, with a quick smile.
With a nod, Ardis walked through the door and into the underground laboratory.
She was struck by the length of the room, which stretched out of sight, and the height of the ceiling, which was at least ten feet. Rows upon rows of stark electric lights stretched overhead. Around a dozen men and women in white coats bustled around the laboratory, tinkering with a menagerie of technomancy gadgets.
She lingered by the door, afraid to blunder too far into the busy room.
“Damn!” she muttered to herself. “This is Project Lazarus?”
“Impressed?” Konstantin said, startling her with how close he stood.
Ardis pretended like she wasn’t on edge. She paced along the wall, trying to orient herself in the laboratory.
