by Karen Kincy
“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.
“I was sixteen.”
“Why?”
He shut his eyes, and shook his head. “It isn’t something I wish to remember.”
She crossed the room and touched his shoulder, her fingers feather-light. He looked at her, and his eyes were dark and glittering.
“Please,” she said. “You don’t need to hide your scars from me. I want to know you.”
“Ardis,” he said. “You are one of the few who has ever truly known me. And I would not want you to remember me that way.”
When she stepped closer, he retreated from her touch.
“I would rather know the truth,” she said.
“The truth of my life,” he said, “will die with me, as it does with us all. And my memories will fade as my bones grow old, and I will live on only in the memories of those who cared that I should not be forgotten.”
Ardis stared fiercely at him, the threat of tears prickling her eyes.
“That’s such a selfish kind of sadness,” she said.
His mouth dropped. “Selfish?”
“I feel terrible looking at your scars,” she said, “but you leave me to guess at who hurt you, and why. It was the Order of the Asphodel, wasn’t it? Though I’m sure you hate them for much more than a whipping.”
“Correct,” he said, looking anywhere but her eyes.
She shook her head. “Don’t plan to die and leave me with lies.”
Wendel took his glass and strolled unsteadily to the couch. He stumbled into the table on his way there, then glowered at the glass in his hand.
“A bit too much absinthe,” he muttered.
Ardis sank onto a chair opposite him, her arms rigid at her sides.
“The Order whipped me,” he said, “for my disobedience. Until that day, I had obeyed them. I practiced my necromancy on animals. On cats, at first, since they learned that was how I started. They killed the creatures for me.”
He bared his teeth at the memory, the lines of his body taut with tension.
“This was in Constantinople?” Ardis said.
“The city was beautiful,” he said. “It gave me the best memories of my childhood.”
But he said it in such a hollow voice she found it hard to believe him.
“Can you believe,” he said, “I ever hoped animals would satisfy their morbid curiosity?”
She could, if only because she could imagine so clearly how he had lost his innocence.
Wendel stared into the distance. “Inevitably, they brought me a dead man. He had been hanged.” He rubbed his neck as if remembering bruises. “My magic was strong enough, at the time, but my mind… I blacked out. When I refused to revive the next dead man, I was whipped. Severely. They couldn’t hold my hand to a cadaver’s skin and force the necromancy out of me, but they could force me to obey them.”
Ardis shuddered. “You were sixteen?”
He laughed utterly without humor. “I was their prodigy.”
“And since then…?”
Wendel tilted his head, a look of cruel scorn on his face.
“What do you think? I killed and I brought them back. I killed them all, Ardis, and the Order only had to ask me. I am exactly what they wanted me to be. The only thing good about me is that I’m a good necromancer.” He spread his arms with a mocking laugh. “Better than good. What can I say? I have my pride.”
Ardis challenged him with her stare. “You don’t sound proud to me.”
“They didn’t suffer,” he said. “I killed them as mercifully as I could. Most never even saw me until I revived them.”
“Why?” she said. “Why bring them back, after you killed them?”
“The Order wasn’t done with them.” He narrowed his eyes. “Are we done? I don’t want to talk about this all night.”
“Of course,” she said flatly.
Wendel grabbed the absinthe and looked like he wanted to drink straight from the bottle. Then he shook his head, and reached for his glass. His hands trembled as he poured himself yet another drink, and he spilled the liquor.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to be so brusque with you.”
When Ardis stood, her legs felt loose and liquid. She had drunk only one glass of absinthe, so she blamed it on the adrenaline in her blood.
“Come here,” she said.
He tilted his head to look at her. “Come where?”
“To bed with me.”
He frowned. “Forgive me if I’m not in the mood for—”
“I want to be with you. Unless you want to be alone.”
“No,” he said, the word small and quiet.
Taking his hand, she led him into the bedroom. She let her bathrobe slither to her feet and slipped under the sheets. He lay beside her and let out a shuddering sigh. She closed her eyes and rested her head against his chest.
“Thank you,” she said.
“For?”
“Telling me.”
He breathed out. Tension lingered in his muscles.
“You know I would never leave you,” she whispered.
“Ardis.”
His voice snagged on her name, and silence filled the space between them.
“After Constantinople,” he said, “you may wish for never.”
Ardis shivered. The heat of his skin wasn’t enough to negate the icy fingers of dread. She pulled back to look him in the eyes.
“That’s my call,” she said.
He had a little shadow of a smile. “You sound so confident. Borderline arrogant.”
“You should know.”
He laughed, and she kissed him, the bittersweet taste of absinthe on his mouth.
EIGHTEEN
In the soft gray hush of morning, Ardis sat by a window in the hotel restaurant and watched rain drizzle from the sky.
Wendel hunched over the table, sipped his coffee, and winced.
“Better?” she said.
He squinted at her. “I would appreciate an assassin right now. Put me out of my misery.”
She tried not to smile. The absinthe had left her with a slight headache, though she hadn’t been nearly so ambitious last night.
“You look terrible,” she said.
“Thank you.” Frowning, he stirred more sugar into his coffee. “Last night…”
“Yes?”
“I—I might have said too much. Blame it on the devil of drink.”
She sipped her chamomile tea. “After that much absinthe, I’m amazed you stayed awake for as long as you did.”
He glanced into her eyes. “You asked about my scars.”
Her fingers tightened around her teacup. “I did. Thank you, again, for telling me.”
/> “And after I told you…?”
She realized, then, what he meant. “You don’t remember?”
“No.”
Quietly, he straightened the silverware. She reached across the table and stilled his hand. When he looked at her, she smiled.
“You didn’t talk much more that night,” she said.
He tilted his head, a gleam in his eyes. “Should I regret not remembering?”
She snorted. “We were naked in bed together, but it wasn’t that scandalous. You fell asleep. I didn’t want to wake you.”
“Ah.” He smirked. “So you need some more scandal tonight.”
Her face burning, she returned his smirk and steered the conversation in a different direction. “You never did hear my secrets.”
“Oh? You have secrets?”
She raised her eyebrows at his teasing skepticism, then narrowed her eyes.
“Please,” she said. “Are you actually that arrogant? The world’s supply of mystery doesn’t belong to you and you alone.”
He leaned back and laughed. “I’m calling your bluff.”
“Go ahead.” She swigged some more tea. “My mother was a courtesan.”
“And you?” he said, still laughing. “What do I owe you for last night?”
Ardis’s stomach clenched, and she barely stopped herself from dumping the pitcher of water on the table all over his head.
“Clever, Wendel,” she growled through gritted teeth. “Don’t be such a bastard.”
“You can’t be serious.”
She glared at him.
“You are?” Wendel sucked in his breath through his teeth. “Please don’t kill me.”
“I’m thinking about it,” she deadpanned.
He studied her very intently. “How did…? Did you…?”
She smiled mysteriously.
“You never asked,” she said. “You have no idea where I’m from or why I’m here. Weren’t you even a little curious?”
He tilted his head downward and tried to look innocent.
“I may have been distracted,” he said, “by your skill with a sword. And your beauty.”
Blushing, she rolled her eyes. “Flatter me all you want, Wendel, but I still won’t tell you my secrets unless you behave yourself.”
He folded his hands on the table. “I told you my secrets.”
Not all of them, but she didn’t bother to point that out.
“I’m from San Francisco, California,” Ardis said. “When my mother came from China, she started a brothel and trained some Chinese girls to be sophisticated courtesans. Skilled in the arts of music, dance, and seduction.”
Wendel leaned closer, his eyes like saucers. “And you?”
She coughed. “God, Wendel, don’t look so eager. You said it yourself. I’m skilled with a sword. Not singing and dancing.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “When did it end? When you killed that man?”
Ardis finished her tea and put down the teacup with a decisive clink.
“He mistook me for one of the brothel girls,” she said. “No matter how many times I said no.” Her mouth felt dry, and she swallowed hard. “He threw money at me. Literally. Like that paid for what he tried next.”
Wendel never looked away from her eyes. “Ardis,” he said softly.
Under the scrutiny of his eyes, she flushed and stared at her fingernails.
Ardis hadn’t told anybody but her mother the whole story. She wasn’t sure she wanted to keep talking. But she could feel the unspoken words crammed in her throat. Choking her. She breathed in and squared her shoulders.
“You can’t blame me for killing him,” she said, and she sounded blasé.
“I don’t,” Wendel said.
She cleared her throat. “I could keep talking, but I don’t think any of it would be appropriate breakfast conversation.”
He dipped his head. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”
When their gazes met, she saw the worry in his eyes. And she understood exactly why he had been so hostile to her questions.
What had he said on the train? I have no use for your pity.
He probably wasn’t even pitying her. But she didn’t think she could accept his concern, or if she could acknowledge her weakness.
Ardis sucked in a slow breath and armored herself with sarcasm.
“Thanks,” she said. “I feel evil now.”
He squinted. “Why?”
“For interrogating you last night.”
“Ah.” He shrugged, and his smile looked real. “That was hardly evil of you.”
Ardis bit into a slice of toast and blushed at the loud crunch. Luckily, Wendel was a master of changing the subject. He spotted a newspaper abandoned on the table next to them, leaned over, and snatched the paper.
“‘Diesel Presumed Dead,’” he read, and he snorted.
She cringed. “Please tell me they didn’t mention me.”
“You dodged that bullet.” A crease appeared between his eyebrows.
“What?” she said.
He read another headline. “‘Balkan Powder Keg Ready to Blow.’”
She buttered another slice of toast. “Optimistic of them.”
“Austria wants to investigate the Black Hand, but Serbia isn’t cooperating.”
“That’s not good.”
“An understatement. If Russia swoops in like Serbia’s guardian angel—”
“Or bully of a big brother,” she said.
“Hex or no Hex,” he said, “war is inevitable.”
Wendel tossed aside the newspaper and glanced around the restaurant.
“What time is it?” he said.
“I don’t know. Why?”
He shook his head and flagged down a waiter. “The time?”
“Half past nine, sir,” said the waiter.
Wendel dismissed him with a wave of his hand, then shoved aside his coffee.
“What is it?” Ardis said.
“I have to go.” He sneered at nothing in particular. “I’m already late.”
She toyed with the butter knife. “For?”
He shoved his chair from the table and stood. Wincing, he touched his fingertips to his temple and leaned against the chair.
“I have an appointment.”
“With who?”
His wince deepened. “Konstantin.”
“What does Konstantin want?”
“The archmage wouldn’t say.” He rubbed his forehead. “His attempts at secrecy are more obnoxious than anything else.”
Excitement hopped inside her like a cricket. “Maybe it’s about Diesel.”
“Maybe.”
Ardis crammed the last bit of toast into her mouth and brushed crumbs from her hands. She waited for Wendel to pay the bill, then followed him into the street. Wind whirled down the street, scattering rain into their faces.
“This shouldn’t take more than an hour or two,” he said.
“Wendel. It might be Diesel. I’m coming.”
He sighed and muttered what sounded like a German swearword she hadn’t learned yet, then started walking down the street.
“Any idea where the Dirty Boar is?” he said.
“The Dirty Boar? Oh, that’s a brewpub.”
“A brewpub? Fantastic. Konstantin is an idiot.”
Ardis glanced sideways at him. “Don’t tell me you don’t like beer. Anyway, it should be only five or six blocks from here.”
“Brewpubs are hardly private,” he muttered, “if this actually is something secret.”
She tilted her head. “Is this part of the three days, or is this extra?”
“Three days?”
“You told Konstantin you could only spare three days of your time.”
Wendel heaved a sigh. “This is extra.”
She couldn’t hide her curiosity. “Too involved with Project Lazarus?”
“Something like that.”
They hurried through the rain, which chilled to ha
il and rattled on the roofs. By the time they reached the Dirty Boar, Wendel looked even worse than before, if at all possible. He shook hailstones from his bedraggled hair.
“Inside,” he said. “Let’s make this quick.”
Ardis stepped into the Dirty Boar and shrugged off her coat. She hadn’t spent too much time in this brewpub before, mostly because it didn’t hit that sweet spot between cheap beer and decent clientele. The beer here was a little too watery to cost that much coin, and the people drinking it always eyed her lecherously.
“Over half an hour late,” Wendel said. “Hopefully Konstantin gave up and went home.”
But the necromancer was out of luck. The archmage perched on a barstool, splitting open hazelnuts with a nutcracker.
“Archmage.” Wendel raised his voice. “Archmage!”
Konstantin swiveled on his stool. “Ah! There you are, Wendel. And Ardis!”
She waved at the archmage. She could have sworn that he was already tipsy, though he didn’t have a drink in front of him.
“Back from another mission?” Konstantin said. “Margareta been keeping you busy?”
“Not at the moment,” Ardis muttered.
“Pardon?”
She shrugged. “I’m on leave for three weeks. Margareta’s suggestion.”
He popped a hazelnut into his mouth. “Very nice!”
Ardis started to correct him, then decided not to tell him the story about Diesel.
Konstantin fumbled with the nutcracker. “Though that does beg the question. If Margareta didn’t send you, why are you here?”
“She’s with me,” Wendel said, with a sideway glance at the archmage.
“Ah.” A blush crept into Konstantin’s cheeks. “I see.”
“Why would Margareta send me?” Ardis said.
Konstantin laughed nervously, and tossed aside a hazelnut too tough to crack.
“You know Margareta,” he said. “Always has a finger in every pot. Hard to cook up anything she doesn’t know about. Especially if she doesn’t approve of the ingredients.” He grimaced. “That metaphor got away from me.”
“It did.” Ardis smiled. “But I know what you mean.”
Wendel sidled up to the bar and caught a barmaid’s eye. “A shot of vodka, please.”
The barmaid nodded, then leaned in front of Konstantin and bared her cleavage.
“Sure you don’t want anything with those hazelnuts?” she said.
