Specters of Nemesis:

by Karen Kincy

  “Ardis?” His voice sounded husky.

  “Bathroom.”

  She tugged on a robe. Her mind foggy, she went through the motions of waking up. When she returned to their cabin, she found Wendel buttoning his shirt. Darkness shadowed his eyes. Had he slept? How late had he returned?

  “Christ,” he said. “Dwarves are mining my skull.”

  “Your fault,” she said, without sympathy.

  He winced. “Indeed.”

  Once dressed, they went to the dining room of the Gannet. Squinting, Wendel shielded his eyes from the daylight with a menu.

  “Coffee, please,” Ardis said to the waiter.

  “The whole pot,” Wendel added.

  She raised her eyebrows at him. “You are your own worst enemy.”

  “Literally or figuratively?”

  “Both. Though you abandoned your twin.”

  After the waiter poured them both coffee, Wendel blew steam from his cup. “I thought about what you said last night.”

  “What part?”

  “That I had too much to drink.” A smile touched his mouth, just for a moment. “And that I should protect you.”

  She sipped her coffee, nearly scalding herself. “Better than brooding.”

  “I often contemplate death and ravens,” he said. “My wardrobe is completely black.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You can be a cheerful necromancer.”

  “Not with this hangover.”

  “Still your fault.”

  His expression sobered. “If I wanted to protect you, and our unborn child, I would need to find the man who wants to kill you.”

  The coffee provided her with an excuse to pause. “Where would you start?”

  “Berlin.”

  “Why?”

  “Nemesis takes orders from Berlin. If I interrogate a spymaster or two, I will discover who intends to cause you harm.”

  She shivered despite the warmth of the coffee. “You want to kick the hornet’s nest?”

  His mouth curled into something between a sneer and a smile. “It’s my specialty.”

  “God, Wendel.”

  “I’m open to suggestions.”

  Somehow, she doubted that. “Stay alive?”

  He sighed. “No promises.”

  “I won’t be there to save you.”

  “I know.” Though he said it lightly, morning couldn’t chase the darkness from his eyes.

  Fifteen

  On the observation deck, Ardis watched the shadow of the zeppelin ripple over the waves. Sunset gilded the sky and the water. Beyond the shimmering Atlantic, the emerald edge of England peeked over the horizon. Wendel lingered at her side, his eyes narrowed against the light, his hands clasped behind his back.

  “We nearly left it behind,” she said.

  “England?”

  “The war.”

  His eyebrows descended. “You will be safe in London.”

  “While you go to Germany.”

  “If the frontlines have reached Berlin, we have bigger problems on our hands.”

  She fought the dread curdling her stomach. “Wendel, we shouldn’t have left the others. My mother must be sick with worry.”

  He glanced sideways at her. “Telegraph with caution.”

  “Why? You think Nemesis is eavesdropping?”

  “Germany certainly has been intercepting cables across the Atlantic.”

  She gritted her teeth. “But we still don’t know why I’m enemy number one.”

  “Leave that to me.” His smile looked colder than ice.

  Engines humming, the Gannet soared over the coast of England. More passengers filled the observation deck. A slim lady in a fur coat jostled Ardis’s elbow before smiling an apology. A man in a fine suit joined the lady, his fingertips on her wrist. They looked like newlyweds; they looked infinitely richer and happier.

  Ardis swallowed hard, her throat in a knot. Why was she even jealous?

  The lady leaned toward the windows, her hands on the railing, her skin milky white. She smiled at her husband, a quick pretty little smile, before averting her eyes with deference. A pampered life had to be easier than the one Ardis had.

  Too bad she had already failed at everything that made her a lady.

  Even if she had been born with milky white skin, her hands were bloodstained more often than not. She didn’t own a single fur coat, or the kind of prestige that would allow her to walk into a store selling fur coats. Maybe she could find something geared toward mercenaries, but it sure as hell wouldn’t be fashionable.

  She stared at the ruby ring on her finger. Pretending to be a wife.

  “I arranged for a hotel,” Wendel said, his eyes focused on the distance.

  “Where?” She wondered if he would even stay a single night.

  “The Savoy.”

  The hotel in London. Her jaw dropped before she caught herself. She had walked past, once or twice, if only to gape at the luxury.

  “How many nights?” she said.

  He kept his gaze on the horizon. “A week, to start, though I have an account.” As if he were discussing the mildness of the weather.

  She glanced at the wealthy couple, sure they were eavesdropping. “Darling, why don’t we return to the dining room?”

  He looked at her with curiosity in his cool green eyes. “Whatever you desire. Darling.”

  Though he said it with a hint of sarcasm, she couldn’t pretend the endearment didn’t sound delicious in his honey-gravel voice.

  In the dining room, the clink of silverware on china punctuated the endless drone of the engines. Ardis and Wendel hadn’t eaten dinner yet, so she found a table in the corner and smoothed out the napkin on her lap.

  “Wendel,” she said, “where the hell did you get enough money for the Savoy?”

  His mouth thinned into a smile. “Sweetest, I looted a few jewels from Königsberg Castle before the Russians could.”

  “You rescued jewels but not your family?”

  “One of these things fits inside my pockets.” His smile bent into a sneer. “It’s remarkably easy to pawn Prussian regalia.”

  She shook her head. “God, did you sell the jewels in New York?”

  “Bank accounts don’t travel through time.”

  “Now I feel even more guilty about staying in the Savoy.”

  “Why?” He looked genuinely perplexed. “You deserve a little luxury.”

  “Yes, but your family’s jewels–”

  “My jewels. If they hadn’t disinherited me.”

  “You’re still angry about that?”

  “Always.” He flashed her a grin. “Come to think of it, I haven’t touched this Königsberg Castle. I could steal the jewels twice.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Her profanity earned her a sideways look from one of the waiters. “Sorry. Menu, please?”

  “Hopefully the service will be better in the Savoy,” Wendel muttered.

  She kicked him under the table before taking a menu from the waiter. “Thank you.”

  “I don’t know how long I will be in Berlin on business. Take the time to relax. Buy yourself whatever you desire.”

  “I wish you hadn’t left my sword behind in New York.”

  He arched his eyebrows. “This isn’t a sword kind of trip.”

  “No fighting?” She pretended to be peeved.

  “None whatsoever.”

  “Damn.”

  They dined on filet of bass amandine and potatoes with parsley while the Gannet powered over the countryside of England.

  “Dessert?” said the waiter, seemingly unperturbed by their proximity to landing.

  “The Zeppelin Eisbombe,” Wendel said.

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “Ice bomb?” Ardis repeated in English.

  “Bombe glacée. No?” Wendel shrugged. “It’s a sort of ice cream.”

  That description proved inadequate. The waiter deliver
ed a fantastic ice cream cannonball, armored in chocolate. When she broke past its defenses with her spoon, she discovered it tasted of vanilla and sour cherry.

  Wendel toyed with his spoon. “Good?”

  “Yes, but I need your help eating it.”

  He tilted his head. “I’m afraid I’ve lost my appetite.”

  South of London proper, the zeppelin slowed during its approach to the Hanworth Park Aerodrome. Ardis fought her queasy stomach. Every minute brought her closer to being alone, without Wendel by her side.

  “Sir, madam.” The waiter bowed by their table. “We will be landing shortly.”

  “God,” she said, “I’m nervous.”

  He glanced into her eyes. “The ice cream isn’t melting that fast.”

  She didn’t laugh. “About returning to Europe.”

  Rather than reply, he attacked the Eisbombe and ate a spoonful. She wished she could read his mind. Or predict the future.

  ~

  The Savoy Hotel rivaled the most exquisite hotels Ardis had ever seen, but she couldn’t keep her eyes off Wendel. He avoided her gaze, studying chandeliers reflected in the polished checkerboard floors of the lobby. They ascended in a red-lacquered electric lift. When she unlocked their room, he didn’t cross the threshold.

  “Are you coming in?” she said.

  He looked at her with resigned determination. “I’m afraid not.”

  “What if I never see you again?”

  His mouth hardened. “Hope I have completed my mission.”

  “You would have done well in the Prussian military.”

  “Would I?”

  She forced out a laugh. “Such dedication to the bitter end.”

  Suddenly, all this gilt and marble turned her stomach. She turned her back on him, not willing to say goodbye, afraid that if she did it would be her last. She hadn’t asked for another Wendel, but she didn’t want to lose him now.

  “Ardis.” His voice snagged on her name. “Wait.”

  Shaking her head, she walked away, but he caught her by the wrist, his fingers rough with callouses. She glanced back over her shoulder, though she still couldn’t read the cryptic look on his face. Tears blurred her eyes.

  “Let me go,” she said.

  “No.”

  Wendel crossed the threshold and, in one swift movement, swept her into a kiss. He erased the space between their bodies. Her heart hammered against his chest. His skin felt nearly feverish, the strength of his embrace crushing.

  She refused to wilt in his arms. Shoving him back, she kicked the door closed.

  “I can’t stay,” he said.

  “Yes, you can.” She dropped to her knees.

  He stared down at her with glittering eyes. “I already bought my ticket to Berlin.”

  “This?” She slipped the paper from his pocket and tossed it away.

  As she unbuckled his belt, his breathing hitched, but he made no move to stop her. She slid her hand along the inseam of his trousers before caressing the outline of him–he was already hard. His fists clenched at his hips.

  “Stay,” she said, before she dragged down his trousers.

  She licked the length of him; a grunt escaped his throat. When she took him into her mouth, he leaned against the wall, the muscles in his thighs taut. She smiled and he sucked in his breath at the hint of her teeth.

  She wanted to punish him for leaving her. To prove he still belonged to her.

  “I can’t miss my flight,” he rasped.

  “And?”

  She stroked him in her hand, then circled him with her tongue. He braced himself against the wall like his knees faltered. His hand skimmed the nape of her neck before his fingers threaded into her hair. He held her too gently.

  “Harder,” she said.

  His fist tightened in her hair. Shivers rushed over her skin. Better.

  “God,” he said, after a minute or two, “I’m going to–”

  “I don’t care.”

  She didn’t stop until he closed his eyes and stuttered out a groan. He came in her mouth; she swallowed every last drop.

  Panting, they broke apart. Still kneeling, she peered at him through her eyelashes. He tilted his head against the wall, his lips parted, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. He could be such a cold bastard of a necromancer, with a pretty face and bloodstained hands–she loved seeing him disheveled and undone.

  He glanced at the clock on the desk. “I’m late.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Wendel tugged her to her feet. She caught his wrist and held him there. He stared her down with smoldering eyes.

  “Goodbye, Ardis,” he said.

  She released him. Her fingerprints lingered on his pale skin. As he washed in the bathroom, she sank onto the bed. He returned, glanced at her, but didn’t touch her. Instead, he snatched the zeppelin ticket from the floor.

  Wordless, she let him go, left only with the taste of him on her tongue.

  ~

  The next morning, over breakfast, England declared war on the German Empire.

  In the Thames Foyer of the Savoy, Ardis heard excited murmurs and saw newspapers brandished across tables. Despite sunlight pouring through the glass cupola overhead, gloom shadowed her heart. She hadn’t slept well last night, not even after pacing through London for blocks, unable to outpace her swelling anxiety.

  “More tea, madam?” said a waiter.

  “Thank you.” She remembered to smile.

  “Will you be dining alone?” The waiter glanced discretely at her ruby ring.

  “My husband has business to attend to.”

  Business that included brutal murder and interrogation.

  “Of course.” He topped off her tea. Steam wafted from the porcelain cup. “Would you like more time before ordering?”

  The menu lay forgotten in front of her. “Why not a full English breakfast?”

  “Excellent choice, madam.”

  Honestly, she had no appetite. She rubbed her gritty eyes. The couple at the next table wouldn’t shut up about the war. The gentleman, a preppy young blond in an ivory suit, slouched in his chair with spread-legged confidence. His companion, a reedy socialite, kept toying with her pearls. Who wore pearls to breakfast?

  “Darling,” said the woman, “stay at Oxford. You simply mustn’t think of enlisting.”

  “Why not?” The man slurped his tea. “Those Huns won’t know what hit them!”

  The socialite feigned a shudder. “But think of those dreadful mechanical men.”

  “The Eisenkriegers?” He chomped on a crispy piece of bacon, then proceeded to talk with his mouth full. “Hardly a concern.”

  Ardis realized she was gripping her butter knife and forced herself to put it down. This moron would die within minutes if he went to war. He stood no chance against an Eisenkrieger–she had piloted the prototypes herself.

  “Granted,” the gentleman said, “German engineering is rather marvelous.”

  “Austrian,” Ardis muttered under her breath. Konstantin would be horrified if he heard his work being credited to the wrong country.

  “You speak as if it’s all just a game,” said the socialite.

  The gentleman ignored her. “Imagine toppling an Eisenkrieger or two.” He pantomimed the motion with his fork.

  Thankfully, the waiter returned to distract Ardis. “Your breakfast,” he said.

  Bacon, sausage, grilled tomatoes, butter-roasted mushrooms, and a poached egg garnished with watercress. Her mouth watered, her appetite revived. Maybe the baby was hungry. She tried to wolf it down politely.

  At the next table, the socialite pouted. “Darling, you have only a year left at Oxford.”

  “Oxford is dull,” said the gentleman. “Lectures and exams and more lectures. Besides, wouldn’t you rather marry a war hero?”

  “Let the French and the Germans figure it out.”

  “The French are our allies,” he s
aid, in a patronizing tone. “We can’t abandon them.”

  “And yet you propose abandoning me?” She pressed her lips together. “What if you aren’t back in time for our wedding?”

  He laughed. “The Huns won’t last that long.”

  Ardis focused on swallowing and stabbed a mushroom on her fork.

  Her own father, Thorsten Magnusson, had sparked this wildfire. He had sold the secret of Project Lazarus–the Eisenkriegers–to Russia, who had retaliated by declaring war on Austria-Hungary and their ally, the German Empire.

  War is good for business, in Thorsten’s words.

  Ardis shuddered. Her mother had poor taste in men.

  She should send a telegram to Jin Hua. At this point, she didn’t even care if the Kaiser himself was reading her messages.

  She caught the waiter’s eye. “Check, please?”

  “Not to worry, madam, I put it on your account.”

  Right. Wendel had dumped an ungodly amount of money into her stay at the Savoy. Courtesy of stolen jewels.

  Why did that still make her feel guilty?

  She left the Thames Foyer and returned to the lobby, where she dictated a short and sweet telegram to the concierge:

  safe in London hope you are well Wendel left for Berlin

  “Where shall I send this telegram, madam?” said the concierge.

  She hesitated. “The Grand Hotel in New York City.”

  “To whom?”

  She wrote down Jin Hua, since she knew he wouldn’t be able to spell it otherwise, and slid the paper across the desk. Hopefully, by the time this message crossed the transatlantic cable, her mother would be at her hotel.

  What about the other Wendel? And Konstantin?

  She didn’t even want to start speculating about the jailbreak again. With any luck, they had escaped and found somewhere to hide. Though Wendel tended to prefer fleeing or fighting. God, she hoped he was alive.

  That was hardly a guarantee with the necromancer.

  ~

  Fog shrouded London, sunlight failing to pierce the cold gloom.

  Upon leaving the Savoy, Ardis walked along the Thames. She followed it south to Big Ben, the clocktower chiming eleven o’clock, before craning her neck at the Gothic splendor of Westminster Abbey. She peeked through the doors at the candlelit interior, the overcast day scarcely illuminating the stained-glass windows.