Specters of Nemesis:

by Karen Kincy

  Would Wendel feel the bones of the kings and queens buried here?

  She imagined what stories they might tell him, wondering why no historian had ever employed a necromancer. Probably because the only necromancer around was killing spies in Berlin, his twin preoccupied by death in New York.

  Wendel would never wash the blood from his hands. Not all of it. Not forever.

  Her throat ached at the certainty of it. Swallowing hard, she abandoned Westminster Abbey. Black winter trees veined the white sky. She tugged her jacket tighter against the damp chill. Near a bus stop, a man scraped a poster from the bricks–a woman in the white dress of a suffragette. Votes for women wanted everywhere! She had heard of them marching in London, New York, and other metropolitan streets.

  Had one day of war silenced these women?

  God knows, everyone was talking about the German Empire, not problems on their own doorstep. She passed a recruitment office, where a line of young men snaked around the block, their faces shining with eagerness to enlist.

  Damn it, this was too depressing.

  Quickening her pace, she didn’t stop walking until her feet hurt and her stomach growled. The Thames danced a strip-tease behind the fog. After ducking into a little cafe, she ordered a cup of coffee and a steak pie.

  It was hardly luxury, but it was a warm place to rest her feet.

  Full of lunch, she trudged north, cursing herself for being so adventurous. Round-trip, this had to be eight miles. Though it felt like eighty. By the time she returned to the Savoy, she peeled off her jacket, sweating in the warm lobby.

  She checked in with the concierge. “Any telegrams?”

  “One, madam.”

  Her heart leapt. “From?”

  “Berlin.” He slid the paper across the polished desk.

  done in Berlin traveling to Kiel

  “Where the hell is Kiel?” she muttered.

  “Pardon?” said the concierge.

  “Kiel,” she repeated, more politely.

  The concierge raised an eyebrow. “The German Empire, I believe.”

  “Do you have an atlas?”

  “I’m afraid not, madam, though I could refer you to a bookshop.”

  “No thanks.” She would look later.

  Frowning, she climbed the stairs to her room. She fumbled with the key, her fingers puffy from the walk, before tugging on the pull chain for the lights. When it clicked, nothing brightened. Fear gripped her stomach in its fist.

  It could just be faulty wiring, couldn’t it?

  Shadows shrouded the room, curtains blocking the fog. She backed toward the door, ready to ask the concierge for help.

  Softly, the door clicked shut behind her.

  She wasn’t alone.

  Sixteen

  Ardis lunged for the clock on the desk, the nearest weapon. A hand clamped on her shoulder and yanked her away. She dropped to her knees, breaking free, but the stranger hit her in the head and knocked her sprawling.

  Ears ringing, she leapt to her feet.

  A tall man in black stood between her and the door. A dark cloth masked his face and hair. At his belt, two daggers glinted.

  She stalled for time. “Who are you?”

  He said nothing.

  “God damn it,” she said, “I’ve had enough of assassins.”

  The assassin drew the pair of daggers. She waited for him to make a move, then lunged for the bedspread and flung the heavy fabric at him. He dodged sideways; it tangled around his legs and slowed him for an instant–enough time for her to grab the desk clock and throw it. The clock glanced off his temple.

  Grunting, the assassin staggered back. She bolted for the door.

  At the whistle of a blade slicing air, she flung herself on the floor. The dagger thunked into the wall. Scrambling, she groped for the doorknob in the dark, but an arm hooked around her throat and hauled her onto her toes.

  His whisper warmed her ear. “Nemesis never forgets.”

  Wendel’s greatest fear.

  The day she died.

  No.

  Her rage burned brighter, a lighthouse through the fog of fear.

  “I’m not dying like this,” she said.

  Adrenaline roared through her blood. She lifted her feet from the ground and kicked off from the door, rattling the hinges, shoving them both backwards. The assassin stumbled onto the bed, his grip loosening on her neck.

  She reached back and clawed at his face–everyone protected their eyes–before sprinting to the dagger in the wall. The blade was embedded deep in the wood. She wrenched it, hard, and it splintered free.

  Someone knocked on the door, a polite rap.

  They both froze.

  “Madam?” said a muffled voice. “May I be of assistance?”

  “Help!” she screamed.

  With a last glance at the assassin, she wrenched open the door and stumbled into the hallway, colliding with a bellhop.

  “Madam!”

  “Help me,” she said. “Call the police. Tell them–”

  “Slow down, I can’t understand you!” The bellhop looked no older than a boy.

  “Someone is trying to kill me!”

  “Who?”

  She whirled around. Curtains billowed in the wind blowing through the window. Shaking from adrenaline, she stepped back into the room.

  Gone.

  “Madam,” said the bellhop, “put the knife down.”

  “No.”

  He could be an assassin in disguise. Shaking with adrenaline, she edged away from him, keeping her back against the wall.

  “Stay here,” he said.

  “No!”

  The bellhop bolted down the hallway, probably to call the police. She unclenched her hand. The dagger hit the carpet.

  ~

  Anxiety stalked Ardis like an invisible monster, a specter only she could see.

  The London police visited her room, taking notes, asking perfunctory questions, but she suspected they didn’t believe her. To them, she was just a hysterical woman, traveling by herself, too afraid to sleep without her husband.

  The concierge at the Savoy offered her another room, as if that would calm her down.

  Ardis refused to return alone. She sat in the Thames Foyer, staring at her menu, the words meaningless black scribbles. Her head ached from the assassin’s blow, though it was just a bruise, thankfully. When the waiter circled back to her table, she ordered something at random, then picked at the food until it went cold.

  One by one, the tables in the restaurant emptied as guests went to bed.

  She abandoned her plate and retreated to the American Bar. Cigarette smoke clouded its angular elegance; the place brimmed with gentlemen in suits and ladies in silk. Everyone was talking too loudly, shouting to be heard over the commotion. She sat at the farthest corner, her back against the wall, not even trying to catch anyone’s eye.

  The bartender, a woman with pewter curls, leaned her elbows on the bar. “Rough day?”

  Ardis forced a laugh. “That’s an understatement.”

  “Pick your poison.”

  She shook her head. “I’m staying sober.”

  “Not a problem.” The bartender busied herself making a drink, then slid it across the bar. “Tonic water and lime juice.”

  Ardis sipped the liquid–both bitter and sour–and puckered her lips. “Thanks.”

  She paid for her drink, along with a generous tip, and scanned the room again. Everyone seemed tipsy or drunk, laughing, enjoying their night. When a man looked back, she froze. Smiling, he sauntered over to her.

  “Cocktail?” he said.

  He wasn’t ugly, with a square jaw and dazzling grin, but she couldn’t care less.

  “I’m married,” she said.

  “Where’s the lucky man?” He arched his eyebrows as if she were in on the joke.

  She knocked back her drink. “Bathroom.”

  “Why don’t
I buy you another while you wait?”

  And possibly poison her drink? No, thank you. She looked him dead in the eye. “I’m not interested. Go away.”

  The man laughed. “I love blunt American women.”

  “Jesus Christ, I’m not encouraging you.”

  “Aren’t you?” He winked. “Say, you don’t quite look American. What are you?”

  Something in her snapped. She pushed away her glass, then punched him in the face. Gasps and cries punctuated the noise of the bar.

  The man cradled his nose. “You bitch!” Blood trickled between his fingers.

  “Learn how to listen,” she said, through bared teeth.

  Her heartbeat thundering in her ears, she parted the crowd and vacated the American Bar. She shouldn’t have done that. Now the police in London would be especially interested in her. She needed to get out of here.

  Fatigue buzzed inside her skull. She stood empty-handed in the lobby. Nowhere to turn.

  She shoved through the doors of the Savoy, ignoring the doorman, just to breathe the cold night air and shock her lungs awake. Head down, she ducked around a man entering the hotel, muttering, “Excuse me,” under her breath.

  “Ardis?”

  The honey-gravel voice traveled straight to the pit of her stomach.

  Wendel.

  She lifted her gaze, forgetting how to breathe, searching his face for clues. Shorter hair, no scar across his cheekbone.

  “How are you here?” she whispered.

  “We flew.” He held her by the wrists. “Where is the other Wendel?”

  “Kiel.” Her laugh brought her close to tears. “I don’t know where the hell that is.”

  “The German Empire. Why?”

  “I don’t know.” She leaned against his chest, her knees betraying her. “Wendel, an assassin tried to kill me.”

  Every muscle in his body stiffened. “In the Savoy?”

  “Yes.” Luxury didn’t make you invulnerable to death.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He swore in German and glanced around the street. “We shouldn’t stand outside. You still have a room in the hotel?”

  “The concierge gave me another.”

  “Let me escort you.” His eyes burned with green fire, as if he would murder the entire hotel if he needed to protect her.

  They skipped the electric lift, taking the stairs up to her room.

  “Wait,” he whispered.

  Wendel reached into the pocket of his jacket. Shadows unfurled around him, cloaking him in darkness. Amarant. She unlocked the door, her pulse racing, and stepped into the room. Wendel slipped beyond her on nearly silent footsteps–her dark guardian angel. She yanked the curtains open, then peeked in the bathroom.

  “Empty,” she said.

  Shadows evaporated from Wendel’s skin. He closed the door behind them.

  “What happened?” he said.

  “I punched a man in the bar a few minutes ago.”

  “The assassin?”

  Her laugh sounded hollow. “A drunk with a fondness for married women.”

  Wendel glanced at the ruby ring on her finger. “You… married the other Wendel?”

  “Just part of our cover story.” She fidgeted with the ring. “We were flying from New York to our honeymoon in London.”

  “Why isn’t he here?” His eyebrows descended in a glower.

  “I told you, he’s in Kiel. He telegraphed me after maybe a day in Berlin.”

  “Berlin?”

  “He went to interrogate the spymasters of Nemesis.”

  “But why?”

  “Ask him when he gets back.” She bit the inside of her cheek. “Where are the others?”

  “On the Peregrine.”

  “The what?”

  He waved away her comment. “The latest airship.” He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. “Where did the assassin attack you?”

  “The old room.” She shuddered. “With a pair of daggers.”

  His eyes narrowed still further. “What did the daggers look like?”

  “I don’t know. Just daggers. The police took one of them as evidence.”

  “And the assassin?”

  “A tall man in black. I didn’t see his face. He told me, ‘Nemesis never forgets.’” Lightheaded, she sank onto the couch.

  “Put your head down.” He clutched her arm. “You look extremely pale.”

  She bent with her head in her hands, forcing herself to take deep breaths, until the stars in the corners of her eyes faded.

  “It’s happening,” she said, “exactly like he said it would.”

  “Who?”

  She shivered. “The other Wendel.”

  “Ardis,” he said. “Why did he travel back in time?”

  “I died.”

  Two words, so short, but they punctuated their conversation with finality. Silence unfurled in the space between them.

  When she looked at Wendel, his face had gone from pale to bone-white.

  “How?” he said.

  “An assassin. I was alone in a hotel room.” She spoke mechanically, like she was reading from a script. “Wendel II found me. Afterward.”

  “It happened in London?”

  “New York.”

  “Why?”

  “Stop asking so many questions!” The words broke free. “I’m sick of being interrogated. I don’t know. I don’t know.”

  Wendel dropped to his knees, bringing his face level with hers. “I didn’t mean–”

  “Neither one of you has helped me.”

  He grimaced, but said nothing, his eyes glimmering.

  “Couldn’t this be a self-fulfilling prophecy? Maybe Nemesis wants me dead because you both keep killing them?”

  “I haven’t,” he said evenly.

  “Your twin has more than made up for your share.”

  He lowered his head, his eyebrows furrowed in a frown. “Nemesis…”

  “Don’t.” She waited for him to look at her. “Don’t even think of joining Wendel II on his bloody revenge crusade.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You were thinking it.”

  He shrugged. “He may have a point.” A muscle flexed in his jaw. “An assassin tried to kill you the night you were alone.”

  Her stomach tightened into a knot. “Thank God you found me.”

  “I know.”

  She raked her fingers through her hair. “I don’t want to sleep here.”

  “Understandable.”

  Wendel pushed himself to his feet before offering her a hand up. She didn’t let go, borrowing strength from his grip.

  “We can spend the night on the Peregrine,” he said.

  “The airship?”

  He dipped his head. “Any assassins will find themselves disembarking rather promptly.”

  His black sense of humor made her feel better, though she would never admit it. That might encourage the necromancer.

  “Hopefully you won’t have to throw anyone overboard,” she said.

  A smile shadowed his mouth. “Hopefully.”

  Pain gripped her belly. Grimacing, she rubbed it under the heel of her hand. The cramp faded, but a feeling of dread lingered.

  “What’s wrong?” he said.

  She shook her head. “Excuse me.”

  After locking herself in the bathroom, she found blood. Enough that she couldn’t just wash the stain away. She knelt by the tub and twisted the tap, hoping a hot bath would help. Another cramp knifed her stomach.

  Wendel knocked on the door. “Ardis?”

  Tears stung her eyes. She was torn between wanting him here and wanting him to go away. She didn’t know what to do.

  “May I come inside?” he said.

  She unlocked the door. “I don’t know what to do.” The next cramp bent her double.

  He glanced between her and the bath. “Were you hurt? By t
he assassin?”

  “Just a bruise.” Shaking, she touched the side of her head. “But this is different… Wendel, I think I’m losing the baby.”

  His face went white. “Should I get a doctor?”

  “No.” Even she knew a doctor couldn’t stop a miscarriage.

  “Your mother?”

  “Please. Just–hurry. I don’t want to be alone.”

  Wendel turned toward the door, hesitated, and dragged her into an embrace. Only then did she allow herself to cry.

  ~

  Ardis huddled in the bath, watching the water go from pink to red. She wept until she must have spent all her tears. When Wendel returned with Jin Hua, they brought a change of clothes and laudanum for the pain.

  She swallowed a spoonful of the bitter liquid. “God, that’s awful.”

  “It will help,” Wendel said, grimacing.

  Her laugh sounded more like a sob. “You don’t have to marry me anymore.”

  “Don’t say that.” He stared at her with fierce devotion. “I love you. Always.”

  “What did I do wrong?” Saying the words out loud somehow hurt the worst.

  “Nothing,” Jin Hua said. “This isn’t your fault.”

  Ardis bowed her head, guilt sitting like a stone on her chest. “But I haven’t been careful.”

  “You could sleep on a bed of feather-down and still lose the baby. More women than you think have had miscarriages before.”

  Wendel squeezed her hand. “We will live through this.”

  She didn’t believe him, in that moment, but slowly, the cramps faded to a dull ache. Wendel let the tub drain and turned on the tap. Blissfully hot water poured over her shoulders. With gentle fingers, he rinsed her hair.

  “How far along were you?” Jin Hua said in Chinese.

  The question just made Ardis feel numb. She replied in Chinese, glad for the privacy. “After the second month.”

  “The bleeding should stop within hours or days. Tell me if it doesn’t.”

  “I will.”

  “I wasn’t sure if you had rags, so I folded a few with the clothes.”

  “Thank you.” She studied her mother’s face, wondering how much she knew from personal experience, but she didn’t ask.