The Necromancer's Bride

by Kat Ross

  Balthazar didn’t have the heart to tell Lucas they were out of their depth, yet his tolerance for Bekker’s company, not to mention the rapacious scoundrels he associated with, was near the breaking point. And once the surviving members of the Duzakh turned up for Bekker’s conclave, the odds of an unpleasant end to the whole affair would rise dramatically. They would plot against him as vigorously as he had plotted against them. Balthazar doubted his dubious place in Bekker’s affections would afford any measure of protection.

  Now he felt a sudden twinge of apprehension. As if someone was staring at the back of his head….

  Balthazar turned and scanned the seats behind. The house was packed with glittering couples in evening dress. His gaze drifted up toward the boxes … then darted back as a woman waved a white-gloved hand at him. She pursed her lips and arched an eyebrow.

  Balthazar knew her instantly, though she’d been in her early thirties when they met and now she must be near fifty. One of his old flames. They were legion, but he never forgot a single one. He gave her a faint smile and turned back to the stage.

  Act Two proceeded apace, the luckless Don José falling deeper under Carmen’s spell and deserting from the army to join a band of gypsy smugglers. When the audience streamed from their seats for the intermission, Balthazar saw her beckon. He made his way out to the marble-tiled entrance hall, where he spotted her waiting in one of the alcoves.

  “You look as enchanting as ever, Marisa,” he murmured, bending over her hand.

  “Balthazar.” She looked pleased to see him, which made him glad. It also came as a relief that she appeared no older than she should have. Fine lines around the eyes, a bit plumper, but still an attractive woman. Her dark hair was piled up, accentuating her firm neck, and an amethyst the size of a pigeon’s egg nestled in her cleavage. “My God, have you discovered the elixir of youth? You look even more dashing than when we danced at that party in Deauville.”

  “Clean living and mountain air,” he demurred.

  Baroness De Smet laughed. “You’re an awful liar. I think it much more likely an excess of sinning has preserved you.” She gazed at him fondly.

  “And how is the baron?”

  “He died six years ago. Thrown from his horse during a hunt.”

  “Please accept my condolences.”

  “And you? Never married?”

  “I’m afraid I’d make a poor husband.”

  The understatement of the century.

  Baroness De Smet gave him an amused smile. “And why should one woman lay claim to you and deprive the rest of us?” she said lightly.

  “There’s little danger of that. All the respectable ones can smell a rogue from miles away.”

  “It’s a good thing I’m not respectable then,” she replied merrily. “Are you living in Brussels now?”

  “Just visiting. I have business with Jorin Bekker.”

  They both glanced at Bekker, who was surrounded by eager admirers. The baroness looked suddenly guarded. “Ah, Mr. Bekker. He’s a staunch patron of the arts. Why, he’s donating some of his finest paintings to the Royal Museum. The king is holding a gala in his honor this Saturday. Will you attend?”

  Balthazar made a rueful face. “Alas, I seem to lack an invitation.”

  She eyed him speculatively. “Come lunch with me tomorrow. Say eleven-thirty? I must hear about all your adventures.” She gave a little sigh. “Brussels is very dull.”

  “I’d adore it,” Balthazar said.

  “Number 12 on the Ixelles Ponds.” The creases at the corners of her eyes deepened as she smiled, but it didn’t detract from her beauty. Quite the opposite. Marisa had been a charming companion, never asking for more than he wished to give and with a quick wit. He doubted her life was as dull as she claimed.

  They chatted for a few minutes more, until the sound of the orchestra tuning up their instruments drifted through the open doors. Balthazar escorted her back to her seat and resumed his place, mulling over their conversation. Bekker hadn’t mentioned the gala. Why?

  An obvious reason came to mind. He would be exposed somehow.

  Balthazar glanced at his arrogant features, fixed with a bored expression on the stage. Bekker only came to the opera to burnish his public reputation and conduct a little business on the side. He couldn’t care less about the arts. His beneficence must be some ploy to ingratiate himself further with Leopold and his cronies.

  Balthazar was hardly aware of the rest of the opera. Afterwards, in the landau, Bekker stared at him thoughtfully. “You’re a friend of Baroness de Smet. How do you know her?”

  Of course, he’d noticed the encounter. Nothing slipped past Jorin Bekker.

  “We met at a resort in the south of France years ago. The Baron was alive then.”

  “I wish he still were,” Bekker said with bitterness. “She owns the De Smet fleet now. I want some of their ships to expand my routes, but she won’t sell. Stubborn woman.”

  Lars sat on Bekker’s left, a necromancer named Axel to his right. Their eyes flickered between Balthazar and the street outside.

  “Why don’t you just build your own?” Balthazar asked.

  “Because I want hers. I don’t have the time.” Bekker looked eerily like a child in the soft illumination of the passing street lamps. His lips were full and rosy, his cheeks smooth as butter. “I know your reputation, Balthazar. Perhaps you can persuade her to change her mind.”

  Balthazar tilted his head. It took every ounce of will to keep from laughing. “Are you asking me to be your whore? In the literal sense of the word?”

  “Call it what you want. You promised to be of use, and I’m starting to wonder exactly how.”

  Balthazar exhaled a long breath. He looked at Lars. “I feel so cheap right now—”

  “Don’t be an ass,” Bekker snapped. “Think of it as a personal favor.”

  “She did invite me to her home,” Balthazar admitted. “For lunch tomorrow.”

  Bekker smiled. “I expect you to cultivate the relationship. The timing is perfect. I’m expanding my operations in the Congo and I’ll need those ships, preferably by the end of the month.”

  Balthazar leaned back and covered a yawn. “I’m sure I can deliver. With the proper inducement.”

  “Good. See that you do.”

  The landau drew to a halt at the Metropole. Balthazar got out and gave Bekker a lewd grin. “I’ll tell you what she says tomorrow.”

  Bekker didn’t bother to reply. The landau sped away.

  Balthazar stood at the curb, any trace of humor gone from his dark eyes. Perhaps the Fates were smiling on him at last.

  The Baroness De Smet rolled to her side and touched his mouth with a cool finger, tracing the outline of his lower lip. Bright sun streamed through the tall windows of her bedroom. Balthazar knew what she was thinking. It was one thing to see each other under the soft light of the chandeliers at La Monnaie, another in the stark light of day. He’d swept her up in the drawing room and carried her upstairs to her bedroom, and after that she’d been too distracted to think very clearly. But now she was.

  “How is it you haven’t aged, Balthazar?” she asked softly. “Not a single day.”

  He turned to look at her, propping his head on one hand. “I was younger than you thought when we met. Only nineteen.”

  She gave him a slight frown. “Even still….” Her gaze slid down his chest to the dark curls of hair, the lean, smooth muscle. “You barely look thirty.”

  “Thirty-nine, I’m afraid.” He smiled. “If you must know.”

  “I’m not complaining.” She sighed. “But you make me feel terribly old.”

  Balthazar brushed a lock of hair from her shoulders. “You’re still beautiful.”

  A flush rose in her cheeks. “I’m sorry you’re leaving. You’re a friend. And, I think, a better man than you let on.”

  He lay back on the pillows, crooking an arm behind his head. “Don’t tell anyone. You’ll ruin my reputation.”

 
“I wouldn’t breathe a word.” She touched the ouroboros hanging on a slender chain around his neck. “I remember this. You were wearing it in Deauville. A snake eating its own tail. It’s very unusual, isn’t it?”

  “My good luck charm,” he said lightly.

  “Maybe it keeps you young,” she teased. “I should try to find one for myself.”

  “I’d give you mine, but then I’d wither up and die.”

  She chuckled. “Oh, you mustn’t then.”

  It was the first time in ages Balthazar had bedded someone without engaging in a little robbery on the side, but he wouldn’t do that to Marisa. Not twice. Yet he’d still taken the talisman from the trunk at the train station before he came here. It was like a strange compulsion. Balthazar didn’t feel properly naked without it.

  She gave him a fragile smile and sat up, wrapping the sheet around herself. “It isn’t easy being a widow of a certain age, Balthazar.”

  He arched an eyebrow as she moved to her dressing table and sat down. “Come now, Marisa. You could have anyone you wanted.”

  She gazed at him in the mirror. “Ten years ago, perhaps. But I don’t wish for a husband who only wants my money.”

  “Why not? Men don’t seem to care. Look at all those gargoyles at the opera with their stunning young wives. I doubt they married for love.”

  “You’re a cynic, Balthazar.”

  “At least you’re rich,” he said bluntly. “Be thankful for that.”

  The baroness didn’t seem offended. “I am.” She gave a small laugh. “What a self-pitying fool I must sound.”

  “Never that, Marisa. I know how women are treated in society, even the wealthy ones.” He studied her in the mirror as she combed her hair. “You don’t like Jorin Bekker, do you?”

  Her eyes met his, wary again. “No, I don’t. But I’ll go to the gala in his honor just the same. I can’t afford to snub him publicly. He’s too close to Leopold.”

  It was the opening Balthazar had hoped for.

  “I’ve always wanted to meet the king,” he said carelessly. “It’s a shame I didn’t manage to secure an invitation.”

  “You’re leaving on Sunday?”

  He nodded.

  “It would be lovely to spend our last evening together.” She set the brush down. “Of course, I already have an escort. Some marquess with fishy breath.” Marisa spun around. “What if I say my dear cousin arrived in town unexpectedly? You could come with me.”

  “I hate to impose—”

  “Not at all.” She looked happy. “You’re free tomorrow night?”

  “I am.” He patted the bed. “Come back here. I’m getting cold.”

  She laughed and walked over, laying a palm on his chest. “Cold? Your skin is hot as sin, Balthazar.”

  He suddenly wanted to please her. Make her scream his name and remember him on her deathbed. Who knew when he’d ever do this again? He felt no burning lust for Marisa, but he liked her. And it was liberating to make love to a woman and not have it be purely transactional.

  He tugged at the sheet until it fell away. Her breath quickened.

  “You’re lovely,” he murmured. “Let me teach you some new tricks I’ve learned….”

  And so Balthazar passed a more pleasant afternoon than he had for weeks in the Baroness De Smet’s bedroom on the Ixelles Ponds. He departed with a promise to pick her up at seven-thirty sharp the next evening.

  Now he had only to deal with Bekker.

  “I’m close to persuading her,” Balthazar said.

  They stood on the docks watching workers unload cargo from one of Bekker’s barges. Lars hovered nearby, the brim of his bowler hat pulled low over his small eyes. Three other necromancers stood in a loose ring around them, eyes constantly moving.

  “How close?” Bekker demanded. “I want an answer.”

  “Very close. She adores me.” Balthazar paused. “But I think she’s playing a little game of her own. She wants me to go to some gala tomorrow night at the Royal Museum of Ancient Art.”

  Bekker’s eyes narrowed. “It’s in my honor.”

  “Yes, she did mention that,” Balthazar said, allowing a touch of reluctance to enter his voice. “I’d prefer to skip it, but I have a feeling she’ll be cross. The baroness is a demanding woman.” He paused. “With prodigious appetites. I’ve hardly slept—”

  “You’d better go, then,” Bekker interrupted, lips pursing in distaste. “As it happens, there’s another matter I want you to take care of.”

  “Oh?”

  Bekker stared out at the quiet water of the canal. “Count Marie Hippolyte Adrien Ludovic d’Ursel.”

  Balthazar winced. “That’s a mouthful.”

  “He’s the president of the Belgian Anti-Slavery Society. Bunch of meddling Catholics. The group is only a year old, but they have money.” Bekker scowled. “They’re becoming a thorn in my side. D’Ursel will be at the reception, I’ll point him out to you.”

  “And what is it you want me to do?”

  “Kill him, of course. Make it look like a robbery gone wrong. You’ll have to get rid of his family and the servants, as well. No witnesses.” Bekker might have been discussing the weather. “But I have the utmost confidence in you and Mr. Marchand.”

  Balthazar didn’t bat an eyelash. “When do you need it done?”

  “As soon as possible. After the reception, if you can pry yourself away from the baroness. Take care of the children and wait for him and his wife to return. Or kill them first, I don’t care.”

  “Of course. Anything else?”

  Bekker gave him a sharp look. “Are you objecting? I’ve asked very little of you, Balthazar.”

  “Not at all. I just want to know when I’ll get those mines you promised.”

  “As a matter of fact, I have a new business opportunity that would be perfect for you. We’ll discuss it after you handle d’Ursel. And the De Smet fleet, naturally.”

  “I hope so. I’m not here out of the goodness of my heart.”

  “Patience,” Bekker counseled. “Soon enough you’ll have all you dreamt of and more.”

  “I believe you,” Balthazar said with a thin smile.

  He took his leave and went for a long walk through the city, wandering aimlessly in thought. He decided to spare Lucas the details of their latest assignment. It cut a bit too close to the bone. And it didn’t matter anyway. After tomorrow night, Bekker would be dead, or he would.

  Balthazar stuffed his hands in his pockets as he strolled past the baroque steeple of the Église du Béguinage and down towards the opera house. Brussels was a graceful city, full of old churches and palaces and wide plazas with fragrant flower markets. At the Place Royale, he paused in front of the museum. He’d stopped in years before to see some of the paintings. The only one he remembered was The Fall of the Rebel Angels by Pieter Bruegel the Elder, a rather grisly work based on the Book of Revelation. It showed the Archangel Michael casting Lucifer and his minions down from heaven for the sin of pride.

  When he’d had lunch with the black market art dealer Garlen Janssens afterwards, Janssens had said it was part of a trio painted in the sixteenth century for the same collector. The others were Dulle Griet, depicting a virago who leads an army of women to plunder Hell, and The Triumph of Death. Now Balthazar wondered if that unknown patron had been Jorin Bekker.

  He gazed up at the opulent façade of the museum, built in 1801 by Napoleon Bonaparte. Balthazar’s mouth twitched. Well, let it be Bekker’s Waterloo.

  Chapter 16

  Balthazar admired himself in the dressing room’s full-length mirror. He wore a snowy white officer’s coat with a stiff collar and two rows of gold buttons. On his left breast was pinned an eight-pointed star, the Grand Cross of the Royal Hungarian Order of Saint Stephen. Lucas helped him adjust the sash, crimson trimmed with green, worn over the right shoulder.

  “What else do we have?” Balthazar asked, surveying a table covered with various medals and badges.

  “Um,
Imperial Order of Franz Joseph…. Cannon cross…. Commemorative medal for the 1864 campaign in Denmark…. Order of the Golden Fleece…. Ah, here’s a few for the defenders of the Tyrol.”

  “Let’s see the Golden Fleece.”

  Lucas held it up.

  “Good God, that’s flashy. It is an actual sheep?”

  “I think so. Rather a droopy one. Seems a bit depressed.” He glanced at Balthazar. “Any more would be overkill, my lord. You look perfectly majestic as is.”

  “I look like I should be on horseback waving a saber in the air. Speaking of which, did you get it?”

  Lucas cast him an affronted look. “Of course. I would have mentioned it if I hadn’t.” He returned a moment later with a beautifully made sword, engraved with an eagle, flowers and foliage, and the motto Honor i Ojczyzna, meaning honor and country in Polish. It had a curved blade and cross-guard, with a nickel-plated stirrup hilt bound with brass wire.

  Balthazar drew it from the scabbard and ran a finger along the blade. Where it tapered at the point, the sword became double-edged. He adjusted his grip and Lucas stepped out of range as Balthazar made a few whistling cuts through the air.

  “Ah, that’s the sound,” he said.

  “Tachikazi.”

  “Hmmm, yes. The sword wind. Line the edge up precisely and it’s just … lovely.”

  “It is, my lord. This one’s similar to a katana. You’ll do well.”

  Balthazar returned the blade to its scabbard and belted it on. “When you get to London, you’ll need to dispose of Count Koháry.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “He’ll die tragically. At sea, I think. A drunken topple from a yacht should do. The estate will go to a distant cousin.” He grinned. “Me.”

  “It’s already arranged. I have only to sign the papers for you.”

  Lucas prepared for such an eventuality years ago. Balthazar had a dozen different identities in a dozen countries, ready and waiting.

  “I still wish I could be there,” Lucas said. “You might need me. Remember the cats?”