The Necromancer's Bride

by Kat Ross

  The necromancers hurried from the chamber to relay these orders. Bekker glanced at the stone on his hand. It had shimmered when the gateway opened, but now it was dark again. Maddeningly, he still stood well out of Balthazar’s reach.

  “Get him up,” Bekker said.

  Balthazar and Lars hauled a semi-conscious Gabriel along endless corridors, all richly carpeted and hung with paintings and tapestries. Some of the doors stood open, revealing glimpses of more stupendously overdecorated rooms, until Bekker stopped before a blank stone wall. He took a key-shaped crystal from his pocket. The ring on his hand briefly flared with a red glow and a doorway opened in the stone. Bekker strode through and Balthazar and Lars followed.

  A vast hall lay beyond. It had a high vaulted ceiling and torches burned in brackets, casting a flickering light. Unlike the lavish décor of Bekker’s apartments, it was unadorned save for two things. The first was a tiled mosaic of balance scales laid out on the floor in the center of the hall. Knowing Bekker, Balthazar guessed it held a double meaning. The most obvious was the weighing of guilt and innocence. But the other was his passion for gold.

  The second notable feature was the set of six chains dangling from the ceiling, attached to pulleys connected to heavy crossbeams. The hall was easily large enough for the Duzakh to gather and witness Bekker’s justice. Despite his talk of unity and the peaceful resolution of disputes, he clearly intended to run things with an iron hand.

  Lars muscled Gabriel up to the chains and snapped the manacles around his wrists just as his eyes opened. For a moment, Gabriel looked utterly disoriented. Then his gaze landed on Balthazar.

  “I should have killed you at the Picatrix,” he croaked. “You treacherous bastard.”

  Balthazar folded his arms. “I can’t be a traitor if I was never on your side, can I?” he asked, willing Gabriel to see past his fury and understand. If he mentioned Alec Lawrence, they were both dead. “Unlike you, I have no ill will toward Mr. Bekker. Quite the contrary.”

  Gabriel knew Bekker had killed Lucas Devereaux’s family. He’d admitted as much only a few months ago when he paid a visit to Balthazar’s house in London. He had to realize Balthazar was running his own game — one that Gabriel himself had left in ruins like a child stomping on a sand castle.

  Thankfully, his bloodshot eyes slid away and fixed on his old nemesis.

  “Where did you find the sword?” Bekker asked, unwrapping the blade and holding it up.

  Gabriel’s hair stuck up like a wheat field left fallow. The false nose hung askew. He smiled and his eyes looked more than a little mad. “God gave it to me.”

  Bekker shook his head. He stepped forward and grabbed the chain leading from Gabriel’s collar. A manacle hung from the other end and Bekker fixed it to his own wrist, his face intent. He would rummage through Gabriel’s mind, peel him apart like a piece of overripe fruit, expose his deepest secrets. Balthazar had done it to countless prisoners when he served Neblis.

  Lars stood off to the side, his features as expressive as the stone walls.

  Balthazar’s sweat-slick hand gripped the hilt of the saber at his belt. Now, he thought, steeling himself. Do it now, while Bekker’s distracted.

  Balthazar met Gabriel’s eyes and a flash of understanding passed between them. If the necromancer died before the connection was severed, the captive would die with him.

  Gabriel gave a tiny, grim nod.

  Balthazar’s gaze flicked to the soft white neck. One quick stroke. That would be the end of Jorin Bekker.

  Yet he couldn’t bring himself to act.

  I’ll need Gabriel alive to help kill the rest, Balthazar told himself, discomfited at his own hesitation and not entirely understanding it. Patience.

  He watched with pity as Gabriel’s face went slack, but only for a moment. Then that deranged smile returned.

  “Here’s something for you,” Gabriel said.

  He began to recite a poem, and Balthazar was suddenly glad the saber remained in its scabbard because this particular poem happened to be one of his favorites and it was all he could do to keep from laughing at Bekker’s confusion.

  “I met a traveler from an antique land who said, ‘Two vast and trunkless legs of stone stand in the desert. Near them on the sand, half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown and wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command tell that its sculptor well those passions read, which yet survive stamped on these lifeless things. The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed….”

  “He’s locked me out,” Bekker muttered.

  It should have been impossible.

  Gabriel’s voice had started as a hoarse whisper but gained strength as he continued. “And on the pedestal, these words appear: My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings! Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!” The lunatic grin widened. “Nothing beside remains. Round the decay of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, the lone and level sands stretch far away.” He peered at Bekker. “Well, did you like it? I know others. We could do this all day.”

  Bekker stared at him for a long moment. Instead of being enraged, he looked oddly happy.

  “I hoped you’d present a challenge,” he said. “Now we get to do it the old-fashioned way.”

  “What, pincers and irons?” Gabriel sounded bored, but his eyes were tight, his face ashen. Balthazar knew how long it took to recover from one of those bolts of necromantic power. Every nerve ending would still be on fire.

  “Nothing so pedestrian. I have a specialist coming,” Bekker said. “Just for you. His methods are very efficient.”

  Gabriel’s lip curled. “I look forward to meeting him.”

  Bekker studied him. “No,” he said quietly. “You don’t.”

  Something in his voice sent a chill down Balthazar’s spine.

  “Stay here,” Bekker told Lars. “Don’t go anywhere near him, no matter what he says. I’ll send back reinforcements.”

  He turned without another word, beckoning sharply for Balthazar to follow. Bekker opened the talismanic door to the corridor without breaking stride. It solidified again the moment Balthazar passed through, rather too close for comfort.

  As was his habit, Bekker waited for Balthazar to walk in front where he could keep an eye on him. “I have to meet with Leopold,” he muttered as they headed back to his private apartments. “He’ll be expecting it, and I need to ensure he doesn’t suspect the attack was aimed at me. That would be a disaster.”

  “There’s no reason he would—”

  Bekker threw him a contemptuous glare. “Think, Balthazar! The blood in the gallery? The bodies? They’ll have been found by now. Leopold knows my men.” He gave a sharp, irritated exhale.

  “You were attacked by anarchists on the way out, but you managed to hold them off long enough for the king to make his escape. His safety was your paramount consideration. Play it right and you’ll end up with a medal.”

  Bekker gave a slow nod. “That should work. Ah, here’s Constantin.”

  A burly, bearded figure approached. His mangled right hand clenched and unclenched spasmodically. He barely glanced at Balthazar, his attention focused entirely on his new master.

  “I heard you caught D’Ange,” Constantin rasped. “Alive.”

  Apprehension shone in his dark eyes. Killing Gabriel had been the price of his admission to Bekker’s kingdom — and Constantin had failed. The scene was indelibly burned into Balthazar’s memory. Constantin looming above his mentor, who had sunk to his hands and knees. Swinging the sword back to take his head when Alec Lawrence stepped between them. Constantin would have stayed to fight, but Bekker summoned him away, assuming the wounds Gabriel had taken from the sanctus arma would prove fatal.

  “I should have let you finish him at the Picatrix,” Bekker conceded. “The fault is mine.”

  Constantin looked visibly relieved. “What happened?”

  “The Order attacked during the gala. Balthazar gave me warning. But the pathetic remnants will be arriving soon. I made sure
they knew where we’d gone.”

  Constantin nodded approval. “So we can eradicate them once and for all.”

  “That’s the idea,” Bekker said dryly. “Should I expect the full complement of seven more?”

  Constantin considered the question. “Jacob Bell and Julian Durand, yes. But I killed two others at the Picatrix and we … Gabriel was already short on men. It depends on how quickly he recruited new ones.”

  Bekker grunted. “Well, they won’t be seasoned. We can handle a few novices. In the meantime, I have something to take care of. I won’t be long.” He strode past Constantin and entered the chamber with the pink marble pool. Three replacements stood watch around the sides.

  “Now?” Constantin raised his shaggy black brows. “Can’t it wait?”

  “No,” Bekker snapped. “It involves the king. I’ll be an hour or two at most. The gateway is locked so Gabriel’s puppies can’t get in that way. They’ll have to come across the grounds and I’ve doubled the guards. You’re in charge of D’Ange. But mark me, Constantin.” His eyes went flat and lifeless. “If anything happens, I won’t be so forgiving next time.”

  “I understand, Mr. Bekker.”

  He handed Constantin the sword and put his coat back on. “Watch the edge. It’s sanctus arma. Gabriel had it tonight. Any idea where it came from?”

  Constantin was clearly surprised. He examined the unmarked blade. “None, Mr. Bekker. I haven’t seen a sword like this in at least six hundred years. The one I took from Ingress Abbey is the only other I’m aware of.”

  Bekker nodded. “We’ll find out soon enough.” He snapped his fingers and two of the necromancers fell in beside him as he waded into the portal. At the last moment, he turned back. “A visitor will be arriving from the Congo. I’d prefer to be here, but I don’t want him kept waiting. Make sure he’s taken straight to D’Ange.” A small smile. “He knows what to do.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The gateway swallowed Bekker without a ripple. Constantin stared into the still waters for a moment, a troubled expression on his face. His scarred right hand, the one that was being gnawed by revenants when Gabriel saved him, had clenched into a fist again.

  “I thought he was gone, too,” Balthazar remarked. “Funny the sanctus arma didn’t work. Maybe he really is an archangel.”

  “He’s just a man,” Constantin growled. “Soon to be a dead one.”

  Balthazar nodded sympathetically. “I’m sure that will come as a relief.”

  Constantin gave him a withering look.

  “I’m not implying you’re afraid of him. He’s trussed up like a Christmas goose.” Balthazar sighed. “But you know how excitable Gabriel is. His tongue could flay the soles from a pair of hobnail boots. Wiser to stay away. I’ll gladly keep an eye on him until—”

  Constantin’s bearded face went red. “He’s my charge and you’d do well to remember it.”

  He shoved past and strode in the direction where Gabriel was being held. Balthazar looked at the remaining guard and shrugged. “Touchy,” he said.

  “He’s an arsehole,” the guard muttered.

  “Well, he’s had a hard life. We must make allowances for the less fortunate.”

  “Still an arsehole.”

  “I won’t dispute that.” Balthazar reached into his breast pocket and took out a flask. Tipped it back and took a slug. The guard watched him with a hint of longing. He wiped his nose with one sleeve and gave a discreet cough.

  Balthazar raised the flask, arching his brow in a question mark.

  “We’re not supposed to drink on duty.”

  “I won’t tell.”

  He hesitated. Glanced at the portal. “Better not.”

  “You’re an upstanding citizen.” Balthazar took another pull and studied the flask with deep affection. “Balvenie twelve-year-old single malt scotch. They brew it in some godforsaken castle in Scotland. Finest whiskey you’ll ever taste.” He sighed and made to slip it back into his pocket when the guard crumbled.

  “Just a nip,” he said. “I have a bit of a cold.”

  Balthazar sauntered over and handed him the flask. “You see, it’s medicinal. A nip never hurt anyone. Something to warm the bones.”

  The guard raised the flask to his lips, his head falling back, and Balthazar’s saber slid from its scabbard in one fluid sweep. The head hit the pool first, followed by the rest a moment later. Balthazar seized the guard’s arm and hauled the corpse to the edge. He turned out the pockets. A small tin of Keating’s lozenges. A switchblade. And two talismans, one to Travel, the other key-shaped like the one Bekker had used to open the stone wall. Perhaps there were many such doors in the house. Hidden, immured places. Balthazar pushed the body away with his shoe and watched it sink into the depths, drawn down by the weight of the chains.

  The talisman of Travelling looked like a spiral shell, though twisted in strange ways that would cause dizziness if one stared too long. It glowed softly in his palm. As he’d hoped, the gateway was sealed against entry but not leaving. Balthazar stepped into the not-water, feeling the pull of the abyss below. Let the Order save their leader. He’d done what he could. Gabriel would already be dead if he hadn’t intervened. Their debt was cleared.

  Balthazar took two more steps and halted, an unpleasant thought forming in his mind. He was overdue to appear at the townhouse in London. Lucas was supposed to wait, but what if he didn’t? He would come here, the brave fool. And they would kill him.

  Then there was the “specialist” from Boma…. Against his will, Balthazar heard Bekker’s words at the warehouse.

  I have men who deal in pain like the Old Masters understand the play of light and shadow on a canvas. One in particular honed his skills in the Congo. You wouldn’t wish to meet him.

  “Damn,” Balthazar muttered. He stood still for a moment, fingertips jittering against his thigh. Then he made the sign of the flame, touching forehead, lips and heart. “I’m retiring when this is over,” he snarled. “No more. Just wine, women and song.”

  He waded out of the gate, shoving both talismans in his trouser pocket and returning the sword to its scabbard. Time was short. He needed Gabriel intact, before the “specialist” reduced him to a lump of quivering flesh. If D’Ange was unleashed, Balthazar felt confident the two of them could clear the decks before Bekker returned. He only needed to distract Constantin, and goading him into confronting Gabriel would have knocked him off balance already.

  Balthazar strode from the chamber. He encountered no one until he saw Lars, standing outside the blank wall. Constantin had banished him to have a private conversation. Perfect.

  Balthazar’s steps quickened. He adopted an expression of alarm.

  “They’re here,” he hissed.

  Lars blinked.

  “The bloody Order! I heard swords clashing downstairs. They’ve gotten inside somehow. You’d better tell Constantin.”

  Lars gave a decisive nod, fisting his own key talisman. The doorway winked open. Raised voices carried through the opening, too far away to make out. One of Gabriel’s epic rants, no doubt.

  “I’m going down,” Balthazar said, squaring his shoulders for battle. “And Lars….”

  “What?”

  “If I don’t return… say a prayer for me.”

  Lars gave a serious nod. “I will, Mr. Balthazar.”

  “Not to Satan.” Balthazar rolled his eyes heavenward. “To Him.”

  Lars looked confused and Balthazar took pity on him. “I won’t keep you any longer. Duty calls us both.”

  He hurried off and halted just around the corner of the first intersecting corridor, pausing to listen. All was quiet for a long minute. Then he heard heavy footsteps striding away. The moment they faded, he ran back to the blank stone wall and used the key he’d taken from the guard to open the doorway. He entered the hall and sealed it behind him.

  Lars stood with his hands loosely clasped, watching Gabriel. He turned at Balthazar’s appearance, a quizzical look on his
face. “I thought you went down,” he said.

  “I lied,” Balthazar growled, whisking the saber from its scabbard and striding forward. He was done with subterfuge.

  Lars actually looked hurt. Then his own sword came out in answer. He spread his thick legs and waited, a silent, brooding mountain. Six seconds later, his blade was clattering to the floor and Balthazar’s pressed hard against his throat, a hair from severing the windpipe.

  “Where’s the key to the manacles?” Balthazar snapped.

  “Don’t … have,” Lars managed through gritted teeth.

  “I saw you lock them on.” His knee drove into Lars’s testicles and the necromancer toppled like a falling tree. Balthazar kicked him in the temple and crouched down to go through his pockets. Lars was almost too pathetic to kill, though he’d probably have to. Balthazar pulled out another key talisman and threw it aside. There was nothing else but a lint-covered piece of toffee that left his hands revoltingly sticky.

  “He gave it to Constantin,” Gabriel said.

  Balthazar bit back an oath. “Of course.” He glanced at Gabriel, twisting like a side of beef from the ceiling. Holy Father, what now? Those chains were made to restrain a grizzly, each one nearly as thick as Balthazar’s arm….

  “I always suspected you were a turncoat.”

  The harsh voice, with a hint of a Germanic accent, made Balthazar’s head snap up. He rose to his feet with a feral smile. “Takes one to know one. As it happens, you’re just the man I was looking for.”

  Constantin emerged from the shadows at the far end. He didn’t draw his sword, but his black eyes went even blacker, like pinholes in his face, and Balthazar felt power gathering in the chamber. The vibrations drilled into his skull like a dog whistle.

  Not again. No. Just … no.

  Each cell in his body shriveled at the sight of the black lightning flickering along the chains and up through Constantin’s left arm. The Order never used it. Gabriel had declared it off limits. A power too evil to wield. But Constantin was no longer bound by Gabriel’s rules.