Shadows of Asphodel
Author: Karen Kincy
Date: 2013-09-13 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Steampunk; Fantasy; Romance; Paranormal; Historical; Science Fiction; Historical Fiction; Paranormal Romance; Magic; Historical Romance
Description: He’s an abomination. She’s the only one who can save him. 1913. Austria-Hungary. Wendel may be devilishly handsome, a charming bastard with the manners of disinherited royalty, but he's an abomination. His skin shivers with the icy fire of necromancy. With one touch, he can raise the dead. Worse still, he's being hunted by assassins from Constantinople, and he would rather die than confess why. Ardis escaped her own dark past, fleeing from America as a fugitive to become a mercenary for the Archmages of Vienna. When she discovers Wendel bleeding out on the battlefield, she saves his life with

Shadows of Asphodel – copyright © 2013 – Karen Kincy

All Rights Reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission from the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (or any other form), business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To my beta readers,
for championing a diamond in the rough.

Ardis trudged across the blood-churned earth, blinking as the wind whipped spindrift snow into her eyes. Her arm ached, but she kept a good grip on Chun Yi, her sword. Above, the drone of zeppelins heralded the advance of the medics who would decide the fate of the men and women lying broken on the ground. Ardis tugged her scarf over her nose, trying not to gag at the stench of diesel and blood.

She should hurry. She couldn’t see the height of the sun behind the clouds.

The battle was over, but a storm was coming.

Ardis walked quietly among the wounded, giving distance to rebels in their ragtag uniforms. Her enemies looked helpless, but she could hear their groans and prayers. Her fingers tightened around the sharkskin hilt of Chun Yi, and she hoped—

Movement.

Ardis spun with her sword ready and saw a man stagger to his feet. His mane of black hair flew in his face, hiding it, and his ragged breath fogged the air. He didn’t look like a soldier or a rebel, dressed in a fine coat of gray wool and wolverine fur, matted flat with blood. His hands hung empty at his sides.

What was a gentleman like him doing on the battlefield?

The man cleared his throat, clenched and unclenched his hands. “I’m unarmed.”

His words were at once smooth and rough, a honey-gravel voice. He spoke German without any trace of an accent.

“Hands on your head,” Ardis commanded.

The man did as she said, and the wind blew his hair from his face. Ardis had to stare.

He was starkly handsome, with an arrogant elegance only gentlemen have. Dark slivers of eyebrows, cheekbones so sharp you could cut yourself on them, and eyes exactly like those of a snow leopard, a stunning pale green.

A thin smile tugged at the man’s lips. “How are you going to kill me?”

She kept her face blank. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“I would prefer your dagger,” he said. “It looks sharp.”

“Sword,” she said.

“Ah. My apologies.”

Ardis narrowed her eyes. She couldn’t believe how glib he sounded, like they were in a fencing match and he had nearly lost.

No, not nearly. If he was unarmed, as he said, then he was her prisoner.

Prisoner? Damn.

Ardis had never taken one of the enemy alive before. It had always been kill or be killed, but he wasn’t making this easy by acting so vulnerable. Now she would have to shackle him somehow and march him back to camp. Well, he was a gentleman, so perhaps there would be a hefty ransom involved, and she—

“My name is Wendel,” he said.

Ardis squinted at him. The battlefield seemed like an odd place for introductions.

“Thank you,” she said. “I will make sure it goes on your grave.”

He laughed, then clutched his ribs. His hand came away red with blood.

“You’re wounded,” she said.

“Very observant.” Wendel wasn’t looking at her now, and pain sharpened his voice. “I might die before you kill me.”

He laughed again, despite himself, and coughed up a spattering of blood in the snow.

Ardis frowned, her fingers even tighter on Chun Yi. She could let Wendel bleed out, but that might not be quick, and she would have to watch the whole thing. Or she could try to salvage him and collect that hypothetical ransom.

Wendel swayed on his feet. “May I sit?” he said. “I don’t think I can…”

He fell to his knees in one swift movement, like a glacier cracking, then crumpled on his side. He reached out, his fingers splayed, and grabbed a fistful of snow as if to claw himself upright. A war dog’s stiff corpse lay nearby, its blood melting the snow where Wendel had fallen. Wendel’s fine coat was altogether ruined now.

Ardis watched him, her jaw taut, and tried to make up her mind. “How bad is it?”

Wendel didn’t look at her. “Bad enough.”

She sheathed Chun Yi, her muscles shaking with fatigue. He reached out again, groping blindly, and his hand closed on the war dog’s paw.

“All right,” Ardis said. “I’m taking you—”

Wendel shuddered, and the dog kicked its legs. Adrenaline jolted into Ardis’s veins. She drew Chun Yi and stepped into a defensive stance. The dog climbed to its feet, its ruined throat gaping, and growled at her.

No breath fogged the winter air.

Ardis braced herself as the dog charged. Its paws thudded in the snow, its fangs glinted in the overcast sun. The dog veered for her left arm, jaws wide, and she dodged right. The dog remembered its training and spun, nimble for such a huge mastiff—for such a dead mastiff. She retreated, blocking the dog with her sword.

The dog leapt high, aiming for her throat, and she brought Chun Yi up to meet him.

With gritted teeth, she sliced through the dog’s thick neck and beheaded it cleanly. The animal crashed into the snow, dead again.

Ardis’s heartbeat raced. She wiped the blood from her blade.

“Well,” Wendel said. “It was worth a try.”

She turned to face him, but didn’t stand so close this time. Wendel huddled sideways on the ground, his teeth chattering, clearly weaker for having used some of his magic. A widening bloom of blood stained the snow.

“A necromancer?” she said.

There was something remarkably similar to fear in his eyes, but he smiled.

“Yes,” he said.

Wendel’s eyes flickered shut, and he collapsed in the snow. She edged closer to him and nudged him with the flat of her blade. This could be another trick, though she doubted it. If she were lucky, maybe he was already dead.

Ardis sheathed Chun Yi and looked down at him, waiting.

She crouched beside him and felt for a pulse in his neck. There, beneath her fingers, a faint heartbeat thumped. He was still handsome, even unconscious, even covered in filth and blood. His skin felt warm and soft enough, like any other person’s. Not like a necromancer’s. She shuddered and wiped her hand on the snow.

The burning cold almost erased the feeling of having touched an abomination.

~

Ardis waited for the medics to come. The necromancer lay still and silent in the snow, but he was alive; she held Chun Yi near Wendel’s mouth and waited for his breath to fog the blade. She wouldn’t touch him again, not unless necessary.

You didn’t want to kill a necromancer. If you killed him, he would come back ten times stronger. If you killed him, he would lose the last traces of his humanity and become a monster that mercilessly hunted you down in revenge.

That’s what Ardis had heard, though she had never seen a necromancer before.

She didn’t want to risk him dying.

Wendel was still breathing at her feet, but he wouldn’t last much longer bleeding like that. She scanned the battlefield and saw the medics in their beige uniforms, trudging toward the wounded with backpacks of medical supplies.

Ardis raised her arms above her head. “Over here!”

A medic glanced at the others, then broke into a trot. He was a twitchy man with wide eyes behind his glasses, and he wasn’t much older than her, at most in his late twenties. When he saw Wendel, he instantly got to work.

Ardis watched the medic strip the necromancer’s ruined coat and shirt. A narrow wound ran from Wendel’s left shoulder across his chest. She judged that a blade must have slashed across his ribs without slicing much deeper, so Wendel had a fair chance of surviving. If he stopped bleeding. If his wound healed cleanly.

And if the medics didn’t know he was a necromancer.

“Did you do this?” the medic said, with a thick Hungarian accent.

Ardis blinked. “What?”

The reflection in the medic’s glasses hid his eyes. “Did you wound this man?”

“No,” she said, “but he’s my prisoner. I want his ransom.”

The medic made a grunt of disapproval. Medics were impartial, healing both friends and foes, but this was in theory. Ardis doubted they would keep treating a necromancer, if they knew, unless they also feared him dying.

She felt her stomach tighten into a knot. She would have to protect him now.

“How long ago was it?” the medic said, clearly impatient. “The wound?”

Ardis frowned. “I don’t know. I just found him here.”

The medic swore under his breath. “Then he must have walked here. He’s missing a lot more blood than what’s on the ground.”

“Fix him,” Ardis said.

The medic ignored her.

She sighed and sat on a nearby boulder. Snowflakes started drifting from the sky. They fell on Wendel’s face and melted, slowly, as if his skin was growing colder. The medic finished bandaging him and stood.

“Shouldn’t we move him somewhere warmer?” Ardis said.

The medic glowered at her. “Listen,” he said. “This isn’t your job. If you didn’t damage so many people I wouldn’t have so much work. So if you want to help, be quiet and do as I say. We need to move him out of here. All right?”

She nodded, her face impassive. She was used to taking orders.

~

Ardis rested at the edge of camp, toying with a talisman. It wasn’t much more than a twist of horsehair rope and a piece of wood painted with a blue-and-white eye. The medics had hung the talismans around the perimeter of camp to ward off evil. Clearly the superstition had done nothing to stop the necromancer.

She climbed to her feet and walked back to the tent where they had taken Wendel.

It had been two hours since she had last seen him, but the medics hadn’t let her inside the tent. They had important work to do, they said, in a tone that invited no argument. Surely by now they had patched him up, and she could see him.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” said a medic-in-training, a reedy woman with suspicious eyes.

Ardis wasn’t sure whether to be insulted or flattered by the “ma’am,” so she put on a face that she hoped seemed friendly. “I’m here to see a man.”

“A man?” The woman thinned her lips. “Who?”

Ardis opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. She hadn’t told them his name. Would it be a giveaway? Necromancers were rare. Very rare.

“He’s… he’s pale,” Ardis said. “Long black hair. Green eyes.”

The woman shook her head and riffled pompously through papers on a clipboard. “I’m sorry, we don’t keep lists of physical attributes.”

Ardis sighed. “I’m going in to look for him.”

“I’m afraid you can’t—”

“I brought him here.” Ardis sidestepped past her and entered the tent.

Inside, faint light filtered through the canvas of the tent, supplemented by kerosene lamps. She wrinkled her nose at the stink of sickness and disinfectant. The wounded lay on makeshift cots, wrapped in bloody bandages, many of them lost in an opium haze that dulled their pain. A patient near her shrank back, whispering a fearful prayer, and she knew he must be a rebel. As if she would murder him in a place of healing.

There were only about a dozen cots in the tent, not all of them full. Ardis circled the tent, looking for the necromancer’s face.

He wasn’t here.

Ardis’s throat tightened, and she took a steadying breath. She should never have left him. Maybe he had died from so much blood loss after all, and they had taken his body away already. But they didn’t know he was a necromancer. How soon would he rise from the dead and come looking for her? Or… had he escaped?

Yes, he could have slipped from the tent. Maybe he was stronger than he looked.

She strode out, a sour taste in her mouth, and flagged down the reedy medic-in-training.

“Did any patients leave in the past two hours?” Ardis said.

The woman stared at her. “I really don’t see why I should tell—”

Ardis shook her head and brushed past the medic-in-training. She would have to look for Wendel herself. She marched toward the perimeter of the camp, where the talismans twirled in the wind, and looked for footprints, blood, anything. Her tracking skills weren’t her strongest suit, but she would be damned if she lost the necromancer.

The sky above her darkened, and the wind died to a deceptive calm.

Ardis circled the camp twice before she saw a scrap of black in the whiteness. She cut across a snowy field, pushed past the whippy branches of willows, and came upon an ice-choked river. There, on the bank, was Wendel.

He had his back to her, and she crept closer to him, her hand on Chun Yi’s hilt.

What was Wendel doing? He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and she saw the pale skin of his back, and the bandage wrapped around him. He knelt at the riverside, reaching into the water, his shoulders flexing as he moved. She sidestepped through the willows to get a better look. He dipped his hands into the river and scrubbed them together, meticulously, shook the water from his fingers, and then did it all again.

She stepped forward, her boots crunching the snow. “Wendel.”

He glanced at her, apparently not startled, and clenched his hands. “Yes?”

“What are you doing?”

“Washing my hands.”

Ardis frowned. “That water must be freezing. And you lost a lot of blood.”

“Concerned?” He held his hands up to inspect them. “Should I be touched?”

She sneered at him. “I didn’t drag your lifeless body all the way back to camp just so you could die of hypothermia.”

Wendel stood, drying his hands on his trousers. “I can’t stay here.”

“You’re my prisoner.”

He picked at a bandage in the crook of his arm, where they must have given him a blood transfusion. A clay amulet hung around his neck—for Aceso, the Greek goddess of healing—and he tugged it over his head and tossed it into the snow.

“I saw the slash on your ribs,” Ardis said. “You still need that amulet.”

Wendel shrugged. “I don’t believe in that brand of magic.”

Ardis clenched her jaw. “Just necromancy?”

He looked at her, his strange eyes catching the light of the fading sun.

“Yes,” he said.

Silence stretched between them. Ardis ran her thumb over the tassel on the pommel of Chun Yi, the familiar feeling a comfort. Wendel stood watching her, his face inscrutable, his raven-dark hair stirring in the wind.

Wendel took a slow breath, twisted his mouth, then got down on one knee.

“You saved my life,” he said. “I swear fealty to you until the debt is repaid.”

Ardis’s heartbeat thudded in her ears. The necromancer’s words sounded formal, like he had memorized them from a book. She stared at him until she found his eyes unnerving, and she glanced away to the snow.

“Fealty?” she said. “To me?”

She had never been promised life-or-death loyalty before. By anyone.

Wendel nodded, and his jaw tightened.

“No.” She backed away from him. “Don’t do that.”

He stayed kneeling. “I already did.”

“No!” Ardis growled the word. “You’re a necromancer.”

Wendel sighed, and she saw him bite his tongue. “And?”

“You can’t come with me. I—I have work to do.”

“Right.” He all but rolled his eyes. “Back to business killing for the highest bidder. I can help, you know. I’m good at killing.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

A corner of his mouth curved. “Out of curiosity, why did you save me?”

Because she was afraid to let him die, but he didn’t need to know the truth.

“To ransom you,” she said. “You must come from a rich family.”

“Ah.” He curled his lip. “Sorry to disappoint, but there will be no ransom.”

She was afraid of that, and afraid her face betrayed her intentions.

“They haven’t seen me since I was eleven years old,” he said, “and they certainly wouldn’t pay for me to come home.”

“But you have superiors, don’t you?” she said. “They must want you back.”

All the emotion went from Wendel’s face.

“They do,” he said.

“Then they will pay your ransom.”

Wendel’s face remained cold. “You don’t know, do you? About them?”

Ardis shook her head. There was no use lying.

“I see,” he said, and he looked away. “They won’t pay you. Kill you, yes.”

She squared her shoulders. “Enlighten me.”

“You may have heard of them as the Order of the Asphodel.”

“I haven’t. Who do they fight for?”

“Themselves.” Wendel’s mouth curled into something between a sneer and a smile. “They come from Constantinople, though they claim to be older than the Ottoman Empire itself, and will likely outlast it at this rate.”

“Constantinople,” she repeated. She had never been there.

“Yes.” He met her gaze again, his eyes glinting. “You’re a mercenary? A sellsword?”

She assumed it was obvious, since she wore no uniform. “What do you think?”

“Who do you fight for?”

Ardis straightened her jacket’s lapel and showed him a golden flower pin—an edelweiss, the mountain blossom of the Alps.

“Oh, the archmages of Vienna?” Wendel arched an eyebrow. “My compliments on the Hex. Really keeps these rebels in line. Though the Transylvanians have a knack with scythes.” He gestured at his wound.

She winced. “I’m not an archmage. I’m here as a peacekeeper.”

“A peacekeeper?” He loaded the word with scorn. “Is that what they call it now?”

She shrugged, not taking the bait. “Just doing my job.”

“The last time I checked, the Ottoman Empire and Austria-Hungary were allies. Which means, conveniently, we’re allies.”

Ardis narrowed her eyes. “Right.”

“I’m coming with you.”

Her smile was frosty. “As my prisoner.”

Wendel returned her smile, and his was even icier. “Fine,” he said, “so long as you don’t waste your time trying to ransom me.”

She scoffed. “Prisoners don’t give orders.”

He stared at her, his jaw taut, and his fingers curled into fists. He was angry. Good. She knew angry. She could work with that.

“If I tell you to kill someone,” she said, “will you do it?”

He nodded.

“Anyone?”

He nodded again, and his mouth twitched. “Though I prefer to work with the dead.”

She made a neutral noise in the back of her throat. “Then get up. We’re going.”

Wendel winced as he climbed to his feet, and for a half-second Ardis offered her hand to help him stand. But her disgust got the better of her and she crossed her arms. He pressed his hand over his ribs, then swore under his breath.

“I told you to keep that amulet,” Ardis said.

“I’m all right,” he said, “it just hurts like a bitch.”

Ardis turned her back on him, to prove she wasn’t afraid, and started walking. “Keep up, or I’ll leave you behind.”

“Why the hurry?” he said, following her. “The battle is over.”

“The rebellion isn’t. Transylvania is still crawling with peasants armed with pitchforks.” She glanced sideways at him. “And scythes.”

“Almost makes me miss guns.” Wendel sighed. “I was a good shot, you know.”

She snorted at his bravado and kept walking.

He hurried to catch up. “Where are you going?”

“I’m done here. I need to return to Vienna.”

“Vienna,” he said. “That sounds good to me.”

“You don’t get an opinion.”

That provoked a hint of a smile out of him. “Do I get your name?”

“Ardis,” she said, and for some reason she found it hard to meet his eyes.

They crossed the field together. A bitter wind stung Ardis’s skin and flung her hair into her eyes. She stopped, frowning, and braided her hair over her shoulder. Wendel studied her face, and her fingers felt clumsy under his gaze.

“Where are you from?” he said.

Ardis stared at her braid. She never thought her hair was very remarkable, though it was probably the contrast that made him curious. She had tawny lion-colored hair, unmistakably Chinese eyes, and skin a shade or two darker than his.

“I’m from America,” she said. “I’d rather not get into long and boring genealogy.”

Wendel arched his eyebrows. “Oh, I’m sure your genealogy isn’t boring.”

“If you think that’s flattering, it’s not. And you’re wasting your time trying to flatter me.” She gave him a look. “Prisoner.”

He laughed, then doubled over, his hair in his face.

Ardis sighed. “Are you sure you can walk? You’re half dead.”

He gave her a pained smile. “Not half dead. Only a quarter dead.” He gingerly rubbed his side. “That bastard must have cracked my ribs.”

She shook her head. “That would hurt much more. You wouldn’t be laughing at all.”

“I take it you have experienced cracked ribs before?”

“You shouldn’t be travelling,” she said. “You should stay with the medics.”

Wendel’s face went emotionless again. “No, thank you.”

Ardis continued walking. Her feet ached, and she could do with a drink before hitting the road. The necromancer matched her stride. Ardis was tall, but Wendel was at least a few inches taller than her. She studied the lean muscles in his torso and the length of his limbs. He would likely have the advantage of reach in a fight, if nothing else.

“You need a shirt,” she said. “And a coat.”

“Ah, well, I ruined mine.” He glanced sideways at her. “Were you staring?”

Her cheeks warmed. “You’re very pale.”

“Blood loss will do that to a man,” he said. “That, and an inability to tan.”

Ardis bit back a smile.

Wendel stopped halfway across the field and shaded his eyes with his hand.

“I lost my dagger out there,” he muttered.

He hurried toward the edge of the battlefield, or hurried as well as he could, limping and holding his side. Ardis sighed and followed him. She supposed it was a good idea to let the necromancer have his weapon back. It wasn’t like she could stop him from raising the dead. That was touch magic, skin-to-skin.

Wendel stopped next to a Transylvanian soldier in a bloodstained blue uniform. The man had died fairly recently, from the looks of it, but the snow had already begun to bury his body. Beside him lay a scythe with a wicked blade.

“I don’t see any dagger,” Ardis said.

Wendel’s eyes sharpened. He crouched beside the man and studied his face.

“He would know,” he said.

“What?” she said.

Wendel was ignoring her. He laid his hand on the soldier’s neck, then blew out his breath. All the muscles in Wendel’s shoulder and arm tensed.

The soldier blinked his unseeing eyes, and sat upright.

Ardis unsheathed Chun Yi, her nausea peaking. “What are you doing?”

Wendel didn’t let go of the man, and his face was etched with concentration, or pain.

“Where is my dagger?” he said.

The soldier’s blue lips moved, and a gurgling noise came from his throat. He wasn’t breathing; or perhaps the air moving through his lungs was as cold as the winter sky. He stared at Wendel with clouded eyes.

“You remember,” Wendel whispered, “I know you do. You tried to kill me.”

Ardis’s hand clenched tight around Chun Yi.

“The dagger—is by—the tree.” The soldier lifted his arm and pointed toward a pine tree. His gaze never left the necromancer’s eyes.

“Thank you,” Wendel said.

He let go of the soldier, and the man collapsed back into the snow. Dead again. Ardis couldn’t help staring at the scythe.

“That was the man who wounded you?” she said, slightly queasy.

“Yes,” Wendel said.

He had a disgusted, disdainful look, one she had seen before on the faces of cats. He scooped up a handful of snow and scrubbed his fingers clean. Ardis doubted you could ever forget touching a dead man, but she suspected she knew why he was washing his hands so religiously in the river.

“Was that necessary?” she said.

“Yes,” he said, clearly no longer a man of many words.

Wendel climbed to his feet and strode toward the pine tree identified by the undead soldier. He pawed at the snow, then held a blade high—a black dagger with ornate silver engravings of flowers on the hilt.

“Very necessary,” he murmured.

He tilted the dagger so it caught the sun. Ripples swirled through the black metal, the mark of Damascus steel, an art lost centuries ago.

“This is Amarant,” Wendel said. “Do you know what that means?”

“No,” Ardis said.

“Undying.”

She heard satisfaction in his voice, and she was afraid to ask what foul curse imbued his dagger. Ever since the Hex, hundreds of enchanted blades had materialized on the European black market. The archmages of Vienna had anticipated this, though not the breadth of cruel creativity—a thousand and one ways to die.

Ardis’s hand found Chun Yi again. At least her blade was honest metal.

“It’s late,” Ardis said. “We’re catching the next train out of here.”

Wendel slid his thumb along the flat of Amarant as if polishing away a fleck of blood.

Ardis was tired of waiting, and still nauseated from his little show of necromancy. She began to walk to camp. She didn’t care if she left the necromancer behind on the battlefield. Silence pressed on her ears, broken only by the slow hushing of her breath. The snowfall thickened around her as the wind quickened.

A crow cawed in a nearby pine, and Ardis flinched. Fatigue always frayed her nerves.

Footsteps crunched the snow, running fast, catching up. “Ardis.”

Hearing her name in his voice felt odd. Like she should have never given her name to a necromancer. But that wasn’t how magic worked, not really. That was just fairytales and nursery rhymes. So why was she still off balance?

“What train?” Wendel said.

“The train in Petroseni,” she said. “It leaves in about an hour.”

He moved alongside her, struggling to breathe steadily. “We’re walking there?”

“No,” she said.

Ardis nodded in the direction of camp, shadowed by the zeppelins of the medics.

“We’re flying.”

~

Wendel leaned against the wall of the zeppelin’s utilitarian cargo hold, his eyes closed, as diesel engines powered the airship skyward. Ardis studied him more closely, now that he wasn’t looking. He wore a borrowed shirt and black long coat that were slightly too big for him. The sleeves of the coat partly covered his clenched fingers.

“You!” A man whistled at her, like she was a dog. “Can you hear me?”

It was the medic who had cured Wendel on the battlefield.

Ardis narrowed her eyes. “What?”

“Make sure he gets plenty of fluids,” he said. “He may need another blood transfusion.”

She glared at the medic. “I’m a mercenary, not a nurse.”

“I’ll do it,” Wendel said, without opening his eyes. “I’ll get the blood and the whatnot.”

The medic took a step back, startled, but recovered quickly. “And apply a fresh bandage to the wound in a few hours.”

Wendel opened his eyes a sliver. “Yes, sir.”

The medic didn’t seem to detect any sarcasm in his voice, so he nodded and walked away.

Ardis glanced at Wendel. She wanted to ask how he was feeling, but she didn’t want to sound like she cared, not like that.

“I’m fine,” he said to her, and he looked into her eyes. “I’m not going to die.”

She didn’t blink. “Don’t. That would be counterproductive.”

Wendel’s smile was startlingly swift and genuine. He was even more handsome when he smiled, not that it surprised her.

“You Americans,” he said. “Always so tactful.”

Ardis was aware of her fast heartbeat, but she didn’t look away. “Always.”

Wendel’s smile faded, and she was sad to see it go. Why did someone as bad as a necromancer have to look so good?

“How long of a flight is this going to be?” he said.

“About thirty minutes,” she said, “in this weather. Do you hate flying?”

He shrugged. “I’m indifferent to flying.” He tilted his head. “Is thirty minutes long enough for me to hear your long and boring genealogy?”

Ardis wrinkled her nose. “Why do you want to know?”

“You intrigue me.”

She would have sworn he was trying to charm her, but he wasn’t smiling anymore. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

Ardis fidgeted against the cold steel of the zeppelin, then folded her legs under herself.

“You first,” she said.

Wendel let his head fall back against the wall. “I come from a long line of Prussian nobility, but I still managed to inherit bad blood.”

Prussian. Well, that explained the flawless German.

“It’s inherited? The necromancy?”

He shrugged. “Apparently a great-great-great grandfather of mine had the talent, but he didn’t live for long. We rarely do.”

Ardis was afraid to ask why.

“You said nobility,” she said. “What family?”

Wendel’s jaw tightened, and he narrowed his eyes. “They aren’t my family now. They disinherited me years ago.”

“For being what you are?”

He arched his eyebrows, and she felt stupid for even asking. “Yes.”

She wondered if he sounded so bitter because he had been the heir to a great fortune. Prussian nobles were all rich, even younger sons.

“And you?” His voice sounded lighter now, almost bantering. “Your family?”

A knot tightened in her stomach. “My mother came from China.”

“And your father?”

She shrugged. “I never met him. He wasn’t Chinese. Obviously.”

Wendel nodded and glanced at her hair. She felt her cheeks warm, and she wished she didn’t look foreign wherever she went.

“I assume your sword also came from China,” he said.

“Yes,” she said. “It’s called a jian.”

Ardis drew Chun Yi halfway and let the light glint off the battered old blade, highlighting the two characters engraved just below the crossguard. She couldn’t read Chinese, but she knew they must be name of the sword.

“These are the characters for Chun Yi,” she said. “Pure Justice.”

Wendel raised one eyebrow with an impeccably sardonic look.

“And how exactly,” he said, “did Pure Justice happen to fall into your hands?”

“Family heirloom,” she said, which wasn’t entirely a lie.

“Heirloom?” His eyes glinted. “Shouldn’t that sword be hanging over a mantelpiece?”

Might as well tell him the truth. It might even intimidate the necromancer.

“It was,” she said. “Until I killed a man with it.”

He laughed, then grimaced. “Don’t make me laugh.”

Wendel’s hand hovered over his ribs. Ardis could see how much it hurt him just to breathe. His lips looked vaguely blue.

“I’m not joking,” she said. “I didn’t think I could kill anyone until he was dead.”

That caught his attention.

“Did he deserve to die?” he said.

She stared fiercely at him. “He wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

He narrowed his eyes, then closed them and shivered.

“Are you cold?” she said.

His eyes stayed shut. “It’s winter. We’re all cold.”

“Cold from the blood loss.” She balled her hands into fists and slid closer to him. “I could get a medic for you now.”

Wendel opened his eyes. “Ardis,” he said quietly. “The medics have done enough.”

“But he was right. You need a new bandage, and—”

“Later.”

Ardis started to stand. “Let me—”

The necromancer caught her by the wrist, and his icy fingers shocked her. The fact that he was touching her shocked her even more.

“No,” he whispered. “They will only ask more questions.”

Ardis stared at his hand on her skin, felt the pressure of his grasp on her wrist bones, and her heart drummed in her chest.

“They don’t know who you are,” she said.

His stare was intense, his eyes vivid with determination.

“It isn’t too hard,” he said, “for them to find out.”

Ardis swallowed hard and glanced around the zeppelin. Nobody seemed to notice them, or the way Wendel’s touch was making her feel. She had to pretend it didn’t bother her. His hands were strong and slightly calloused. She could imagine they belonged to a normal man, but she had seen what he had done with them.

“Fine,” she said.

Wendel let go of her, and her skin tingled where his fingers had been. She wanted to rub her hand, but she didn’t want him to see.

“If it bothers you,” he said in a low voice, “my hands are clean.”

Ardis forced herself to meet his eyes. “You know what bothers me.”

Before he could reply, she climbed to her feet and left him leaning against the wall. She busied herself by scanning out the window, though she was only pretending to pay attention to how close they were to their destination.

It didn’t matter how many miles away they were. The necromancer was with her now.

By the time the zeppelin landed in Petroseni, the sky had darkened to plum purple. Ardis’s boots clomped on the landing ramp as she exited the zeppelin and looked around the Transylvanian town. Half-timbered medieval townhouses clustered around the cobblestoned town square. The most modern building here was a train station of soot-blackened red brick, where plumes of smoke muddled the clouds.

“Ready?” Ardis asked Wendel.

The necromancer nodded. He still looked pale, but at least he was steady on his feet. He hadn’t spoken since he had touched her.

“We should be able to catch the eight o’clock train,” she said, “if we hurry.”

He nodded again.

She strode through the town at a brisk pace. He kept up with her, but she noticed he was still breathing much too shallowly.

He had coughed up blood earlier. That was never good.

The eight o’clock train idled on the track. Its sleek chrome sides gleamed in the last of the evening light, and the sharp aroma of diesel punctuated the air. Ardis found the ticket booth, nodded at the elderly man inside, and fetched her wallet.

“How much for two sleeper tickets to Vienna?” she said.

“Coach or first class, ma’am?” the ticket-seller said.

“Coach.”

But then Wendel was at her side, a bundle of koronas in his hand. “First class.”

The ticket-seller raised his bushy white eyebrows. “Are the two of you together?”

“Yes.” Wendel peeled off a few bills. “A hundred and fifty koronas should cover it?”

“Certainly, sir.”

Ardis looked sideways at Wendel. She never travelled first class, since it drew too much attention. None of the other passengers ever looked at her like she belonged there, with her American accent and her Chinese eyes.

Wendel took the tickets, then walked to the first class cars on the train.

“Coming?” he called back to Ardis.

She hurried to his side as he handed the tickets to the conductor, who glanced between them with obvious curiosity on his face.

“Your cabin is number seven,” the conductor said, “down the hallway on the right.”

Cabin? Singular?

Wendel offered his arm to help Ardis up, playing the part of gentleman, but she shook her head and climbed on without him.

First class was indeed luxurious, with wood paneling on the walls and elaborate cut-glass shades on the lamps. Ardis found their cabin and slid open the door. Two bench seats in paisley velveteen faced each other. She fiddled with one until it folded out into a berth. At least they would be sleeping opposite each other.

If she could even manage to fall asleep tonight.

Her jaw taut, she folded the berth back into a seat once more and glared at it. Then she sank onto the seat and rubbed her face as if she could erase her fatigue. Her dirty boots looked out of place on the plush carpet.

Wendel stood in the doorway of the cabin. His face was unreadable.

“Nice little stunt back there,” she said.

“Stunt?” he said.

“If you want to lie low, first class isn’t the way to do it.”

“I always travel first class.”

She narrowed her eyes. “How lucky of you.”

“If I suddenly travelled coach,” he said, “it would look suspicious.”

“Suspicious to who?”

Wendel walked into the cabin, and slid the door shut behind himself. He sidestepped past her and drew the curtains on the window. He was standing awfully close to her. It made her want to leave the room, but she kept a poker face. Wincing, he sat on the seat opposite her and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.

With a whistle, the train jolted into motion and chugged from the station.

“Suspicious to who?” Ardis repeated.

Wendel bowed his head, and his hair shadowed his face.

“The Order of the Asphodel,” he said, “among others.”

“Are you a wanted man?” Ardis said.

“I’m not wanted by very many,” he said dryly. “But once they question my loyalty, they won’t stop until they have found me.”

She clenched her jaw. Things were beginning to make more sense now.

“You swore fealty to me,” she said.

“I did.”

Ardis climbed to her feet and looked down at him.

“Don’t try to use me,” she said, “for your own devices. I’m not an idiot, and I’m not blind. I won’t be your alibi while you go rogue.”

He lifted his head. “I’m not their puppet, and I won’t let them hurt you.”

She laughed scathingly. “As if you could protect me.”

Wendel stood, his face only inches from her own. The smoldering in his eyes made her mouth go dry. He didn’t smell like blood and death, as she had expected, but like rain on pines. The train swayed along a curve in the tracks, and she gripped the table beneath the windows, afraid she would lean on him.

“I promised you,” he whispered, “that I would repay my debt to you. I owe you the courtesy of saving your life in return.”

She didn’t blink. “And after you save my life?”

“After?” He furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”

“Will you turn on me, and kill me in my sleep?”

His eyebrows arched. “Why?”

“I have no reason to trust you,” she said.

“Then I will earn your trust.” He met her eyes. “Will you let me do that?”

“Damn,” she sighed, and she sank back into her seat. “I don’t want to deal with this. I just want to do my job and get paid.”

Wendel tilted his head. “Why do you kill for profit?”

His question knocked her off balance. She stared at him.

“Why do you?” she said.

“I don’t.”

She laughed derisively. “But you’re a necromancer.”

He lifted one shoulder in a lopsided shrug. “I don’t get paid.”

“Then is killing a labor of love?”

As soon as she had said it, she regretted how callous it sounded. But Wendel didn’t flinch. He looked at her with ice in his eyes.

“A matter of survival,” he said.

“Then we understand each other,” she said.

The cold in Wendel’s eyes melted. He seemed to be studying her face, and she felt her cheeks betray her with a blush.

“You must be more than a mercenary,” he said.

She frowned. “Are you more than a necromancer?”

His face sharpened, and he didn’t speak for a long moment.

“I want to be.”

When she saw the hope in his eyes, the knot of anger inside her unraveled. Either he was a very good liar, or she was beginning to believe him.

~

The warm glow of the dining car contrasted with the wind-driven sleet outside the train’s windows. Ardis leaned back in her chair, her spine aching, and relished this hard-won moment of rest. The polite murmur of conversation and the clink of silverware on china were a far cry from the sounds of the battlefield.

“Ma’am?” said a waiter in a white uniform. “Could I start you with something to drink?”

“Just water,” she said. “Thank you.”

“Very well, ma’am. Please let me know if you need anything else.”

She had to admit, she could get used to this first-class service.

At the table nearby, a woman wrapped in furs giggled at her companion, a portly man in a top hat. She doubted they had started their journey in Transylvania. More likely they were just passing through on their way to Budapest. They likely couldn’t even see the rebel skirmishes from the railways.

And where was Wendel?

She hadn’t seen him since their conversation in the cabin, when he had excused himself and vanished elsewhere on the train. She could only hope he hadn’t passed out, considering how he was still looking poorly.

“May I join you?”

Ardis glanced to her side, a sarcastic comment armed and ready—but it wasn’t Wendel.

A slender man with sandy curls and a neatly-trimmed beard stood there. He wore a well-cut charcoal suit with an edelweiss pin at his lapel. He looked a bit sunburned, and she wondered if he had been somewhere faraway.

“Oh,” Ardis said, flustered, “yes, I suppose so.”

“Allow me to introduce myself.” The man smiled at her and bowed. “I’m Konstantin Falkenrath. And I didn’t mean to be so presumptuous, but I’m afraid this dining car is rather popular at this time of night.”

“It’s fine.” Ardis unfolded her napkin. “I haven’t ordered yet.”

“Are you dining alone?” Konstantin said.

She hesitated, then wondered why. It wasn’t as if her and Wendel were going to dine together every night, or at all.

“Yes,” she said. “Please, sit. And my name is Ardis.”

“What a pretty name,” Konstantin said, and he looked at her when he said it.

Ardis noticed the archmage’s eyes were sky blue, a shade that reminded her of summer.

“Ardis is derived from the same root as ardent,” he said, “if I’m not mistaken.”

“I wouldn’t know,” she said.

She had chosen the name because it sounded right. But even after living for three years as Ardis, she would never forget her birth name. She was still Yu Lan inside, Jade Orchid, the Chinese word for the magnolia flower.

“Where are you from?” Konstantin said.

“America,” she said, since that was vague enough.

“Oh? Which part?”

Chinatown, San Francisco was the address she called home. She could still remember standing in the street and breathing in the confused perfume of fried restaurant food and cigar smoke and ever-present sandalwood incense.

Ardis blinked away the memories. “California.”

Konstantin nodded, and thankfully didn’t question her more.

The waiter returned with Ardis’s water. “Anything for you, sir?”

“I’ll have a gin and tonic,” Konstantin said, without even looking at the menu. “And I hear the asparagus and trout is excellent tonight.”

“And you, ma’am?” said the waiter.

Ardis opened the menu and stared at it, but it might as well have been written in ancient Greek. She put on a confident look.

“The asparagus and trout as well,” she said.

“Good choice,” Konstantin said.

He had a warm smile, the kind that made Ardis return it without a thought.

She nodded at his edelweiss pin. “You work for the archmages?”

“I am an archmage,” he said.

Konstantin steepled his fingers on the table, and Ardis sipped her water to cool her blush. To think that the man sitting across from her was one of her employers. Though she couldn’t remember hearing of Falkenrath.

“Or I will be,” Konstantin said, “once I arrive in Vienna. Then it will all be official.”

Ardis raised her eyebrows. “You must be one of the youngest archmages there.”

He laughed and looked down at his fingers. “Yes,” he said. “Is it that obvious? I had hoped the beard would help.”

“It does,” she said.

He stroked his goatee and made a face. “Do you think I should aim for long and gray?”

She laughed. “No.”

“I have a few good decades left in me before that, I should hope.”

She cocked her head. “I’m curious,” she said, “where you got that sunburn.”

He smiled. “The Dodecanese.”

“The what?”

“The where.”

Konstantin flipped the menu over. On the back, there was a map of European railways. His fingertip rested on the Mediterranean.

“There,” he said, “in the Aegean Sea. Twelve marvelous islands called the Dodecanese. The water there is a remarkable turquoise.” He furrowed his brow. “Unfortunately, of course, the islands are still occupied by Italy.”

“Why were you there?” Ardis said.

He broke into a boyish grin. “The Hex.”

She didn’t want to look ignorant, but she had to ask. “The Hex reaches that far?”

He nodded enthusiastically. “Last year, when Italy invaded Tripoli, the Ottoman Empire turned to Austria-Hungary for help. The archmages pledged their aid and have been hard at work constructing the magic of the Hex.”

Ardis leaned forward in her chair. “The entire Ottoman Empire?”

“Almost! We’re fortifying it here and there, like along the Dodecanese.”

Shaking her head, she leaned back. “Amazing.”

Konstantin ran his finger along the borders of the Kingdom of Serbia.

“Everyone can keep fighting like dogs,” he said, “over the scraps of the Ottoman Empire. We will muzzle them until they obey.”

The Hex did deaden gunpowder and render guns useless, but that hadn’t ended hostilities.

“Hopefully,” Ardis said, frowning.

The waiter returned with Konstantin’s gin and tonic. Ardis glanced around the dining car. Her gaze locked with Wendel’s. He stood in the doorway behind the archmage. His face was shadowed, his body tight like a cat about to spring.

“Have you been to Vienna before?” Konstantin said.

Ardis nodded and opened her mouth to invite Wendel over to their table. But the necromancer shook his head, and she glimpsed a look of loathing on his face before he backed out of the doorway and disappeared again.

Why did he look so repulsed? Did he have a history with the archmage?

“Ardis?” Konstantin said.

“I have been to Vienna,” she said. “Believe it or not, I work for the archmages.”

“Is that so?” he said.

The waiter delivered their plates with a flourish. On each, a tiny filet of trout rested in a sea of sauce, with no more than six grilled spears of asparagus on the side. Tender white asparagus, the kind they called spargel in German.

It was hardly a dinner. Ardis resisted the urge to grimace.

Konstantin shook his napkin loose, and inclined his head in her direction. “Please, tell me more. Are you one of the peacekeepers?”

Peacekeepers. Now she couldn’t stop thinking of how scornfully Wendel said that word.

“Yes,” she said, and she impaled a spear of asparagus on her fork.

“The rebels in Transylvania really are troublesome, aren’t they?”

Ardis chewed for a minute. “Not so much after you behead them.”

Konstantin laughed nervously. “Beheadings are hardly proper dinner conversation.”

“You asked.” She finished her trout in one bite.

“It was a rhetorical question.”

Ardis stared at her empty plate. “If I can speak freely, I’m not sure we’re winning. More and more of the Transylvanians have learned how to fight with bows and spears. I’m even seeing decent swords out there.”

Konstantin dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. “An unfortunate consequence of the Hex.”

“Unfortunate consequence isn’t how I would put it,” she said.

The archmage looked directly at her, his eyes keen with interest. “And how would you put it? As a peacekeeper?”

Ardis knew how close she was to insulting one of the very architects of the Hex.

“There will be a war,” she said, “and all the magic in the world can’t stop it.”

Konstantin sipped his gin and tonic pensively. He peered out the window as they rocketed through the dark forests of Transylvania.

Ardis dropped her napkin on the table and stood. “I think I’m done for tonight.”

“No dessert?” Konstantin said.

She shook her head, since she suspected it would be equally miniscule.

“Then good evening,” he said, “I hope to see you again.”

She mustered a polite smile. “Thank you for the company.”

On the way back to their cabin, the train rattled over a bridge, and Ardis’s meager dinner squirmed in her stomach. The lights in the cabin were on, and the train’s staff had converted their seats to berths, folded down the blankets, and even left a mint on each of their pillows. She shrugged and swallowed her mint whole.

The door to the tiny bathroom stood ajar. She rapped on the wall.

“Yes?” Wendel said.

“It’s me,” she said, and she peeked inside.

Wendel was bent over the sink, bracing himself with his hands, breathing shallowly. He glanced at his reflection in the mirror, his face etched with pain. Then she saw why. His wound was bare and bleeding again.

Wendel met her eyes in the mirror. “Ardis.”

“What are you doing?” she said.

“Doctoring myself.” He held out his hand. “Could you pass me the alcohol?”

Ugly black sutures ran the length of his wound, and blood still seeped past the stitches and trickled down his chest.

“The alcohol?” Wendel repeated. “To clean the wound?”

Ardis glared at him. “You don’t use alcohol to clean wounds. It’s too strong. And why did you take the bandage off?”

Wendel’s outstretched fingers twitched. “The medic told me to apply a new one.”

“But you haven’t stopped bleeding. You need to put it on the old one.” She shook her head. “You shouldn’t have been running around.”

He lowered his head and made a noise between a growl and a sigh. “I’ll fix it.”

“Have you never bandaged yourself?” she said.

“No.”

Ardis grabbed the first aid kit from the counter. “That’s it. I’m taking over.”

“I said, I’ll—”

“Shut up and let me do this before you pass out.”

“I’m not going to—”

Ardis dabbed at the wound with a damp towel, and he sucked in his breath. He wasn’t bleeding too badly, but she wasn’t sure he had any more blood to spare. She was impressed he had lasted this long without keeling over.

“Hold still,” she said.

“I am,” he said. “It’s this train swaying back and forth.”

Ardis finished cleaning the blood, then washed her hands and unwrapped the gauze. She tore off a piece, then taped it over the wound. Wendel clenched his hands when she touched him, but he let her continue. She reached around him to wrap a bandage around his chest, and he grimaced when she tugged it tight.

“Are you always this sadistic?” he said.

She glanced at him. “Are you always this delicate?”

He scowled. “I’m so glad you aren’t a nurse.”

“Me, too.”

Ardis fastened the bandage and stepped back to inspect her work. Wendel looked at himself in the mirror, his face white.

“Damn cold in here,” he muttered.

The train jolted on the tracks, and Wendel stumbled forward, catching himself on the edge of the sink. He didn’t look like he was going to stay upright much longer, so Ardis grabbed him by the arm and hauled him out of the bathroom. She let him drop onto his berth. He fell back in a slump, propping himself with his elbows.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Not going to pass out?” she said, though her voice didn’t have as much bite in it.

He mustered enough strength for a sarcastic smile. “God, maybe I will. This berth is comfortable. And look, two pillows.”

Ardis raised her eyebrows. She was not going to go there.

Wendel’s smile twisted into something nasty. “How was dinner with the archmage?”

“Do you know him?” she said.

He snorted. “I think not.”

“Then how could you tell—?”

“Anyone who stinks of so much foul magic must be at least an archmage.”

Ardis stifled a laugh. “A necromancer, complaining of foul magic?”

Wendel gave the ceiling a look of cool disdain.

“Necromancy,” he said, “is a natural magic. The archmages toy around with spells and tricks memorized from books.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t think there’s anything natural about raising the dead.”

He glanced sideways at her. “Natural meaning inborn. Inherited.”

“Ah.”

“I know you think necromancers are monsters,” he said.

Ardis’s throat tightened, and she couldn’t meet his eyes. Yes, that was what she thought, but hearing him say it sounded… unfair?

“But believe me,” he said, “that’s a fraction of the hatred archmages have for us.”

“Is Konstantin your enemy?” she said.

“Konstantin? Is that his name?”

She nodded.

Wendel let himself fall back on the berth. “Perhaps all this blood loss is a good thing. It will make me that much harder to find.”

Ardis made an impatient noise. “Why?”

“My magic is very weak now,” he muttered. “But that won’t stop Konstantin if he blunders too near to me. I should lie low until we arrive in Vienna. Hell, why did that bastard have to take the same train?”

“What happens if he finds you?” she said.

But Wendel didn’t reply, a distant look in his eyes.

“Great,” she said, “two days on a train with a necromancer and an archmage. And I don’t even know why you hate him so much.”

He looked at her, finally, and there was a strange questioning look in his eyes.

“There is a lot to tell you,” he said, “that I would rather not.”

~

The train rattled further into the forest and deeper into the gathering night. Ardis rested in her berth with her pillow against the wall, watching Wendel sleep. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and he had tossed off his blankets despite the chilly air. She wondered if he felt feverish. His skin looked ghostly in the weak moonlight.

Ardis rolled over in her berth and stared at the ceiling.

In the back of her mind, a thought lingered like a primitive fear. Don’t close your eyes with a necromancer so near. She knew too little about Wendel, and she never liked the unknown. She should question him in the morning.

Although she had liked their earlier banter.

Damn, had she been alone for so long? Was she that desperate for camaraderie? Sometimes, on her missions, she had gone for days without speaking to another soul. It scared her. Like being a mercenary had made her less human, but she hadn’t noticed until now. Until the necromancer.

Exhaustion muddled her thoughts, and her eyelids drifted lower.

“Ardis.”

There was a great lurch, and a screeching that hurt her ears.

“Ardis!”

She opened her eyes and jolted upright. Wendel stood by the window, a handful of curtains clenched in his hand, and stared outside at the gray forest. Then she identified the screeching as the brakes of the train.

“Why are we stopping?” she said.

“I don’t know.”

Ardis leapt out of her berth and yanked on her jacket. The train shuddered, and she stumbled toward Wendel. He caught her by the arm to steady her. Momentum swung her against him, and her shoulder hit him in the chest.

“Sorry!” she said.

He released her and backed away. “I’ll live.”

Ardis hadn’t meant to be so clumsy, or to sound so concerned. But judging by the roughness in his voice, she had hurt him.

“What’s happening outside?” she said.

Wendel looked back out the window, one hand pressed above his bandage. “We must have found one of the holes in the Hex.”

“Holes?” she said. “I thought those didn’t exist.”

He looked at her with a thin smile. “Ah, but I heard gunshots.”

There was a definite note of satisfaction in his voice, like he was pleased that the magic of the archmages had failed in this area.

“Get dressed,” she said. “We’re going outside.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said sardonically.

Ardis tugged on a pair of trousers and yanked on her boots, then grabbed Chun Yi and hurried out the door. She glanced back and saw Wendel slipping that strange black dagger of his into the pocket of his borrowed long coat.

In the hallway, a conductor stopped them. “Ma’am, sir, there’s no cause for alarm.”

“Gunshots?” Wendel said, and he sounded gleeful.

“I’m a mercenary with the archmages,” Ardis said, “and it sounds like there’s been a problem with the Hex here. Let me take a look.”

The conductor hesitated, then nodded and stepped out of their way.

“Impressive,” Wendel said. “You pull off the voice of authority thing well.”

Ardis marched down the hallway and entered the swaying passageway between cars. She slid open the door and walked onto the narrow steel platform just as the train chugged to a halt, hissing and puffing diesel smoke.

Beside her, Wendel leaned over the railing. “So that’s why we stopped.”

Ardis peered into the darkness and saw a truck illuminated in the headlights of the train. It was parked directly across the tracks. A scattering of people stood around the truck, the unmistakable silhouettes of guns in their hands. The beams of their flashlights and lanterns crisscrossed the chilly fog.

“Rebels,” Ardis said. “Do they think they can hijack this train?”

“Apparently,” Wendel said. “There are a lot of wealthy passengers.”

Her stomach squirmed. “And the archmage.”

“Oh?” He gave her a look. “Don’t tell me you plan to protect him from those—”

“We are,” she said. “You work for me now, remember? And you better be good for a fight, because it looks like they want one.”

He sighed a long-suffering sigh. “Whatever you say.”

One of the conductors hopped off the train and landed in the snow. He approached the rebels with his hands held high. His words were unintelligible to Ardis. The rebels aimed their lights at the conductor’s face. Then their guns.

“What is he doing?” she muttered.

“Negotiating?” Wendel suggested.

“I count seven rebels. And it looks like all of them have guns.”

“Seven?” The necromancer shrugged. “Just signal when you plan to attack them.”

“What do you propose?” She stared sideways at him. “Show ourselves and get shot?”

“Who said anything about showing ourselves?”

There was a shout, and a gunshot cracked in the night. The conductor crumpled in the snow, his blood widening beneath him.

“That sounds like a signal to me,” Wendel said.

Before Ardis could reply, he leapt over the railing and hit the ground running. He loped across the snow, straight into the darkness of the trees. Ardis unsheathed Chun Yi and jumped after him. Her boots fractured the hard crust of ice on the snow, and she dropped into a crouch, but the rebels didn’t seem to hear her.

The rebels were walking nearer, though, along the length of the train.

Wendel reached into his coat and drew the black dagger. With a hissing whisper, tendrils of smoke crawled from Amarant and curled around his arm, his body, his face. His outline faded to nothing more than a shadow.

Ardis’s breath snagged in her throat. She had never seen such dark magic.

Nearly invisible, the necromancer stole along the edge of the trees. She lost sight of him, and followed the creation of his footprints in the snow. He circled around behind the rebels and crept nearer through the forest.

What was he doing? Did he think he could outmatch seven men with guns?

Ardis tightened her grip on Chun Yi and readied herself to fight—or to flee, if the rebels came too close to cornering her. Flashlights swung toward her, and she pressed against the train, holding her breath so it wouldn’t steam the air.

Wendel crouched beneath a tree, lurking behind a rebel man with two pistols. The rebel turned his head. In one sweeping lunge, Wendel smothered his mouth and slit his throat. Blood spurted from the rebel’s neck, and he collapsed in the snow. Wendel dropped, never lifting his hand from the rebel’s mouth.

Shadows from the black dagger swarmed thick and dark over the necromancer’s skin.

At last, he raised his hand. And he raised the dead man with it.

The corpse staggered to his feet, blood slicking his chest, his limbs not yet stiff. His pistols thudded in the snow. The necromancer snatched both guns, then retreated into the shadows. The dead man stood waiting.

Ardis’s heart beat hard and fast in her ribcage. She lost sight of Wendel in the darkness.

The rebel captain’s shout sliced the clear night. He spoke Romanian. Ardis’s mind whirred as she translated the words.

“Search the train,” the captain said. “Take no prisoners.”

Then perhaps they didn’t know about Konstantin, and only wanted to send a message to Austria-Hungary at the cost of innocent lives.

“Ardis.”

She heard Wendel’s hushed voice, and his footsteps behind her. She turned to see the shadow-cloaked necromancer near enough to touch.

“Are you a good shot?” he said.

“I’m American, remember?” she said.

The unnatural shadows gave his smile a sinister beauty. He tossed her a pistol. She caught it, then sheathed Chun Yi.

“Only six rebels left,” Wendel said, “now that one of them is mine.”

Ardis grimaced. She supposed it was efficient, turning your defeated enemies into temporary allies, but it soured her stomach.

“We’re still outnumbered,” she said.

“They won’t see us if you stay close to me.”

She eyed Amarant warily. “How close?”

Before he could reply, a rebel raised a lantern in the face of the dead man. Light revealed red on white, blood dripping into snow.

The rebel stumbled back. “Captain! Luca is hurt!”

Wendel let out his breath in a slow hiss.

The dead man—Luca—swung his arm at the rebel, caught him off guard, and knocked him off his feet. The rebel flew back, skidding across the snow, and the lantern flickered out. The five other rebels ran to his side.

“Keep back,” their captain commanded. “Luca isn’t hurt. He’s dead. Walking dead.”

Ardis glanced at Wendel, and saw his eyes narrow into slits.

Luca swayed on his feet, then charged the rebel captain. Three gunshots to the chest didn’t stop the undead man. He plowed onward as the rebels shouted and scrambled out of his way. At last the captain had the idea to unsheathe a brutish saber. Without ceremony, he severed Luca’s spine.

The dead man thudded on the ground and was silent.

“Necromancy,” said the captain.

Ardis looked back at Wendel. Sweat dotted his brow.

“Don’t overdo it,” she whispered. “You’re wounded.”

“I won’t,” he whispered back.

She felt the heft of the pistol in her hand and judged the distance to the rebels. They clustered together now, watching the shadows, their guns cocked and loaded. She wasn’t sure that killing Luca had been a good idea.

“Take out as many as you can,” she said. “When they return fire, we take cover.”

Wendel nodded and swapped his dagger and his pistol in his hands. The shadows hiding him swirled like storm clouds.

“After you,” he said.

Ardis leaned out from behind the train, her pistol raised, and sighted down the barrel. She aimed for the captain’s head.

A thought flashed in her mind. It had been a year since she had fired a gun. How strange.

She squeezed the trigger.

Her shot went wide, hitting the captain in his shoulder, but it was enough to stagger him. Wendel shot twice. A miss, then a crippling hit. The remaining five rebels returned fire. Bullets ricocheted off the sides of the train and buried into tree bark. Ardis dove into the snow and crawled under the train.

Wendel slid in after her, and dropped his gun.

“What are you doing?” she hissed.

“Take my hand,” he said. “Trust me.”

Ardis wasn’t sure she did, but she took the chance and grabbed his right hand.

Shadows crawled from his skin to hers and slithered over her body. They felt like icy fire. The shadows covered her face, and she gasped, claustrophobic for a second. Her vision rippled before returning grayer than before.

She stared at her hands. They were all but invisible.

The rebels ran toward them, their boots kicking up bloody snow.

“Find them!” their captain shouted.

“Don’t let go,” Ardis whispered.

Wendel’s hand tightened on hers. “I won’t.”

Flashlights shone under the train, just to the right of their hiding place, then swept closer. Ardis climbed out on the other side and tugged Wendel after her. She ran along the side of the train and peeked between the cars.

A rebel stared in her direction. His gaze slid right over her.

Ardis raised her gun and shot him square in the chest. Before he even had time to fall, she was running again with Wendel at her side.

Four rebels left. Including the captain, if he wasn’t too wounded to fight.

“Slow down,” Wendel panted. “Too much noise.”

“A little late for that,” she said.

Ardis darted between the cars, found a rebel, and fired. But her pistol jammed. She tossed it aside and unsheathed Chun Yi. The rebel fired his rifle, missing wildly, and she dropped Wendel’s hand a split second before she attacked.

Shadows vanished from Ardis, and she saw the whites of the rebel’s eyes.

Then she drove Chun Yi into his heart and kicked the rifle from his hands. Wendel swooped in and, with a kind of macabre grace, touched the man as he died. The rebel never hit the ground, and he never breathed again.

Ardis saw the life flicker from the man’s eyes, replaced by the flat gleam of death.

“Attack them,” Wendel told his minion.

And the undead man did as he said. He advanced at a shambling run and turned on his former comrades. The captain hacked at him with his saber, but he was weak, and it took several swings before he felled the undead.

Three rebels left. And they had started to panic.

“Find the necromancer!”

“I don’t see him anywhere, Captain.”

“God, do you hear the crows?”

The whooshing of wings and caws foretold the arrival of the sleek black birds. A murder of crows perched in the trees. At their center stood the necromancer. He stepped forward, sheathed his dagger, and revealed himself.

The rebels crossed themselves and gibbered prayers. Their captain stared at Wendel, transfixed, like a mouse before a viper.

Ardis seized the moment by raising her bloody sword.

“Run,” she said in broken Romanian, “or we will kill you all.”

Standing beside her, Wendel spread his arms. “And I will bring you back.”

The rebels fled to their truck. They leapt inside the cab, gunned the engine, and roared off the railroad. Slush sprayed beneath the tires. The truck fishtailed and careened until it found the gravel road, then sped into the night.

Ardis looked to Wendel. “That worked.”

He smiled at her, and then she realized he was shaking.

“I was bluffing,” he said.

Wendel walked back to the train, slowly, his breathing harsh. Crows wheeled overhead, circling the necromancer. The sulfuric tang of gunpowder lingered in the air. Ardis wiped Chun Yi in the snow before she followed him.

“So many crows,” she said. “I wonder why.”

He looked sideways at her. “You haven’t heard the stories? Crows are an omen of evil. When you see them, death isn’t far behind.”

“I’m not from here,” she said, “remember?”

“The stories are true.”

“Necromancers are evil?” she deadpanned.

“Don’t you wish you knew?” He snorted. “The crows can sense my necromancy, and they know I leave bodies behind.”

She glanced at the fallen lying in the snow. “We should bury them.”

Wendel braced himself on the side of the train. He leaned his forehead against the cold steel of the train and let out a shuddering breath.

“Damn birds,” he said. “If it were up to me, I would choose a quieter omen.”

Ardis didn’t know how much strength he had lost by using his magic, but she knew it wasn’t a good idea to linger too long in the cold.

“Wendel,” she said.

“Give me a minute,” he said. “Let me catch my breath.”

There was the squeak of hinges and a metallic scraping. All the crows took flight and whirled overhead, cawing. A man walked onto the train platform. He scanned the surroundings, then looked down. His stare latched onto Wendel.

Konstantin.

The archmage stared at the necromancer, and their eyes met.

Any trace of pain or fatigue vanished from Wendel’s face, replaced by a look of pure disdain. He stood straight and dusted off his hands.

“Where were you, archmage?” he said. “Sleeping? Did you have sweet dreams?”

Konstantin’s shoulders tensed, and Ardis stepped between the two of them. She suspected things could get ugly fast if Wendel kept talking.

“Ardis,” the archmage said, “move away from that—that necromancer.”

He muttered the word as if it wasn’t meant for a lady to hear. But Ardis wasn’t a lady.

“He’s with me,” she said.

Konstantin thinned his lips.

“Last time I looked,” he said, “the archmages did not employ his kind as mercenaries. Necromancers are too… volatile.”

Ardis clenched her jaw. “He swore fealty to me, so I can’t get rid of him.”

“Get rid of me?” Wendel shot her a sideways glance. “How flattering. Though I do like the sound of ‘volatile,’ archmage. How about we—?”

“Wendel,” Ardis said. “Enough.”

The necromancer swept his arm into a parody of a bow and stepped back.

“I see.” Konstantin’s mouth thinned. “You trained him like an obedient dog.”

Wendel laughed, though it was entirely devoid of humor. “You should know. I have a feeling your mother was a real—”

“Wendel!” Ardis silenced him with a glare. “We’re not here to pick a fight. We barely got out of the last one alive.”

He shrugged. “The guns did add an element of challenge to the battle.”

Konstantin’s cheeks flushed slightly. “A minor imperfection in the Hex. A structural repair of the underlying magic shouldn’t take me more than an hour to implement. In fact, I should start work on that immediately.”

Ardis glanced at Wendel. “And the necromancer?”

Konstantin thinned his mouth. His jaw clenched and unclenched. He looked the necromancer up and down, then met his eyes.

“You belong to the Order of the Asphodel?” Konstantin said.

Wendel’s voice and face remained emotionless. “Yes.”

“They will be looking for you,” Konstantin said. “And I can do nothing to stop them.”

“True,” Wendel said.

“But you won’t turn him in?” Ardis said.

Konstantin shook his head. “Necromancy does not fall under the jurisdiction of the archmages. The Order will deal with him.”

“Excellent,” Wendel said. “Now that everything is settled…”

He climbed onto the train platform, shouldered past Konstantin, and opened the door.

“Where are you going?” Ardis called after him.

Wendel paused, then let the door swing shut behind him.

Ardis sighed, her breath a long plume of white, and clambered onto the train. Konstantin touched her arm to stop her and gave her a serious look, like people usually did when they thought she was being foolhardy.

“Do you know who he is?” he muttered.

“A necromancer,” she said, “from Prussian nobility.”

Konstantin’s eyes sharpened. “Which family?”

“I don’t know. He wouldn’t say.”

“Ardis.” Konstantin looked in her in the eye. “The archmages have heard rumors about a necromancer from Constantinople. One of the Order’s new favorite minions. A boy from a powerful family.”

“A boy?” She tilted her head. “He’s not a boy.”

He shook his head. “He’s younger than you might think. And they have been training him since he was no more than a child.”

They haven’t seen me since I was eleven years old, Wendel had said.

“Do you know which family?” she said.

Konstantin shook his head. “The discovery of a necromancer would be kept as a closely guarded secret. Though there are those who suspect the defect originated among the nobles in the House of Hohenzollern.”

“Hohenzollern!” she said.

The same as Wilhelm II, the King of Prussia and the German Emperor.

I still managed to inherit bad blood.

Ardis met Konstantin’s eyes. “What do you know about the Order of the Asphodel?”

The archmage shook his head. “An ancient society of assassins, with a particular interest in black magic. Officially, the archmages of Vienna have a truce with the Order, but that was signed over a century ago, and we unofficially do not approve of their actions. They tend to believe the end justifies the means.”

“One of these means being necromancy?” she said.

“Exactly.” Konstantin studied the lightening horizon. “Now if you will excuse me.”

She nodded curtly. “I’ll let you get to work.”

“Thank you,” he said.

Before she could leave, though, he held out his arm to halt her.

“And Ardis?” he said. “Don’t trust him.”

She looked into his eyes for a moment, but she didn’t know what to say. So she nodded and stood for a moment, watching the dawn. Railway employees had started hacking at the frozen earth to dig graves for the dead. One of the men covered their fallen conductor’s sightless eyes, but left the rebels to stare at the sky.

~

Wendel wasn’t in the cabin. After checking the dining car, Ardis ventured reluctantly into the lounge car. Judging by the forest green carpet, leather chairs, and lingering scent of cigars, the lounge was meant to be a bastion of masculinity. But this early in the morning, there were no gentlemen to request that she leave at once.

Discounting, of course, Wendel—though she wasn’t sure he was a gentleman.

The necromancer sprawled in a chair, a glass of green-gold liquid in his hand. He sipped his drink, then smiled languidly at Ardis.

“Please,” he said, “sit.”

She remained standing, and frowned.

“What are you drinking?” she said.

“Absinthe.”

“Why?”

Wendel lifted the bottle to his face to inspect its contents. The color of the liquor within resembled his eyes remarkably.

“You heard the medic,” he said. “Plenty of fluids.”

Ardis sighed. “Not those kind of fluids. Alcohol isn’t a good idea.”

“Why not?” He sipped his drink. “It helps to dull the pain.”

She reached across and took the bottle of absinthe from the side table, then helped herself to a glass. She kept the bottle. Clearly, he didn’t need any more. The absinthe scorched her throat, and she winced at the burn of alcohol.

“Not bad,” she rasped, and she swallowed a cough.

“Brave of you.” He dipped his head. “I never drink absinthe straight.”

She glanced at his glass, and realized his drink was indeed paler than her own.

“May I recommend a little sugar to cut the bitterness?” he said.

Blushing, Ardis spotted a bowl of sugar cubes on the table, alongside a carafe of ice water and a slotted silver spoon. She remembered there was a ritual for drinking absinthe properly, though she didn’t know how.

“To tell you the truth,” she said, “this is my first time.”

Wendel arched one eyebrow. “An absinthe virgin?”

She grimaced at his choice of words. “Not anymore.”

“You don’t drink much, do you?”

She shook her head. “I don’t drink fancy booze.”

“Booze.” He smirked. “Absinthe is too upper crust to be booze.”

Ardis smiled tightly. “And I suppose you know a lot about the upper crust?”

He shrugged and swirled the absinthe in his glass.

“Perhaps the House of Hohenzollern?” she said.

Wendel looked at her over his glass. “Who told you that? Konstantin?”

“He did,” she said. “Is he wrong?”

“No.”

She drank more absinthe, and rolled its fire on her tongue.

“Do you want to tell me more?” she said.

A strange look passed over Wendel’s face like a shadow. He set down his glass too hard, and it wobbled before he steadied it with a finger. He mustered something resembling a smile, but she saw the darkness in his eyes.

“What does Konstantin think he knows?” he said.

“He said the Order of the Asphodel has been training a necromancer since he was a boy. But he didn’t say much more than that.”

“The archmages really should hire better spies.”

“What kind of training?” she said, testing him.

Wendel’s false smile vanished. He looked out of the window at the sunrise creeping between the clouds and the fog.

“One more day,” he said, “until Vienna.”

“Do you have family in Vienna?” she said.

He knocked back the last of his absinthe. “No.”

She held out the bottle to him, but he ignored it.

“I don’t exist, Ardis,” he said. “Not to them. You won’t find me on any of their family trees. I’m not a part of their lineage anymore. If I die, they will have an easier time erasing me from their reputations. An easier time forgetting.”

Ardis was distantly aware of her heartbeat thumping, and of a tightness in her throat.

“When a necromancer dies,” she said, “does he die like a normal man?”

Wendel’s eyes glittered with a molten emotion she couldn’t name. She found it hard to look at him, but she didn’t dare look away.

“God,” he said, “I hope so.”

She still held the bottle of absinthe out to him, and when he took it from her, the very tips of his fingers touched hers. A shiver of electricity skittered down her backbone, as if she could feel the latent necromancy in his skin.

For some strange reason, she wanted to touch him again.

Ardis fought the urge, until Wendel looked away and she glimpsed a split second of his face. He was struggling to hide his fear, and this made him look more vulnerable than she had ever seen him before. Deliberately, her muscles tense, she sat in the chair opposite him and touched the back of his hand.

Wendel’s stare snapped to her fingers. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to touch you,” she said.

He looked into her eyes, and his own were inscrutable. “Don’t.”

Ardis stared at him for a second longer, then curled her fingers into a fist. She leaned back in her chair and folded her arms.

“I figured it might be practical,” she said, “if I can touch you without feeling disgusted.”

This was of course a lie. She hadn’t thought twice about touching him during the battle. But he had utterly ruined the moment.

He sneered at her. “Lovely.”

She drained her glass of absinthe in one swig, to fortify her nerves, and climbed to her feet. Her legs felt a little wobbly, and she wasn’t sure if it was because of the alcohol or something else entirely.

“Not everyone hates you,” she said, “until you give them good reason.”

Wendel’s eyebrows shot skyward, but he raised his glass as if toasting her.

“Hate?” he said. “Already? Bravo.”

“Don’t mock me,” she said. “You know what I meant.”

Before he could respond with more sarcasm, she walked out of the lounge car and didn’t look back. She made it to the cabin, slid the door shut, and locked it for good measure. Lightheaded, she sat on her seat and rested her elbows on her knees. She let her hair fall into her face, raking out the tangles with her fingers.

What was she thinking? Trying to touch a necromancer. To show him she cared.

Did she?

Ardis looked at her reflection in the window. Her face looked pale and tired. So much had happened in the past twenty-four hours, she wasn’t even sure what any of it meant anymore. Her common sense had dried up and blown away like dust.

There was a rap on the door.

“Who is it?” she said.

“Konstantin.”

She sighed, climbed to her feet, and opened the door.

It was Wendel.

“I lied,” he said. “I thought you might unlock the door for the archmage.”

Ardis found it hard to catch her breath standing so close to him.

“May I come in?” he said.

She hesitated. “I—”

“I suppose I don’t need to. Let me apologize for being unnecessarily rude.” A smile quirked his mouth. “Or necessarily rude.”

“Did you come here to joke?” Ardis said. “It’s not very funny.”

“No.” Wendel sobered and stepped toward her. “Damn, let me try again. I’m not used to anyone wanting to… touch me.”

He held out his hands and stared at his fingers.

“I understand why I disgust you,” he said. “I’m a necromancer. I’m untouchable.”

“Obviously.”

Ardis knew it was easier to reply sarcastically, but she grimaced. She didn’t want to sound too much like he did, like nothing mattered. Although this time, when she searched his face, there was a sincerity in his eyes.

Wendel lowered his voice. “But I keep my hands clean.”

“Clean?” she said. “What makes you think I’m any less dirty? I have slept in the snow, and in the rain, and in the mud. I’m a mercenary, Wendel. You know my hands have had blood from who knows how many men on them. But what bothers me is the way you touch the dead, and do it to bring them back.”

He narrowed his eyes. “The dead were once the living.”

“Once,” she said. “Past tense. You… you undo what shouldn’t be undone.”

“Before you get too sanctimonious,” he said, “let me tell you a story.”

“Sanctimonious?”

“Yes,” he said, “sanctimonious.”

They stared at each other through the doorway. Ardis clenched her hands. Wendel’s face was shadowed, but she saw fire in his eyes. She stepped aside to let him into the cabin, and to prove she wasn’t intimidated by him.

“Sit,” he said, and he shut the door. “This isn’t that long of a story.”

She did as he said, her jaw clenched.

Wendel sat opposite her and stared out the window at some distant point.

“There was a cat,” he said. “A kitten, really. I had him when I was little, and I named him Maus. My mother made me keep him in the stables. She didn’t like cats. I would visit him every day after I finished lessons with my tutors. One day, Maus vanished. The stable boy told me that the cat had been kicked by a horse. Killed.”

“What do cats and horses have to do with anything?” Ardis said.

Wendel silenced her with a raised hand. “I went looking for Maus. I found him lying by the rubbish heap. His body was so—pathetic. Tiny and limp. I went to pick him up. I remember wanting to touch him one last time.”

Ardis kept her face stony, but her eyes were stinging.

“When I petted Maus,” he said quietly, “he woke up.”

“You didn’t know, did you?”

“I didn’t.” Wendel swallowed hard. “I brought Maus to my mother and father. I didn’t understand why they were so angry with me, or why they told the groundskeeper to bring Maus into the woods and burn him to ashes.”

Ardis hesitated. “How old were you?”

“Eleven. That was a month before they said goodbye.”

“When they sent you to the Order of the Asphodel?”

“Yes.” He laughed with immense bitterness. “Because, by then, I was hopeless. Ruined. But do you at least understand why I did it? I wanted to touch my cat one more time. Even if he was dead, he was still Maus.”

Ardis forced herself to look Wendel in the eye. A vague ache lingered in her stomach. She opened her mouth, closed it again, and looked out the window. Why was it so hard to say what she really wanted to say?

“Did you hate yourself for it?” she asked at last. “Do you still?”

“I won’t lie,” Wendel said. “When I first discovered my talent for raising the dead, I was… unhappy. But I learned to appreciate it.”

“In what way?” she said.

“Necromancy is fascinating,” he murmured. “There’s a certain repulsive elegance about the magic. With it, I can recover memories long lost. I can speak to the dead who left this world days, weeks, even centuries ago.”

His eyes gleamed in the dusk, and she wasn’t sure it was sadness for his childhood pet. She thought she heard pride in his voice.

Then he looked at her, and he smirked.

“If I’m an abomination,” he said, “I might as well enjoy it.”

“And you expect me not to be sanctimonious?” she said, but she couldn’t help smiling.

“I do tend to bring that out in people,” he said flippantly. “I aim to please.”

“Please who?” she said.

“Those whose fancy the repulsively elegant.”

“Or despicably handsome?”

A slow grin spread on Wendel’s face. “That too.”

Ardis cleared her throat. She was not about to admit that she found him handsome. Unless she already had, which was a mistake. Clearly he knew about his good looks, considering how much he resorted to charm. Not that she found him charming.

But after so much banter, he had reacted so badly to her touching his hand.

“Why?” she muttered.

“Pardon?” he said.

She blinked a few times. “Nothing,” she said.

Wendel nodded, though there was a tightness around his eyes. Ardis stood and tugged her jacket straight brusquely.

“I had better check on Konstantin,” she said. “Since I technically take orders from him.”

When her hand closed on the door handle, Wendel walked behind her. She heard him sigh, felt his breath stir her hair.

“Ardis,” he said.

She faced him and saw him offering his hand as if to shake it. He had a half-smile on his face, but his pale eyes said so much more that she didn’t understand. She decided to play it safe, and clasped his hand for a brisk shake.

“There,” he said. “Truce?”

She raised her eyebrows. “I wasn’t aware we were at war.”

His half-smile became a whole one. “Touché.”

Touché. To touch. She wasn’t sure if he meant that to be a pun, or if he knew how different it was to touch him like this. A handshake seemed so banal for who he was, knowing what magic crawled beneath his skin.

Ardis slipped her fingers from his. “You know where to find me.”

Wendel nodded.

As she closed the door behind her, she realized the look in his eyes was one of regret, and she desperately wanted to know why. She wanted to tell him the truth. She hadn’t touched him out of pity, or practicality, but because she had felt for him.

But it was too late. The moment had passed.

Konstantin stood in a circle of trees near the train. The sun lifted itself above the horizon, and shafts of brilliant light lanced the fog. The archmage squinted at Ardis as she approached, and lowered a pair of aviator goggles over his eyes.

“Watch your step!” he called out. “My preparations are nearly complete.”

Ardis stopped in her tracks and took in the scene.

A dozen or so passengers clustered around the archmage. Gentleman, mostly, their cigar smoke curlicuing into the frigid air, but a few ladies, too, chattering and fanning themselves as if waiting for a show to start. A flighty lady in a fox-fur coat nearly stepped on a bloody splatter in the snow and shrieked for the benefit of the men.

“Your preparations for the Hex?” Ardis shouted to Konstantin.

“Don’t meander too close,” a gray-bearded gentleman told her. “I’m afraid this is rather too complicated for a feminine mind.”

She glared at him. “Do I look very feminine?”

Konstantin waved her forward impatiently. “Ardis, come closer. Just be careful not to step on the quicksilver or the selenite.”

“What does selenite look like?” she said.

“It’s a clear crystal,” he said. “Looks rather like ice.”

She glanced around and saw that he had drawn a vast triangle in quicksilver. The mirrored liquid quivered on the surface of the snow. At the three points of the triangle, he had planted clear crystals, each nearly a foot long.

“Can I step over it?” she said.

“Of course.” Konstantin nodded. “Nothing is active right now.”

Ardis stretched her leg over the quicksilver and stepped into the triangle. She squinted at the nearest crystal and resisted the urge to nudge it with the toe of her boot. This all seemed awfully mystical for repairing the Hex.

Maybe this was why Wendel was so scornful of the archmages.

“Do you need help?” Ardis said. “I don’t know any magic, of course.”

“Oh, that isn’t a problem,” he said.

Konstantin waved her closer. She noticed he wore leather-and-steel bracers that left his fingers bare—armor common archmages, though she admittedly knew little about their function. In the center of the triangle, he had set up an inconspicuous apparatus about the size of a bread box, constructed of steel and polished maple wood. Brass knobs circled a glass window that flickered violet-white with caged magic.

“The quicksilver and crystals are for show,” Konstantin said. “This is the true magic.”

“That?” Ardis said.

“This allows me to direct the magic along specific frequencies and harmonize with the existing structure of the Hex.”

Ardis suspected he wouldn’t explain things any clearer than that, so she nodded.

“As for you,” he said, “make sure nobody wanders too near. Very soon there will be some powerful levels of energy in this area, and I don’t want to singe a wayward duchess or anything like that. Can you do that?”

Ardis nodded. “I can keep any stray duchesses out of here.”

Konstantin clapped his hands, and his bracers clinked. “Good! Then let me get started.”

She kept her face businesslike, and walked back over the quicksilver on her way to the crowd. The gray-bearded gentleman who had been rude to her didn’t seem pleased by her return, so she looked directly into his eyes.

“The archmage asks that onlookers keep their distance,” Ardis said.

The grey-bearded gentleman raised one eyebrow, but he was interrupted.

“Why?” said the flighty lady in the fox fur. “Is it terribly dangerous?”

“Very,” Ardis said.

She didn’t know how true this was, having never seen magic of this scale before, but she was satisfied by the gasp of the lady.

Behind her, there was a pop like a small firecracker.

“That’s not quite right,” Konstantin said. “Let me adjust things a bit…”

Ardis glanced back and saw the archmage fiddling with the apparatus. Bluish smoke wafted above his head. He climbed to his feet, dusted off his knees, then stood with his hands on his hips. He furrowed his brow.

“Konstantin?” Ardis called. “When—”

The archmage darted forward and cupped his hands heavenward. Between his palms, an arc of violet-white lightning lashed out like a viper and crackled into the clouds. Konstantin tilted his hands, shaping the magic, and it strengthened into a column of blinding light that clawed against the sky. A bone-deep hum resonated through the forest. Ardis felt it in her ribcage as the needles on the pines quivered.

“Stay back!” she warned the watchers, but she couldn’t hear her own words.

In their wide eyes, she saw only the reflection of the violet-white magic. She looked back to Konstantin and saw the lightning split in two between his hands. He raised his arms and directed the magic through the sky, letting it linger more in certain places, less in others, as if smoothing over invisible cracks in the Hex.

Konstantin clenched his hands, and the magic sizzled out with a flash.

In the deafening silence, there was the patter of polite applause as ladies and gentleman clapped their gloved hands.

“Thank you,” Konstantin said, “but we aren’t quite finished yet. Ardis?”

She walked closer to him, and he handed her a pistol.

“If you would do the honors,” he said.

“Of?” she said.

Konstantin smiled. “Testing the Hex, of course!” He faced his audience with a theatrical bow. “And now my lovely assistant, Ardis, will prove that the magic I have just constructed nullifies the power of gunpowder.”

Lovely assistant? Her cheeks warmed.

“Why so much smoke and mirrors?” she muttered to the archmage.

“Play along,” he muttered back. In a louder voice, he said, “Fire into the sky.”

Ardis nodded and raised the pistol’s muzzle skyward. She rested her finger against the cool metal of the trigger, then pulled. There was a click as the gun misfired, and the spidery tickling of the Hex crawled over her fingers.

More applause from the audience.

Konstantin smiled. “Excellent!”

Ardis inspected the pistol. In ordinary circumstances, she would worry that the misfire could in fact be a hang-fire—a delayed discharge—but these were obviously extraordinary circumstances. She set the safety and ejected the round from the chamber. The brass of the bullet was tinged blue, a tell-tale sign of the Hex.

“It worked,” she told the archmage.

“Of course it did,” he said with a grin. “A marvel of modern magic.”

Ardis arched one eyebrow. They could have used that marvel a few hours earlier. She found this little magician demonstration irritating, and disrespectful to those who had lost their lives before. She figured she was done here, so she handed the pistol back to him and walked away from the quicksilver and the selenite.

“Thank you!” Konstantin called.

She wasn’t sure whether he meant to thank her, or if he was merely bowing to the crowd.

~

With the Hex patched and the dead buried, the train huffed into motion. It rattled from the mountains down into fields of frosted stubble. Clouds streaked the crisp blue sky, and flocks of crows winged alongside the windows.

Ardis settled in the dining car and devoured toast, poached eggs, bratwurst, and strudel. Her hunger satisfied for the time being, she drank her coffee and studied a newspaper only a few days old. She still struggled to read German, but she stared intently at the ornate Gothic letters until she recognized a few words.

“Amerika,” she whispered.

The newspaper had a photograph of the president, Woodrow Wilson, who had been elected after she had left home. She hadn’t seen San Francisco for three years, and she didn’t know when she might see it again.

It had been a death that brought her to Europe, and a hope that kept her here.

Ardis stared out the window, the pit of her stomach hollow. She felt for the thin chain at her neck and fished out a locket, then opened the brass oval. She traced her fingertip over the pair of tintype photographs inside.

On the left, her mother looked out with shadowed eyes and a mysterious smile.

On the right, a pale-haired man stared gravely at the camera. Her father.

“Leo,” Ardis whispered.

But she knew Leo was very likely a pseudonym. He had revealed little of his identity to her mother during the fleeting time they had been together. Ardis knew only that he came from Austria, he spoke English with the slightest of accents, and he was muscled like a man who made his living from strength and speed.

And he had a double-headed eagle tattooed on the back of his neck.

When she was younger, Ardis thought this eagle would lead her straight to her father. But it could belong to any number of empires or kingdoms. Everyone from the Byzantines to the Russians seemed fond of the symbol.

She allowed herself to sigh, a brief indulgence of sadness, and hid the locket once more.

“May I join you?”

Wendel’s quiet voice startled her. She felt warmth creeping up her cheeks, and wondered if he had seen her looking homesick.

He stood with one hand on the chair opposite her. He had an expression of mild interest on his face. Morning sunlight slanted through the windows and glinted in his eyes. She lost a moment marveling at their greenness.

She shook the newspaper straight with a snap. “Of course.”

Wendel took a seat and unfolded his napkin. “I would say good morning, but I think we both got too little sleep for that to be true.”

Ardis smiled. “I did entertain the thought of going back to bed.”

He gave her a sly little smile. “That sounds like an excellent idea.”

“Sir?” A waiter bustled over to their table. “May I have a word with you?”

Wendel arched one eyebrow. “Yes?”

The waiter cleared his throat. “I’m afraid your presence in the dining car is making the other passengers uncomfortable. We would like to recommend that you dine alone in your cabin. Complimentary room service.”

At several nearby tables, diners stole glances at the necromancer and whispered among themselves. Ardis suspected that a particularly red-faced family of five had been the ones to make the complaint to the waiter.

“Ah,” Wendel said. “I see.”

He had a hard look around his eyes, but he tossed down his napkin and stood.

“Excuse me?” Ardis said. “We aren’t leaving.”

The waiter’s thin mustache twitched. “This dining car is welcoming to guests of all ages. Surely you understand why people with more delicate constitutions—children, the elderly—might be offended by his profession.”

“I don’t understand the welcoming part,” she said. “Offended, yes.”

“Ma’am—”

“We’re paying guests. We have every right to eat here.”

The waiter narrowed his eyes. “I’m afraid you may be mistaken, ma’am. There are less of your American liberties here.”

“Ardis,” Wendel said in a low voice.

She ignored him, staring down the waiter. “You saw his offensive profession last night. If it weren’t for the two of us, you would all have your throats slit by rebels. You should be thanking us. How about some hospitality?”

The waiter flushed. Huffily, he brought them another menu.

“That’s better,” Ardis said. “And tell those people over there to stop staring.”

The waiter flared his nostrils, but he did leave them in peace. The family of five continued nervously eyeing the necromancer.

Wendel sank back into his chair and leaned across the table.

“Don’t push your luck,” he murmured.

Ardis took a long swig of her coffee. “You’re welcome.”

He smiled, the dark shadows under his eyes forgotten for a moment, then lowered his gaze to his menu. She caught herself staring at the light on his cheekbones, and she hastily looked back to her newspaper.

“You read German?” he said.

“Badly,” she admitted.

Wendel walked his fingers across the table and tugged the newspaper closer without asking. He turned it in his direction.

“It’s all boring anyway,” he said. “Just the bickering of cousins who are kings.”

“Oh?” She looked sideways at him. “And you don’t care, being a nobleman?”

“A nobleman who never was, and never will be.” He said it lightly and thumbed through the newspaper. Then his jaw tightened. “Perhaps I spoke too soon. Well, Ardis, it looks like politics isn’t so boring after all.”

“What happened?” she said.

Wendel raised the newspaper and jabbed the headline. “Didn’t you read this?”

She stared blankly at the words, then shook her head.

He cleared his throat. “‘Heir to Austrian Throne Attacked,’” he read. “‘Archduke Franz Ferdinand Survives Stabbing.’”

Ardis straightened in her chair. “Who did it?”

“My money is on the Serbs.” Wendel bent closer to the newspaper. “It looks like the Archduke was hunting in Bosnia with local dignitaries, killing deer in the name of diplomacy. Franz can thank the Hex he’s alive. A Serbian lunatic knifed him in broad daylight, but only wounded his Imperial and Royal Highness’s arm.”

Ardis was fairly sure she knew which secret society had sent the assassin.

“Was it the Black Hand?” she said.

Wendel glanced into her eyes. “How did you know?”

She downed the rest of her coffee. “The archmages sent me to Transylvania to take care of one of their spies. The Black Hand has been secretly helping the Romanian rebellion, even if the King of Serbia won’t dirty his hands.”

“He isn’t stupid,” Wendel said. “Serbia hasn’t got the army to fight Austria-Hungary.”

“Neither do the Romanians, but that hasn’t stopped them.”

“The Hex has.”

Ardis stared at the dregs in her cup. “For now.”

Wendel made a neutral noise and gazed out the window.

“Why were you in Transylvania, anyway?” she said.

He met her eyes. “Playing at war.”

She grimaced. “Forget I asked.”

“Gladly.” Wendel waved over the waiter. “The omelet. And coffee.”

Without a word, the waiter nodded and poured him a cup.

“You do look as tired as I feel,” Wendel said to Ardis.

“We were up nearly the whole night,” she said.

“For all the wrong reasons.”

He deadpanned it perfectly, but there was a wicked glint in his eye. She leaned back in her chair to inspect his face. Why was he so flirtatious? Did he find it amusing to charm her one moment, then sneer at her the next?

Ardis decided for a direct attack.

“About our last conversation,” she said. “I think we misunderstood each other.”

“Oh?” He looked at her over his coffee. “How so?”

“I lied.”

Wendel laughed, with only a slight wince from his injury. “So not a misunderstanding. More of a misdirection of the truth.”

“When I said I was disgusted,” she said, “I wasn’t.”

His laughter died. He regarded her with a piercing stare, but said nothing. Her mouth dried, and her words dried up with it.

Why didn’t he say something? Why did he keep staring at her like that?

“I would appreciate it,” he said in a low measured voice, “if you didn’t think of me like that. I have no use for your pity.”

“Maybe I was sanctimonious,” she said, “but that wasn’t pity.”

Curiosity flickered in Wendel’s eyes. He slid his thumb along the rim of his coffee cup, the muscles in his jaw tightening.

“You made it very clear that you find me disgusting,” he said icily.

“I did.” Her face warmed with shame. “But now I’m not sure what to think of you.”

“Less disgusting, apparently?”

Ardis glared at him. “It’s not that simple. You’re not that simple, necromancer.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You say it like an insult.”

“Wendel.”

“You say that like an insult, too.” He managed a smile. “Maybe I was mistaken. But what should I think of you?”

Behind his smile, she could sense his fear. She reached across the table, not caring that her hand was sweaty, and clasped her fingers around his. Her pulse raced, and adrenaline spiraled through her blood.

She forced herself to look into his eyes. “Why don’t you find out?”

Wendel’s surprise knocked the cool smile off his face. He stared at her with a look of raw interest that sent electricity down her spine. But she still saw the fear in his eyes, still felt it in the tenseness of his hand beneath hers.

“Are you joking?” he said.

“Are you?”

Wendel narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. Ardis knew her hand would start shaking if she let go of him, so she didn’t.

“What,” she said, “speechless?”

“Give me a minute,” he said.

The waiter returned and set a plate on the table with a thud. Wendel slid his hand from Ardis’s and picked up his knife and fork. He wouldn’t look at her, and there was some color in his pale face. Deliberately, he sliced a section of his omelet, then divided that into smaller sections. He stabbed the egg with his fork.

“I don’t understand,” he said in an unreadable voice.

“What?”

“Many things.”

Wendel ate his omelet at a maddeningly polite pace. She wondered if this was his way of tormenting her, of punishing her for being a fool. He had already told her not to touch him. Ardis stared into the dregs of her coffee, because suddenly she couldn’t find the courage to look into his eyes. Why had she been so bold?

“Ardis.” Wendel pushed his chair from the table and stood. “I… I’m going. Out.”

“Out?”

He turned his back on her, and strode from the dining car to the platform between the cars. She hurried after him, though she didn’t know why she was so eager to meet her disappointment. She had made a mess of things.

The cold wind was bracing. It prickled her eyes and whipped her hair.

Wendel’s black hair streamed behind him, and he narrowed his eyes against the sun. He gripped the iron railing, his knuckles standing out in his hands, and leaned into the wind. When he spoke, his words were blown away.

“I can’t hear you,” Ardis said. “What did you say?”

He turned to her, and his face was at once open and closed, with a guarded fragile hope softening his eyes and his mouth.

“Was I wrong?” he said.

God, why was it so much more terrifying to face Wendel here than on the battlefield? There was something so incredibly disarming about him. He found a way through her defenses with a few well-placed words.

Ardis didn’t know how to reply at first. But then she did.

She closed the space between them with a swiftness that didn’t give her time to think, time to doubt herself. She traced his cheekbone with her fingertips, then curled her hand behind his neck and dragged him down to her.

She kissed him.

Wendel froze, his pulse hammering beneath the heel of her palm, his body tense.

A second later, it was as if a wall between them broke.

He kissed her back, fiercely, one of his hands knotting in her hair and the other pressing into the small of her back. He swept her against the railing, and the heat of his body against hers overrode the feeling of cold steel.

Ardis had never been kissed like this before. It made her tremble. It made her weak.

Wendel broke away from her with a gasp. He pressed his hand to his chest and swore under his breath.

“Did I hurt you?” she said, pretending not to grab the railing for support.

He shook his head. “I hurt myself. Forgot about the wound.”

“Wendel,” she said.

There was stark honesty on his face. “I didn’t think you looked at me like that.”

He came closer to her, even closer than they already were, and lifted his hand to her face. He hesitated, not touching her.

“It’s still strange,” he said.

“What is?”

“To know you want me to touch you.” He bit his lip. “Am I an idiot?”

“Not unless you don’t kiss me again,” she said.

Wendel didn’t need to be told twice. When he kissed her, this time it was with a slow gentleness. The sweet pain of desire cut through her. Her knees turned to liquid, and she hooked her hands behind his neck. He kept her from falling, but inside she felt her thoughts falling to pieces. All she could do was hold on.

“Ardis,” he said, his voice more gravel than honey, and he rested his forehead on hers.

She swallowed hard. She couldn’t believe how close she was to a necromancer. He felt very much like a man, but there was that shivering electricity of his skin on hers. The icy fire of it tightened her throat, and she retreated.

“What is it?” he said.

“I don’t know,” she said. “What am I feeling, when you touch me?”

Wendel averted his eyes. His hands slipped away from her back, and the warmth of their imprint faded into the winter air.

“I apologize,” he said. “I’m not always able to hide my necromancy.”

She rested her hand on his arm, and waited for him to meet her eyes.

“Don’t apologize,” she said.

He had a shadow of a smile. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

She smiled back, but she hoped that the truth wasn’t plain in her eyes. His power over death both thrilled and terrified her.

He ran his hand down her hair. “Do you still want this?”

She didn’t have to think to reply.

“Yes.”

He leaned in closer, so she could hear his murmur over the wind. “We have at least three hours before we arrive in Vienna.”

Her heartbeat leapt into a higher gear. “And?”

“I still like your earlier idea,” he said, “of returning to bed.”

His breath whispered in her ear. When Ardis shivered, it couldn’t be blamed entirely on the cold. But at the same time, a knot tightened in her throat. Three hours. Was that all the time he would give her?

“It was Vienna all along,” she said.

“Vienna?”

She crossed her arms and rubbed her elbows. “Your cue to disappear into the night.”

“Ah.” Wendel shook his head, but his eyes betrayed his wariness. “Allow me to remind you of the terms of my fealty.”

“So you save my life, and then you leave me.”

He stared at her for a moment that stretched on far too long.

“I see,” she said.

He furrowed his brow. “You expected more?”

She sighed, and realized how weary she was. “Men always make assumptions about women who work as mercenaries. You think you can seduce me and skip town. Well, I’m not that desperate for male attention.”

“Desperate?” he said mockingly. “Was I near the bottom of your list?”

“Definitely,” she deadpanned. “You think I have no standards? Besides killing people for money, I work as a courtesan on the side.”

Well, she was the daughter of a courtesan, but she wasn’t about to admit that her mother profited from lust.

“Of course,” Wendel said. “Only courtesans tolerate necromancers.”

She glared at him, but she had to bite back a smile. “You aren’t that tolerable.”

Wendel laid his hand over his heart and pretended to wince. “A mortal wound to my pride.” His smile was devilish. “Nothing I could say would convince you that we should spend those three hours wisely?”

“There’s nothing wise about it,” she said. “Reckless, maybe.”

He stepped close enough to touch. “There’s no shame in recklessness.”

“Wouldn’t I be disappointed?” she teased.

“I very much doubt that.”

“Oh? Aren’t you wounded?”

Wendel leaned into the curve of Ardis’s neck and sighed. His lips brushed her skin and sent a jolt of lust through her blood.

“Not too badly,” he murmured.

She doubted that, logically, but it was hard to remain logical with him so close.

“Liar,” she said, breathless. “You should stay. Recover your strength.”

He met her gaze, his eyes sharp, the amusement gone from his face.

“Ardis,” he said, “I can’t.”

She leaned back to give herself room to breathe. “Why?”

Wendel wouldn’t look her in the eye. He retreated from her with stiff shoulders, backed into the opposite corner of the platform, and leaned there in an artificially casual way. She edged closer to him, but not too close.

In the distance, the skyline of Budapest grew closer against the clouds.

Ardis looked sideways at him. “Why are you running from the Order? Konstantin called you one of their favorite minions.”

“Minions?” Wendel laughed darkly. “That presumes they can control me.”

She felt an ambiguous thrill slither through her belly. She had thought the necromancer worked willingly for the Order of the Asphodel, but then why would he want to leave his family forever as an eleven-year-old boy?

“You want revenge,” she said.

He arched his eyebrows. “Is it that obvious?”

“I understand the feeling.”

He studied her face for a moment, clearly judging how much he wanted to tell her. Then he shook his head, his mouth a thin line.

“I doubt that,” he said.

“Is this the first time you have disobeyed them?” she said.

“No.” With a grimace, he rubbed his hand over his eyes like he wanted to erase everything he had seen. “Far from it. But never anything this serious. They always expect me to come crawling back like a whipped dog.”

Ardis stared at his shaking hands, and she resisted the urge to hold them until he calmed.

“You’re wrong,” she said. “I do understand.”

“I’d rather not share my life story,” he said glibly.

She ignored his sarcasm. “I’m an outlaw in America,” she said. “I’m wanted for the murder of a powerful man. He was so rich he thought I wouldn’t refuse him. I didn’t stick around to hear what the police thought.”

Wendel’s eyebrows descended. “That was the first man you killed?”

“Yes,” she said. “And I still escaped my past. I left it all behind.”

“Did you?” he said, and he didn’t look convinced.

Wendel slipped the black dagger from his coat pocket. He ran his thumb along the flat of the blade, then polished it on his sleeve.

He spoke with a quiet intensity. “I worry only death will stop the Order.”

Ardis wanted to tell him that killing was never the only way, but knew she would sound like so much of a hypocrite. She wished she weren’t a mercenary, and he weren’t a necromancer. She wished she could save him.

“Wendel,” she said.

He pressed his lips together. She rested her hand on his shoulder, but he retreated from her touch and returned Amarant to his pocket.

“Let me help you,” she said.

Wendel narrowed his eyes. “You think of yourself as a hero, don’t you?”

“As if you are,” she said, blushing.

His lips parted in a sneer. Wonderful. He thought she was being sanctimonious again.

“Forgive me,” he said, “if I don’t believe in the redemptive power of love. It sounds too much like fairytales to me, and all the fairytales I ever heard ended badly.” He waved at himself. “Three hours. That’s all I can promise.”

Her face flamed. Did he have to be such a bastard?

“Thanks, but no thanks,” she said. “It was nice knowing you.”

His forehead tightened. “I didn’t—”

The door behind them swept open, and they both flinched back as if caught doing something indecent in broad daylight.

Konstantin regarded them both with sharp blue eyes. Wind ruffled his curly hair.

“May I have a word with you?” he said.

Ardis stepped forward, but Konstantin shook his head.

“Not you,” he said. “Him.”

“Me?” Wendel’s expression vanished behind its usual sarcastic mask. “What have I done to deserve this honor, archmage?”

Konstantin shook his head. “Follow me.” He held the door open.

Ardis opened her mouth to speak, then pressed her lips into a hard line. Had the archmage seen her kissing the necromancer? She felt giddy and frightened at the same time. Surely what she had done was forbidden in some way.

Wendel glanced back at her, questions in his eyes, but said nothing.

She watched the two of them walk back inside. For a second, she hesitated, but then she caught the door and followed them.

~

Ardis leaned against the wall outside Konstantin’s cabin. She figured it was smart to stay close, since a meeting between the necromancer and the archmage had a high chance of ending badly. And of course she wanted to eavesdrop.

“…clear to me that you are in danger.”

“And how does this concern you?”

That was Konstantin, then Wendel.

“This concerns more than….”

A conductor strode down the passageway, rapping on doors with gloved knuckles. “Ladies and gentleman, we will be arriving in Budapest shortly. Please gather your belongings and make your way to the doors.”

Ardis nodded at him and leaned against the wall.

“…a place among us,” Konstantin said.

A pause. Ardis strained to hear their indistinct words. She missed Wendel’s reply, muffled by the door of the cabin.

The brakes of the train whined as it slowed on its approach to Budapest. Outside the windows, patchwork fields yielded to city streets punctuated by clock towers and church spires. A grand train station loomed ahead.

“It isn’t impossible,” Konstantin said.

Either Wendel remained silent, or Ardis couldn’t hear him over the puffing of the train and the chatter of disembarking passengers.

“Welcome to Budapest,” said the conductor. “Please watch your step as you exit.”

A gentleman in a top hat elbowed Ardis as he passed, and she recognized him as the gray-bearded man who had been rude to her earlier, while Konstantin repaired the Hex. She made sure to glare at the back of his head.

“Ma’am?” said the conductor. “Is this your stop?”

“No,” she said.

He nodded and swung the door shut again. The train shrieked its whistle, then chugged from the station again after scarcely two minutes in Budapest. Ardis frowned at the clattering and stared out the window.

Wendel laughed derisively. “You surprise me, archmage.”

“Is it surprising?” Konstantin raised his voice, but he sounded amused. “I have never met anyone with your singular talent.”

Ardis raised her eyebrows. What were they discussing?

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a grizzled man approach. He wore unusual clothing, a gray cloak over an outdated suit. At his belt he wore a scabbard for a long curving sword—a scimitar from the Orient, by the looks of it.

“Excuse me,” the stranger said, his words quiet but unmistakable.

Ardis pressed against the wall to let him pass, not bothering to hide her curiosity.

“Could you help me?” The stranger spoke with an accent she couldn’t place. “I’m looking for a man named Wendel.”

Ardis’s mouth went dry. “I’m sorry. Maybe ask a conductor?”

The stranger’s stare lingered on her. His mouth twitched, and he nodded. Without thanking her, he strode down the passageway.

The Order of the Asphodel. Who else would be looking for Wendel?

Ardis waited until she was sure the stranger had gone, then knocked on Konstantin’s door. The archmage answered it with a look of faint irritation.

“What is it, Ardis?”

“Didn’t you hear? A man is looking for Wendel.”

The necromancer leapt from his seat. “Who?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “But I think you might.”

Wendel bowed his head and covered his face with his hand. He sighed, then let his fingers slide down. His eyes looked distant.

“He went left or right?” he said.

Ardis hesitated. “Right. Who is he?”

Wendel said nothing, his expression emotionless. Konstantin took the necromancer by the shoulder and caught his eye.

“Consider my offer,” Konstantin said.

Wendel shrugged off his hand. “Not now.”

He strode straight down the passageway in pursuit of the stranger. He kept his head down, his hands clenched at his sides.

“Ardis,” Konstantin said. “Keep an eye on him. Report back to me.”

She nodded and followed Wendel. Her heartbeat drummed in her chest, and she double-checked that Chun Yi was at her side.

Without looking back, Wendel spoke. “Let me do this.”

“Do what?” she said.

He said nothing, and slid open the door separating this sleeper car with the next.

The stranger stood with his back to them, near the end of the car. His hand on the hilt of his scimitar, he turned to face them.

“Wendel,” he said. “There you are.”

The necromancer tilted his head. “An assassin, I presume.”

“Correct,” said the stranger. “You can call me Sven. You know who sent me.”

Silence stretched between the two of them. Shadows hid the expression on Wendel’s face.

“What do they want?” he said.

“You.” Sven slid one foot closer to Wendel, then another. “You failed to report back after the battle at Petroseni. They thought you had been killed.” He paused. “The lack of a body didn’t convince them otherwise.”

Ardis arched her eyebrows. So they thought he could have returned from the dead.

Wendel thinned his lips, then spread his arms at his sides. “Sorry to disappoint. As far as I can tell, I’m still breathing.”

Sven gave him a gravelly laugh. “Not for much longer, boy, unless you come with me.”

“That’s a pathetic threat,” Wendel said. “We both know the Order prefers me alive.”

With a sigh, the assassin rubbed the stubble on his jaw.

“A word of advice, boy,” Sven said. “You might want to work on your story before they see you. Last time I spoke to them, they were none too happy about your little stunt. Now get over here.”

Wendel sighed and held both of his hands in front of him. “The usual?”

Sven took a pair of handcuffs from his belt and advanced on the necromancer as if cornering a wounded animal.

Wendel glared venomously at Ardis. “Stop staring like that. Never seen a man arrested?”

So he wanted her to pretend like she didn’t know him? Not a great idea. She knew her weaknesses, and one of them was bluffing.

Sven sized her up. “One of your lady friends?”

One? Well, Wendel as a womanizer was hardly surprising.

“Didn’t know you went for that type,” Sven added.

Ardis narrowed her eyes and resisted the urge to reply.

Wendel shrugged. “I take what I can get.” He waved him closer impatiently. “It’s a long way from Vienna to Constantinople.”

“Then you shouldn’t have taken the wrong train,” Sven said. “Tell that to the Order.”

Wendel stared at the ceiling and waited. The assassin grabbed his wrists, roughly enough that he stumbled, then snapped the handcuffs shut.

“Where’s your fancy dagger?” Sven said. “Lose it?”

“In my pocket,” Wendel said. “I know, don’t tell me, it’s worth more than I am.”

“Damn right.”

The assassin yanked open the necromancer’s coat and patted him down. Wendel’s eyes connected with Ardis’s for a split second.

What did he want?

Sven grunted. “Here we—”

Wendel swung his arms over Sven’s head and lunged behind him in a stranglehold. The chain between the handcuffs choked the assassin’s neck. Sven ran backwards and rammed Wendel against the wall. Savagely, Wendel wrenched the handcuffs even tighter. The assassin rammed into the wall again but didn’t shake him.

His face crimson, Sven drew his scimitar.

“Wendel!” Ardis said. “His sword—”

“Disarm him,” Wendel said. “Do it!”

Ardis didn’t have time to think. She drew Chun Yi and swung at Sven. Sword clashed with scimitar. She angled her blade so it slid down his and locked at the crossguard. Sven bared his teeth and lunged, driving her back, but she twisted Chun Yi and knocked his scimitar clean out of his hands. It flew sideways and clattered on the floor.

“He’s disarmed,” Ardis said.

Wendel kept choking him. “Good.”

Sven’s face darkened to purple. He dropped to his knees and tried to throw Wendel overhead, but he was too weak. The assassin’s eyes flickered shut, and he slumped, supported only by the chain around his neck.

“He’s out cold,” Ardis said.

But the necromancer gritted his teeth and didn’t let go.

“Wendel,” she said, “you can stop.”

He looked at her with shadows in his eyes, and still he didn’t let go.

“Wendel.”

Still.

“Wendel!”

At last, he released the assassin. He pressed his fingers to Sven’s neck as he fell. Checking his pulse, she thought.

Until Sven sat upright.

“Free me,” Wendel said.

Sven grabbed a key from his pocket. His eyes looked empty as he unlocked Wendel’s handcuffs. His hands fell limply at his sides.

Wendel tossed aside the handcuffs and rubbed the welts on his wrists.

“Now,” said the necromancer. “Leave this car. There, jump off the train. Walk—crawl, I don’t care—until you can’t anymore.”

Sven climbed to his feet and shambled toward the door.

“What have you done?” Ardis said hoarsely.

Wendel said nothing. He shadowed the dead man down the passageway. Sven groped for the door, yanked it open, and lurched outside. Ardis followed them. Her heartbeat thumped with dread. Sven plodded to the platform and leaned over the railing. He teetered, then fell from the moving train and rolled into the ditch.

Ardis craned her neck and peered down the length of the train.

Sven crawled from the ditch and dragged himself away from the tracks. Wendel watched until the dead man was out of sight.

“He had to be stopped,” he said.

His eyes had lacked emotion earlier, while killing the man, but they smoldered now. He held out his hand. It was slick with blood.

“I will admit,” he muttered, “that could have been a cleaner kill.”

Ardis shook her head. “He wasn’t bleeding.”

Wendel glanced down at his shirt and saw the widening red stain. His struggle with Sven must have torn the stitches over his wound.

“Ah.” He looked at his hand again. “Now I’m starting to feel it.”

His head bowed, Wendel clutched his ribs and trudged back into the car. Ardis pursued him, her hand tight on Chun Yi’s hilt.

“You didn’t have to kill him,” she said.

He didn’t look back. “He was working for the Order.”

“Yes. Working. You were just another job to him.”

He shot her a glare. “And you have a moral objection to killing on the job?”

Ardis blushed and shut her mouth, afraid to admit he was right.

Wendel knocked on Konstantin’s door with his bloodied hand. When the archmage saw him, he sucked in his breath.

“God,” Konstantin said, “what happened?”

Ardis leaned around the doorway. “He killed that man.”

“Necessarily.” Wendel gestured to his wound. “How much would it cost me?”

Konstantin blinked several times. “For what?”

“For you to heal me, archmage.”

“I’m not a doctor!”

“You do know at least some medical magic?” Wendel curled his lip. “And I’m not talking about money as payment.”

Konstantin backed away from him, then waved them both inside his cabin.

Wendel lowered himself onto a seat and doubled over with a groan. “Make up your mind, archmage, before I look elsewhere.”

Flustered, Konstantin shook his head. “I doubt anyone else on this train can—”

“Then name your price.”

Konstantin pressed his lips together, his eyes bright, then caught the necromancer’s gaze. “A week of your time.”

Wendel glowered at him. “A week?”

“That won’t be an easy wound to treat.”

Wendel sighed. “Three days. That’s all the time I can spare.”

Konstantin nodded and folded his arms. “Then allow me to start. Ardis? Fetch that suitcase from the luggage rack.”

Ardis did as he said, but frowned. “Three days of what?”

“I can explain everything later,” Konstantin said.

The archmage knelt by his suitcase and unbuckled the clasps. When he opened it, Ardis realized it wasn’t a suitcase at all, but an apparatus built into its own carrying case. It resembled the one he had used to patch the Hex, with less in the way of knobs and more in the way of sliding switches. She wished she knew more.

“I almost didn’t bring this,” Konstantin said. “Luckily for you, I did.”

Wendel eyed the apparatus. “What does it do?”

“Temporal magic.”

“Archmages and their technomancy gadgets,” Wendel muttered. “I suppose it came to this. Making a deal with the devil.”

“And you think that I am the devil?” Konstantin said.

Ardis cleared her throat and stepped between the two of them. They peered around her to glare at each other, then broke eye contact.

The archmage rummaged in a bag and tugged on his leather-and-steel bracers.

He glanced at Wendel. “I need you to…” He waved his hand vaguely.

“Excuse me?”

Konstantin’s face reddened, and he cleared his throat. “This won’t work if you insist on wearing that filthy shirt of yours.”

Wendel arched his eyebrows and shrugged off his coat. “Squeamish?”

Still blushing, the archmage fiddled with the temporal magic apparatus. Ardis took Wendel’s coat from him as he unbuttoned his shirt. The cloth, wet with blood, clung to his wound. He winced as he tugged it away.

Ardis inspected his injury. She was right, the stitches had torn open in the fight.

“Do you think two weeks will be enough?” Konstantin said.

Wendel hesitated. “Make it a month.”

Konstantin looked sharply at him. “You are aware that will double the pain?”

“Pain,” Wendel said. “I understand.”

He unbuckled his belt and looped it in his hand, then lay down on the seat, breathing shallowly, blood still seeping from his injury.

Konstantin moved closer. “Ardis? You may want to hold his arms.”

Her stomach somersaulted. “Why?”

“This magic works by accelerating the healing time of the wound, but it also accelerates the sensations of that time.” Konstantin paused and adjusted his bracers. “Wendel will feel a month of pain in one instant.”

“Wonderful bedside manner,” Wendel muttered.

Ardis met his eyes, and he nodded. He put his belt between his teeth and bit down on the leather, like he had done this all before.

“Ready?” Konstantin said.

Wendel raised his arms above his head, and Ardis grabbed his wrists. His heartbeat pulsed beneath her touch, fast with fear, but the necromancer was doing an excellent job of keeping his emotions from his face.

Konstantin moved his hands as if shaping an invisible sphere. Between his fingers, a green glow flickered into a burning ball of light. He inspected the magic with care, his eyes gleaming with fierce concentration. He murmured something to himself, then carried the magic over to Wendel and poured it onto the wound.

Sizzling light dazzled Ardis’s eyes. Blinded, she blinked fast.

The moment the magic touched him, Wendel bit down on the belt to stifle a scream. Konstantin lowered his hands over the wound and drove the magic down. Wendel’s back arched, and his arms flexed beneath Ardis’s grip.

“Hold him!” Konstantin said.

Ardis put her weight into pinning Wendel, but he was still strong enough that she struggled. He threw back his head, the tendons in his neck taut, and let out a long moan. Sweat glittered on his skin, which felt feverish beneath her fingers.

“And… done.”

Konstantin lifted his hands, and Ardis released Wendel.

The necromancer collapsed on the seat, then slid onto the floor. He spat the belt from his mouth. Shaking violently, he curled sideways and wrapped his arms around himself. His breathing came in quick gasps.

“Wendel?” Ardis crouched beside him. “Are you all right?”

“What,” he panted, “does—it look—like?”

Sarcasm. That was good.

She took him by the shoulder and rolled him onto his back. Besides the blood, nothing of his wound remained except for a long white scar across his chest. He sucked in a breath, then blinked as if seeing her for the first time.

“But thank you for asking,” he said, pain still roughening his voice.

Ardis leaned away from him. “No problem.”

Konstantin tugged off his bracers and grimaced at the blood on his fingertips. He opened the door to the bathroom and washed his hands in the sink. Ardis saw his reflection in the mirror, and the curiosity in his eyes.

Wendel grabbed the edge of the seat and hauled himself to his feet. He swayed, his hair in his face, and staggered a few steps forward. Ardis caught him by the arm so he wouldn’t fall, but he shrugged off her touch.

“I should clean up all this blood,” he said. “Before anyone sees me.”

Konstantin nodded and stepped aside to let him into the bathroom. As the archmage dried his hands on a towel, he snuck a glance at Wendel.

“That didn’t go too badly,” he said, “all things considered.”

Wendel stared into the sink, his eyes distant, as he washed the blood from himself. He gave special care to his hands, picking beneath his fingernails, scrubbing at his knuckles. Long after he looked clean, he let water wash over his skin.

Ardis wondered if he was thinking of killing Sven. No, of bringing him back.

“Can you start tomorrow?” Konstantin said.

Wendel twisted the faucet handle. “What?”

“Your three days. Does tomorrow work for you?”

“No.”

Konstantin frowned. “But we—”

“Don’t worry, archmage,” Wendel said quietly. “I will give you what I promised. Even if I can’t do it immediately.”

But he looked at Ardis when he said it.

“Two hours until Vienna,” she said. “At most.”

Wendel shrugged his coat over his shoulders. His fingertips lingered on his scar. He traced the length of it, then buttoned his coat.

“Please,” he said, “excuse me. I should rest before our arrival.”

As Wendel turned to go, Ardis glimpsed a grim kind of hope in his eyes.

~

Ardis sat alone in the observation car, still wearing her sword, and rested her head against the back of the seat. Mindlessly, she watched the scenery go by. The tracks rattling under the train reminded her of a clock ticking down.

Dread pooled in her gut. What did Wendel plan to do in Vienna?

He wouldn’t tell her the truth, even if she asked, of that much she was sure. He was distant again. Their kiss felt so faraway. She exhaled slowly. It was best if they parted ways in Vienna. If she forgot about him.

Though she wasn’t sure she could.

Ardis’s eyelids slipped shut, and she let sleep creep over her mind.

“Ma’am?” Someone touched her shoulder. “Excuse me, ma’am?”

She jolted awake and saw a conductor leaning over her. She realized her hand was on the hilt of Chun Yi, and she forced herself to relax.

“Where are we?” she said.

“Vienna,” said the conductor. “This is our last stop.”

“Oh, no.”

Adrenaline flooded her blood. She had overslept.

Ardis lunged to her feet, ignoring the conductor’s protests, and sprinted to the sleeper car. Their cabin was, of course, empty.

She ran back down the passageway and darted through the nearest open door.

Plunged into a crowd, Ardis fought to see her surroundings. The ceiling of the Vienna train station vaulted overhead, iron and glittering glass holding the night sky at bay, and all around her were people, swarms of people.

She zigzagged through the crowd. Their train had halted at the rightmost platform in the station, and she hurried along its length. Her mind whirred through possibilities. Wendel could have escaped at the earliest possible opportunity.

Or the Order of the Asphodel could have found him already.

Sven hadn’t been too cunning, but he was barely more than a messenger. If she were trying to catch a necromancer, she would post guards at his point of arrival. Undercover guards, of course, waiting at every door of the train.

Ardis let her mind slip into a state of observant calm.

Nearby, a man leaned against a column, his hat shadowing his face. He had no suitcase, and he was definitely looking for someone. Farther along, at the entrance to the lobby, a man stood with his arms crossed and his head high. Another stood at the doorway to the baggage area, not even trying to look inconspicuous.

Clearly they hadn’t seen Wendel, if they were still waiting.

Ardis scanned the lights overhead. There wasn’t enough darkness here for the shadows of Amarant to be effective. If she were Wendel, she would have disguised herself and left the train station as fast as possible.

Keeping her head down, she followed the flow of the crowd out into the night.

Rain hushed from the sky over Vienna. Puddles glittered with the lights of the city, and spray hissed from the wheels of passing automobiles. Ardis flipped up the hood of her jacket and strode to the center of the plaza.

She tasted bitterness in her mouth. Wendel was gone. And she—

“Ardis.”

A voice in the crowd, faint, but not too faraway. She spun around, searching, but she didn’t see anyone familiar.

“Ardis!”

A hand closed on her wrist. She spun around—it was Wendel.

He dragged her from the plaza and into the darkness. He pushed her against the bricks of a wall, his grip tight on her wrist.

Her breath fogged the air. “I thought you were gone,” she said.

Wendel looked into her eyes, rain sliding down his face. In the shadows, they were all but invisible to the passersby on the street.

“I will be,” he whispered, “in a minute.”

She glowered at him. “Then why did you—?”

He kissed her, hard and fast, the length of his body pressing against hers. She couldn’t decide where to put her hands. She slid them down his neck, his back, lower still. Shivering electricity washed over her skin, and she didn’t know if it was because of his necromancy or her own nerves coming alive under his touch.

He broke away from her. “Goodbye.”

“No.” She nearly growled the word.

Ardis shoved him back a few steps, then spun him around so he was the one pinned against the wall. She wasn’t going to be gentle this time, not now that he wasn’t wounded, not now that he wanted to leave her.

His eyebrows shot skyward, and he opened his mouth to speak.

She kissed him again. He returned the kiss with the same feverish desperation she felt building inside her chest. She knew they only had a moment together in the shadows, but damn it, she was going to make it last.

They broke apart after too short of a time, both of them gasping for breath.

“You can’t leave me like this,” she said, her voice uneven.

He looked into her eyes. “You know I have to.”

She stared at him, her skin still tingling, and licked her lips.

“Then promise you will come back,” she said. “Promise me.”

Wendel bowed his head, backed away, and nodded. His hand closed on the hilt of Amarant, and shadows swirled around him. In an instant he had dissolved into the darkness, leaving nothing but the memory of a kiss.

There had been a look in his eyes. A look both sad and terrifyingly familiar.

He was afraid he was never coming back.

Ardis tilted her head and stared into the sky. Rain splashed on her upturned face. Then she pressed her fingertips to her eyelids.

She had to forget him. She had no future with a necromancer.

It had been a thrilling dream, but that dream was over. With a steadying breath, she stepped from the shadows into the light.

The night was still young when Ardis arrived at the Hall of the Archmages. She nodded at the guards as she entered, noting how useless their ornamental halberds would be in battle. The archmages certainly loved pomp and circumstance. Her boots clicked on the marble floor, the sound echoing under the vaulted dome. Out of habit, she glanced heavenward at the dome’s celestial mosaic of blue and gold tiles.

Once she had found this all magnificent. Now it merely wearied her.

The doors to the Council Chamber stood open, flanked by guards. She glanced inside. The High Council had convened, all the archmages dressed in velvet robes. They spoke ponderously, like every word was profound.

With a sigh, Ardis sat on a marble bench and waited.

Her eyes felt gritty, her muscles exhausted, even though it couldn’t be past seven o’clock. She rubbed her face with the heels of her hands, then inspected her sword’s scabbard. The sharkskin had begun to crack over the wood. Ardis wondered if the scabbard was original, since her mother claimed Chun Yi was over a hundred years old. After the archmages paid her, she would look for a decent swordsmith in Vienna.

At last, after an eternity or two, the archmages shuffled out of the Council Chamber.

Ardis climbed to her feet and stood at attention. She waited for Archmage Margareta, an elderly woman whose sleek pewter hair shimmered above crimson robes. The red color signaled her expertise in incendiary magic.

“Ma’am?” Ardis said.

Archmage Margareta acknowledged her with a nod and a keen blue-eyed stare.

“Ardis,” she said. “Walk with me.”

Ardis followed the archmage down the hall and through several twists and turns, until they reached her office. Oak paneled the walls, and a maid tending the fireplace curtseyed before scurrying out of sight. Archmage Margareta lowered herself stiffly, afflicted with arthritis, into the leather armchair behind her desk.

“Ma’am.” Ardis took a seat opposite her. “The mission went well enough.”

“The Serbian spy is dead?” Margareta said.

Ardis nodded, then unclasped a chain at her neck and removed a gold-and-sapphire ring.

“I took this from Tiberiu,” she said. “As requested.”

From his cold dead finger, though she had washed off the blood.

Margareta squeezed a loupe onto one eye, then pinched the ring between her fingers and inspected the inscription on the inside.

“Veni, vidi, vici,” she muttered. “Tiberiu was a cocky fellow, wasn’t he?”

Ardis shrugged. “Easy enough to find and kill.”

Maybe she didn’t have a moral objection to killing on the job.

Margareta slid open a desk drawer, took out a coin purse, and tossed it to her. It hit the desk with a satisfying clank that could only be gold.

“Your payment,” Margareta said.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Margareta steepled her hands on her desk. “There is a much more profitable job available,” she said, “but it starts this Monday. You would have only Saturday to rest, and would need to spend all of Sunday travelling.”

Ardis arched one eyebrow. “I’m listening.”

“Do you know of Dr. Rudolf Diesel?” Margareta said.

“Of course.”

“He’s a brilliant man, one of Germany’s finest engineers. However, he has a certain tendency to be disloyal to his homeland.”

Ardis kept any judgment from her face. “Oh?”

Margareta thinned her lips as if she had tasted something unpleasant. “Diesel was a student at the Royal Bavarian Polytechnic of Munich, but he was born in Paris and spent some of his childhood in London. Now he plans to journey back to London for a crucial meeting of the Consolidated Diesel Engine Manufacturers.”

That sounded reasonable to Ardis, but she kept quiet.

“Diesel’s desire to help the British engineers has earned him the displeasure of several powerful people within the German Empire. We suspect that there is a plot to… convince him of his loyalty to Germany, and it could end rather badly unless we do something. The archmages of Vienna have agreed that we should prevent this.”

Ardis frowned and glanced into her eyes. “You want me to be his bodyguard?”

Margareta smiled. “You always have a knack for stating things plainly.”

“Where?” she said.

“Diesel’s steamer leaves from Antwerp on Monday evening.”

“Belgium?” Ardis tilted her head. “That sounds better than Transylvania.”

If she closed her eyes, she could still see the blood-splattered snow of the battlefield; could still see Wendel when she found him.

Margareta held out her hands. “Is it a yes?”

“I’ll do it,” she said.

“Good.” The archmage handed her a sealed envelope. “This contains the details about the mission. For now, you can go.”

Ardis slipped the envelope into her jacket pocket. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“You look quite tired,” Margareta said. “Was the journey here long?”

Tired. Such a small word to describe the fatigue that filled her bones with lead.

“It was,” she said.

“Rest,” Margareta said, with a magnanimous smile.

Ardis strode to the doorway, then hesitated, her back turned to the archmage. She clenched her jaw. She doubted Margareta had ever been on a battlefield, and certainly she had never killed anyone. She could afford to be polite.

Ardis glanced back. “There was a necromancer.”

That startled some fear into Margareta’s eyes.

“Excuse me?” she said.

“A necromancer. In Transylvania.”

Margareta froze with a handful of papers hovering above her desk. Her nostrils flared. When she spoke, it was in a hushed voice.

“Sit back down,” she said.

Ardis did as she was told.

“I found him on the battlefield,” Ardis said. “He was badly wounded, bleeding out. He still managed to attack me by reviving a dead dog.”

She heard admiration in her own voice, and she swallowed hard.

“Who is this necromancer?” Margareta said.

“Wendel,” she said. “He told me his name is Wendel, and he works for the Order of the Asphodel. Worked. He doesn’t want to go back.”

Margareta narrowed her eyes. “What did you do?”

Ardis clasped her hands in her lap. “I took him prisoner, at first, but since I saved his life he swore fealty to me. He travelled with me as far as Vienna.”

“He’s here?” The archmage blew out her breath. “Right now?”

“I don’t know, ma’am,” she said, which was the truth. “But Konstantin might.”

Margareta tugged on a bell cord to summon a servant. A maid rapped on the door.

“Bring me Konstantin Falkenrath,” Margareta said.

Ardis waited patiently. When Konstantin stepped into Margareta’s office, he was still wearing his dusty travelling clothes. He blinked a few times, like he had been spending too much time in a dark room, and ducked his head.

“Archmage Margareta,” Konstantin said. “Ardis?”

“Bring that chair closer,” Margareta said, “and sit.”

Konstantin dragged a chair nearer, wincing as it scraped on the stone floor. He sat near Ardis and glanced at her with raised eyebrows.

Margareta was silent for a long moment. “You made a deal with a necromancer?”

The color drained from Konstantin’s cheeks. “I meant to tell you first thing in the morning, Archmage Margareta. The man is undeniably talented, with a great deal of natural magic, and agreed to help us with Project Lazarus—”

Margareta cleared her throat. “You told him about that?”

“No.” Konstantin blushed. “Of course not. He knows only that we might be interested in particular aspects of his necromancy.”

Three days. That’s all the time I can spare.

“Project Lazarus?” Ardis said. “Is that—?”

Archmage Margareta silenced her with a look.

“She doesn’t know anything,” Konstantin said. “She was just doing her job.”

Margareta clenched her jaw, her eyes dark. “I expected better from both of you. What the hell convinced you to trust a necromancer?”

“We didn’t trust him,” Ardis said. “But he was useful.”

Konstantin bit his lip and nodded. “Agreed.”

With a heavy sigh, Margareta swept her hand imperiously. “Ardis, leave us. As for you, Konstantin, I want you to tell me everything that you know about the necromancer. Then we can make a decision about this dilemma.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Ardis said for the third time, in a monotone.

She knew Konstantin was trying to catch her eye, but she climbed to her feet and headed out the door without looking back.

She had done her duty. She was done.

~

Ardis recounted the gold coins she had received for Tiberiu, the Serbian spy. Eight hundred koronas. A fair price for killing a man with a middling bounty on his head, but hardly enough for her to rest on her laurels.

How many men would she have to kill to quit?

Not that she had ever seen a retired mercenary. They all seemed to die on the battlefield. Ardis had shadowed a swordswoman for a year, an informal apprenticeship, until her tough-as-nails mentor took an arrow in the belly and died of blood poisoning not two weeks later. Thinking about it still made her feel numb.

Too weary to walk much further, she checked into her usual guesthouse.

Ardis locked the door to her room, stripped to her undershirt, and flung herself onto the bed. The mattress creaked underneath her, but it was comfortable. She sighed and dragged a lumpy pillow over her ear. Things could be worse.

She closed her eyes and let exhaustion drag her into the dark waters of sleep.

Curled under the blankets, Ardis drifted in a warm daze. She heard the hush of breathing, felt the steady thumping of a heartbeat near her own. A hand rested above the curve of her hip. She opened her eyes and saw Wendel sleeping beside her. His dark eyelashes shadowed his cheeks, and he looked almost innocent.

In the back of her mind, she knew he wasn’t real. None of this was real.

Ardis just wanted to look at him a moment longer before she woke. She was afraid to blink, afraid to breathe. Wendel opened his eyes. He smiled, then hooked his hand behind the small of her back and tugged her to him.

Their lips met. The length of his body pressed against hers.

God, he was naked under the blankets. She groaned and knotted her fingers in his hair, closing the last fraction of space between them. She savored every inch of his skin, the heat of it burning against her own.

He moved over her, pushing her against the mattress, and—

She woke up. Alone.

A hollow ache lingered inside her. She clenched fistfuls of blanket and stared into the darkness. Damn that necromancer. Why did she have to dream about him? Why couldn’t she stop thinking about him after dark?

Maybe she should have never met him.

Or maybe she should have taken him up on his offer for three hours together. Ardis made a noise between a growl and a sigh, then rolled over in bed. If Wendel ever came back, she would make him regret leaving.

~

Early morning in Vienna. Mist drifted above the church steeples and red-tiled roofs of the city. The smoke of diesel-powered autos drifted into the bracing chill of the winter air. The Viennese walked briskly along the streets toward the Saturday market, many of them glancing curiously at Ardis as she passed. She knew her jacket didn’t do much to hide her dusty clothes, or the conspicuous scabbard at her belt.

And of course there was nothing she could do about looking foreign.

Hunger gnawed at her stomach. She stopped at a bakery, the locals already in line for the day’s bread, and kept her head down. When it was her turn at the counter, she nodded and said good morning to the freckle-faced baker.

The baker squinted at her. “What would you like?” he said in hesitant English.

Ardis suppressed a sigh and replied in German. “The apple strudel. Please.”

The man reached into the case. “Why are you in Vienna?”

He insisted on speaking English, like her German wasn’t good enough. She wondered if her accent was still so poor. She had a knack for languages—everyone told her so—but she had only been speaking German for three years.

What had she sounded like to Wendel? An American yokel, butchering his language?

“Ma’am?” said the baker.

Ardis blinked, then grimaced. She had to stop thinking about Wendel. She let her jacket fall away from Chun Yi sheathed at her waist.

“I’m here for work,” she said.

The baker sucked in his breath. “A peacekeeper? With the archmages?”

She nodded, and he broke into a lopsided grin.

“I want to fight.” He waved at his flour-dusted apron. “Not bake strudel. When they tell us there is a real war, I will join you.”

Ardis stared at him. He looked barely older than a boy.

“Why?” she said. “What about the Hex?”

He brushed her comment away. “We don’t need to hide behind the Hex. We will win.”

“Okay,” she said, at a loss for words.

The baker handed her the strudel, then gave her a thumbs up.

“Teach those rebels a lesson!” he said.

For his sake, Ardis hoped there would never be a war.

Ardis paid for the strudel and ate it as she walked. It wasn’t the polite thing to do in Vienna, but she didn’t care. She strode through the streets and walked into the market clustered in the shadow of a cathedral. Merchants hawked potatoes, eggs, beeswax candles, walking sticks, and evergreen garlands for Christmas.

She wasn’t interested in such wholesome wares. She was looking for a swordsmith.

Past the market proper, down a crooked medieval alleyway, Ardis spotted a shop with a wrought-iron guild sign, a gilded serpent entwined around a sword. She tugged open the heavy door and let herself into the shop.

The vague light of kerosene lamps glimmered on glass cases full of blades. She leaned in for a closer look. Daggers and swords rested on black velvet. Some glistened with the telltale iridescence of an enchantment forged into steel. A man with quick eyes and a devilish mustache leaned behind the counter, picking his teeth.

“Excuse me,” Ardis said. “I need some work done on my sword.”

At the word sword, the man straightened from his slouch. He eyed her up and down, then smiled with his toothpick in his mouth.

“You?” he said.

Ardis suspected the man was about to say something stupid. Maybe a glimpse of her sword would convince him she was here on business. She slid Chun Yi from the scabbard and let the blade glint in the light.

“Me,” she said.

The man stared at the sword for a long hard moment. “Oriental?”

“Chinese,” she said.

“Like you?”

“I’m half.” Ardis kept her tone brisk and businesslike. “Can you fix it, or do you only handle Austrian swords here?”

The man twirled the toothpick with his tongue before offering his hand.

“The name’s Vigoren. Finest swordsmith in all of Vienna.”

She would believe that when she saw it. She sheathed Chun Yi, and then shook Vigoren’s hand hard enough that it was just shy of crushing.

“Ardis,” she said. “I’m a mercenary.”

Vigoren gestured at her sheathed sword. “Where did you get that from?”

“It belonged to my mother’s husband,” she said.

He held out his hands, his palms facing heavenward. “May I?”

Ardis unbuckled Chun Yi from her belt and laid the scabbard in Vigoren’s hands. She slid her finger along the cracks in the sharkskin.

“See the damage, there?” she said.

He nodded, his brow furrowed. “How old is this sword?”

“I don’t know. My mother said it was at least a hundred years old. The blade was worn when I inherited it, but I keep it sharp.”

Vigoren slid Chun Yi from its scabbard and tapped the blade with his fingernail so it sang. He narrowed his eyes and stared along the length of the sword, then inspected the pair of Chinese characters engraved on the blade.

“Is that Chinese writing?” he said.

“Yes,” she said.

“What does it mean?”

“The name of the sword. Chun means pure, and Yi means justice or righteousness.”

“Hmm,” Vigoren said. “I don’t see how that has much to do with the enchantment.”

Ardis blinked. “Enchantment?”

“This sword must be well over a hundred years old, considering how weak its magic has become. But I should be able to—”

“It’s not enchanted.”

Vigoren laid Chun Yi on the counter. “Excuse me?”

“It isn’t magic,” she said.

The swordsmith laughed faintly and stared at her. “You can’t be serious.”

She crossed her arms. “Chun Yi has been my sword for three years now. Not once have I ever seen an inkling of magic.”

“There’s clearly an enchantment forged in the blade. It’s old, but it’s there.”

Ardis felt a flicker of excitement, but she didn’t let it show on her face.

“Can you show me?” she said.

Vigoren nodded and unhooked a small lantern from the wall behind the counter. The glass in the lantern looked cloudy and greenish.

“A will o’ the wisp lantern,” he said, “might show us more of the enchantment.”

Vigoren lit the white candle within the lantern, and Ardis smelled a pungent sweetness like sagebrush. He held the lantern over Chun Yi. When the scarred old blade flashed in the light, Ardis gasped. Shimmering green glowworms of magic crawled over the sword, creeping over the metal, burrowing into its heart.

“What—what is that?” she said.

Vigoren grinned, his face ghostly by the light of the will o’ the wisp lantern.

“A binding spell,” he said. “Not like any I have ever seen before, but we can expect exotic magic in an exotic sword.”

Ardis slid her hand along the counter until her fingers rested on Chun Yi. The glowworms crept from the blade to her skin. She couldn’t feel anything, but they were definitely crossing onto her hand before fading.

“Binding?” she said. “What is it binding?”

Vigoren blew out the lantern, and the glowworms vanished. “If you look closer at the blade, there’s a particular waterfall pattern that only occurs when magic is folded into the metal. Certain mages can read the steel to determine an enchantment’s purpose, but with this sword, I suspect only a Chinese mage would know.”

Ardis lifted the sword. Her heartbeat thudded against her ribcage.

“Can you unbind the magic?” she said. “I want to see what Chun Yi can do.”

Vigoren met her eyes and smiled. “It would be my pleasure.”

Chun Yi’s scabbard would be mended by nightfall, the swordsmith promised, and he would also try his luck at unbinding the enchantment. So Ardis left Vigoren’s workshop feeling acutely empty-handed without her sword.

Empty-handed, and restless. Like she had forgotten how to relax.

She blew out her breath, slowly, and let it steam the air. The sun floated overhead like a silver coin in a bath of clouds. The whole day stretched ahead of her, free from obligations, free from the need for wariness and violence.

It felt strange.

Who had she become? Would her mother even recognize her if she returned?

Ardis meandered into the hubbub of the market. She was still hungry after this morning’s strudel, and her fingers were numb from the chilly air. Buying something hot sounded good. Beyond basic desires she didn’t know what she wanted, but she hoped the trip to Antwerp would clear her mind. Belgium was new to her.

She wondered if she was a lost soul. Maybe that was why she understood Wendel.

The perfume of jasmine tea unfurled on the wind, and Ardis felt the knife of longing cut her. She followed her nose and found a withered old Chinese man selling loose-leaf tea. He steeped a kettle of tea over a tiny portable stove and offered samples in porcelain cups. The man smiled at her, revealing cracked teeth.

“Qǐng wèn,” she said in Mandarin, “wǒ xiǎng mǎi yī diǎnr chá. Nín yǒu shén me?”

Excuse me, I would like to buy a little tea. What do you have?

The man replied to her in Cantonese, which she barely understood, and she sighed and repeated herself in German. She pried open a tin of jasmine tea and brought it to her nose, the leaves soaked in the scent of flowers. Home. Her eyes welled with tears, and she looked away. The man offered her a cup to try.

“Xiè xie,” she told the man, and he understood her thanks.

Ardis sipped the tea and scalded her mouth. At least the pain was a distraction.

~

Stars sequined the sky above Vienna, glittering like the gowns adorning ladies on their pilgrimage to the opera. The women glanced at Ardis as they passed, and she saw them clutch their purses a little closer. She smiled, wondering if she looked so dangerous even without her sword, then strode down the street.

Light spilled from the windows of Vigoren’s workshop, and Ardis let herself inside.

The swordsmith was nowhere to be seen and, like before, there were no customers besides herself. She walked to the counter and looked around, but there was no bell to ring for service. In the glass case near her right, she inspected the lineup of antique rapiers. She didn’t like the thrust-and-parry style of fencing, but she had seen one or two mercenaries who had made a living out of killing that way.

The door creaked open behind her, and heavy boots clomped on the floor.

“Hello?” boomed a voice.

She glanced back and saw a big bear of a man with long thinning hair. He let the door swing shut behind him and lumbered into the shop. When he saw her, his eyes flickered with interest, and he grinned at her.

“Didn’t know Vigoren had a shop girl,” he said.

“He doesn’t,” Ardis said, “and do I look like a girl?”

The big man looked her up and down, slowly, with a revolting leer.

“You look like a very nice girl,” he said.

Ardis shook her head. “Try harder.”

“What?”

“If you want to insult me,” she said, “try harder.”

The big man thought about this for a moment, then grimaced. His hand clamped down over the hilt of the longsword at his waist. Ardis reached for Chun Yi, but of course it wasn’t there. She glanced at the rapiers, ready to smash the case and grab one if she absolutely had to. This oaf probably wasn’t that good.

“Come on, sweetheart.” The big man lifted his hands. “Just trying to be friendly.”

“Vigoren?” Ardis raised her voice to a shout. “I’m here for my sword.”

The big man moved close enough that she could smell his sweat and the beer on his breath. Not to mention see the remnants of his last meal in his beard. She pressed her lips together and tried not to gag.

“Sword?” he said. “Why do you want a sword?”

Ardis ignored him and edged closer to the rapiers. The big man leaned down to her height, his breath damp in her ear.

“I have a sword for you right here,” he leered, and he grabbed his crotch.

She challenged him with a stare. “Back off before I hurt you.”

The big man laughed, then lunged for a fistful of her hair. She sidestepped, grabbed his wrist, and twisted his arm. He stumbled forward, off balance, and she followed with a swift elbow to his face. He grunted and brought his hands up to protect himself. She took the chance to draw his sword from its scabbard.

Panting, Ardis pointed the longsword at the man’s face.

“Done?” she said.

He nodded, sweating. She backed away and inspected his longsword. It was a dull blade, not nearly as nice as Chun Yi.

“You don’t deserve to have this,” she said, “if you threaten women with it.”

At that moment, Vigoren strolled out from the back of the shop. Cradling Chun Yi in its scabbard, he glanced between the two of them.

“Might I ask what the hell is going on?” the swordsmith said.

“This idiot tried to grab me,” Ardis said.

Vigoren glanced at him. “Is that true?”

The big man nodded, still breathing hard.

“Get out,” Vigoren said.

“But—but she has my sword!” spluttered the big man.

Ardis narrowed her eyes. “You can have it,” she said, “only because I’m not a thief.”

She dropped the sword and kicked it across the floor. It skidded to the man’s feet. He fumbled to pick it up, then scrambled out into the night. The door swung shut behind him, and Ardis straightened her clothes.

“Right,” she said. “My sword?”

Vigoren cleared his throat. “I hope he wasn’t a paying customer.”

“He was just the wrong kind of drunk,” she said. “Too drunk to keep his hands to himself, and too sober not to stay put in the tavern.”

With a laugh Vigoren offered her Chun Yi, pommel-first.

“I fixed the scabbard,” he said, “and I believe I unbound the enchantment.”

Ardis took a deep breath, then swept her sword from its scabbard.

Nothing happened. Chun Yi still looked dull and battered. Frowning, she gripped the sharkskin hilt tighter and swung the sword so it whirred through the air. The balance of the blade felt familiar. Disappointingly.

“Are you sure?” Ardis said.

Vigoren shrugged. Maybe he was mistaken.

“Here,” she said. “Take another look.”

She flipped the sword and caught the flat of the blade in her left hand. Chun Yi slipped and cut her in the crook of her thumb.

Ardis grimaced. “Damn it.”

Blood trickled onto the blade. Iridescence shimmered down the length of the steel, then ignited in a rush of magic. Chun Yi burned like an ember, glowing cherry red at the center, cooling to ash gray at the edges.

Ardis almost dropped the sword, but it smoldered without heat.

“Blood magic!” Vigoren said.

She glanced at him. He was grinning.

“Swordsmiths dream of discovering enchantments like this,” Vigoren said. “Ancient, rare, and hidden in even the ugliest of blades.”

Ugly? Ardis decided not to argue the point.

“I saw it in an axe, once, years ago,” he said. “I never thought I would see it again.”

Ardis let the sword mesmerize her. She always found burning beautiful.

“What does blood magic do?” she said.

Vigoren rubbed his mustache. “The blade is bloodthirsty, very literally. The more blood it drinks, the more powerful it will become.”

“Powerful? How?”

“Sharper. Stronger. Faster.”

Ardis backed into an easy stance and swung Chun Yi. The sword felt exceedingly well-balanced, even lighter than she remembered. She moved through a few sword forms, then sheathed the blade. The red glow died instantly. The palm of her hands still tingled from touching the sword. She drew Chun Yi halfway, watched the glow creep along the steel again, then let it fall back into the scabbard.

“It’s a real beauty,” Vigoren said.

Ardis laughed. “I feel like I should be extra careful with an enchantment.”

“Oh, that sword has survived centuries of hacking and slashing.”

“I really don’t know a thing about enchantments. A man once let me borrow his dagger’s magic, but that’s about it.”

“Borrow?” Vigoren said. “A mage, then.”

Ardis shrugged. “I guess you could call him that. His dagger was black, Damascus steel, with an enchantment for invisibility.”

Vigoren glanced sideways at her with a skeptical smile.

“Invisibility?” he said. “That’s impossible.”

“Well, near invisibility.”

“How so?”

“It looked like shadows. Shadows that cloaked him completely.”

Vigoren’s smile disappeared. He tilted his head, his eyes dark.

“And you’re still alive?” He shook his head. “Among swordsmiths, there are rumors about a dagger forged from darkness. The man who wields it is known for violence and cruelty. He’s what you might call evil.”

Ardis couldn’t help but shudder, even though she scoffed at foolish rumors.

“Evil?” she said. “I wouldn’t call him evil.”

Vigoren’s eyebrows went skyward. “How do you know him?”

It wouldn’t be smart to tell him more, especially with the Order of the Asphodel in Vienna this very moment.

Ardis cleared her throat and reached for her wallet.

“How much for the repairs?” she said.

“Ninety koronas,” Vigoren said. “Sharkskin isn’t easy to come by.”

She handed him the coins. Her blood smudged the silver. She blushed and pressed her fingertips to the cut on her palm.

“Sorry,” she said.

“Don’t worry about it.” Vigoren smiled. “Just don’t let your sword cut you again.”

She tried to smile back, not entirely thrilled with blood magic.

~

On the way from Vigoren’s workshop to the guesthouse where she was staying, Ardis hesitated outside a brewpub. The door swung open as a man staggered out, and the aroma of wiener schnitzel wafted to her. She heard laughter and at least one drinking song. At this time of night the beer steins were always full.

Ardis licked her dry lips and stepped inside, lured by the promise of ale and dinner.

She found a stool at the bar and caught the eye of a barmaid. “A pint of your best lager.”

“Sure thing.”

The barmaid delivered a stein brimming with beer, and Ardis swigged the delicious bitterness. She propped her sore feet on the barstool, glanced around the brewpub, and sighed with growing contentment. Maybe this was what Austrians called Gemütlichkeit, the feeling of warm peace in good company. She would ask Konstantin if—

“You!”

A shout cut through the hubbub. She turned around and saw none other than the big man from the swordsmith’s shop. He was advancing on her from the corner of the pub, and he wasn’t alone. Two equally hulking friends backed him up. The big man’s eye looked bruised where she had elbowed him, but he was grinning.

Ardis tensed instantly, since she doubted that was a friendly grin.

“Missed me?” he asked.

He loomed over her, pressing her against the bar, and his two friends sat on the barstools flanking her. She shrugged and drank more beer. Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw that all three men were armed with swords.

“This is the bitch who gave you that black eye?” one of the friends said.

“Yeah, Dirk,” said the other, “she’s a head shorter than you.”

Dirk. So that was the big man’s name. She would remember that.

“Sorry,” Ardis said, with a nod at Dirk. “That looks nasty. Well, nastier than usual.”

Both of the friends guffawed, and they were sitting close enough that it hurt her ears. Dirk’s face reddened. His grin looked even more forced. Ardis drained the last of her beer, then set down the tankard with a decisive thunk. She caught the eye of the barmaid, who looked a little worried, and flipped her a coin.

“I’m done for the night,” she said. “This pub just got too crowded.”

She slipped past Dirk, and surprisingly, none of the thugs tried to grab her. Maybe it was Chun Yi sheathed at her belt. She pushed through the door of the brewpub and quickened her pace. Footsteps clomped after her.

A glance backward proved that Dirk was in pursuit.

Ardis’s hand closed over the hilt of Chun Yi, and she felt a jolt of adrenaline. She lingered near an alley and considered her options. She was supposed to be on break between missions as a mercenary. She was supposed to be relaxing, not picking fights with idiots twice her size and three times as stupid. She was—

To hell with it. Dirk needed to be stopped.

Ardis darted into the alley. Dirk followed her, his sword flashing in the lamplight. She glanced over her shoulder. A dead end. She would have to be careful not to get cornered. Dirk stumbled to a halt, his breath fouling the air.

“I warned you that I would hurt you,” Ardis said.

“You need a man between your legs,” he said, “you uptight little bitch.”

She smiled grimly and drew Chun Yi. The blade smoldered with blood magic, and she saw surprise in Dirk’s eyes.

Was he stupid enough to attack her now? Yes, he was.

Ardis waited for him to charge, then swept past him and sliced his ribs just enough to hurt. Chun Yi crackled at the taste of blood.

With a shout, Dirk spun around. His sword whirred toward her head, and she blocked his attack. The shock of it drove her backward and sent reverberations down her arm. She recovered her balance and pivoted away from him.

He was much stronger than she had thought. But she could still outsmart him.

The thought steeled her muscles. When Dirk attacked again, Ardis slid Chun Yi along the length of his blade and stabbed him in the shoulder. Dirk bellowed. Blood trickled down her sword’s hilt and dripped hotly over her hand. When she yanked out Chun Yi, the blade sizzled and spat a trail of sparks into the air.

Dirk attacked again, but his sword swung wide. She dodged the blow with ease.

His stance left him vulnerable. In one swift movement, she crossed blades, reached under his sword’s pommel, and grabbed his hilt. With a savage twist to his wrist, she wrenched his blade sideways and disarmed him.

Dirk bellowed again, like he thought he could intimidate her, but it was too late.

With a sword in each hand, Ardis stared at him through narrowed eyes. Chun Yi smoldered on the verge of flames, and she was struck by an urge to cut his neck and let all his blood flow. But she was merciful.

“You lost,” she said. “And this time, you won’t get your sword back.”

Dirk backed away, holding his head low like a wounded bull. His blood dripped down his shirt and pattered on the cobblestones. At the mouth of the alley, he groaned, swayed, then turned around and fled down the street.

Ardis watched him run. Then she tossed his sword into the nearest garbage heap.

Ardis strode through the dark and glittering night. She returned to the train station where Wendel had left her. As if the sky remembered, it began to rain again. She drew Chun Yi and watched raindrops hiss and die on the blade. She touched her fingertip to the steel, but it still felt cool and smooth under her skin.

How much blood did her sword want to devour?

A train’s shrill whistle pierced the air. Ardis shivered and sheathed her sword. Driven by determination, she bought a ticket for the next overnight train from Vienna to Frankfurt. There, she could travel to Brussels, then Antwerp. Her ticket wasn’t first-class this time, though, and Ardis smiled faintly at the memory.

She shared a couchette car with three young German men in school uniforms. They were all very polite to her, though they kept eyeing her sword. She stashed Chun Yi in the crack between her berth and the wall, then kicked off her boots and lay down. Weariness weighting her bones, Ardis stared at the ceiling.

“Chun Yi,” she mouthed to herself.

Wendel’s question echoed in her mind.

And how exactly did Pure Justice happen to fall into your hands?

It had belonged to her mother, and before that, it had been the property of her mother’s husband. He thought of her mother as his property as well, though he treated her even more poorly. At least he knew the value of the sword and kept it safe on the long voyage from China to America. He didn’t think of her mother as breakable.

It was her mother who broke him in the end, and with his own sword.

When he hurt her one too many times, she defended herself. That was what she called it—defense—but her eyes glinted with vengeance every time she told the story. In some way, Ardis took a twisted comfort in knowing both she and her mother had killed with Chun Yi. But she still didn’t know where the sword came from.

The overnight train clattered from Vienna and ventured into the deepening darkness. Ardis let her eyelids close, then fell asleep.

She dreamed of blood, and guns, and smoldering magic.

~

Frankfurt and Brussels passed by in a blur of gray skies and sprints through train stations to make her transfers. When Ardis arrived in Antwerp on Monday morning, she hopped from the train and glanced around with bleary eyes.

So this was the new Antwerp Central Station. She had heard about its impressive arches, ornate stonework, and immense windows that fanned like peacock tails. In America, you didn’t get this kind of fairytale architecture.

Ardis peered at a clock mounted above a gilded molding of Antwerp’s coat of arms.

A quarter past eight.

Damn, she was late. Diesel’s train arrived from Ghent at eight o’clock sharp, and she was supposed to meet him here.

Ardis broke into a run and barreled down the platform. A conductor blew his whistle at her, signaling for her to slow down, but she ignored him. Staggered by the immensity of the entrance hall, she slowed to a jog. She reached into her jacket and took out a photograph of Diesel from the envelope Margareta had given her in Vienna. He wore spectacles over his dark eyes, and had a neatly-trimmed white mustache.

Photograph in hand, she hunted for him in the entrance hall.

There, on a bench, Diesel sat with his hands folded in his lap. He wore an understated suit, but she could tell it was costly from the cut and style of the fabric. He had the same calm expression as his likeness in the photograph. When she walked up to him, he glanced into her eyes. She squared her shoulders and cleared her throat.

“Dr. Rudolf Diesel?” Ardis said.

“Yes?” he said

“My name is Ardis,” she said. “The archmages of Vienna sent me to travel with you.”

“Of course,” he said. “Much as I would rather travel alone.”

A subtle accent sharpened his soft voice. She remembered he had been born in Paris, then lived in London. He was a wanderer, like her.

“Sir?” Ardis said. “Are you ready?”

Diesel stood and bent to grab his luggage. She beat him to it and took his bag for him. He cleared his throat and stepped back.

“Please,” he said, “let me. I don’t require a porter as well as a bodyguard.”

“I insist,” Ardis said, though his bag was heavy.

Diesel sighed. “Very well. Shall we?”

He strolled toward the doors, and Ardis matched his stride. It was awkward to carry the bag with Chun Yi sheathed at her waist, though she managed not to struggle. She didn’t want him to think she was weak—or worse, extraneous.

“I had hoped for a bite to eat,” Diesel said, “unless the archmages wish otherwise?”

“I go where you go, sir.”

Ardis’s stomach rumbled, and Diesel’s mustache didn’t quite hide his small smile. As they stepped from Antwerp Central, the early sunlight slanted down into their eyes. He winced and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“What is it?” Ardis said.

“Oh, it’s nothing. Merely another migraine.”

“Ah.”

That was something she would have to watch out for. Headaches might distract him.

Diesel hailed a taxicab, then helped Ardis load his luggage into the back. When the driver glanced at them in the rearview mirror, his blue eyes met Ardis’s. For some reason, he wrinkled his nose. She stiffened in her seat.

Diesel pinched the knees of his trousers and tugged them straight as he sat in the taxi.

“Driver,” he said, “find us the finest nearby café.”

The driver nodded, but his jaw tightened. He gave the taxi some gas, and they accelerated smoothly away from Antwerp Central. Diesel leaned back in his seat and gazed at the city, but Ardis remained tense.

“Where are you from?” the driver said, and again he glanced at Ardis.

“Ghent,” Diesel said. “I’m here on business.”

“And your friend?”

He said the word like it was a synonym for prostitute. As if a lady of the night would ever dress so shabbily, or carry luggage for her client.

“I don’t know,” Diesel said, politely. “We have only just met.”

“I’m from America,” Ardis said to the driver.

The driver shook his head. “What are you?”

She leaned forward in her seat, not bothering to disguise her sneer.

“I’m a mercenary. And I’m here to make sure this man gets to where he needs to go as safely and quickly as possible. Understood?”

The driver’s eyes widened, and he gave the taxi more gas. Ardis’s cheeks burned, but she stared steadfastly out the windshield until they pulled up outside of a café. Diesel paid the driver, and they exited the taxi.

Before he shut the door, Ardis overhead the driver.

“Filthy Huns,” he muttered.

She almost laughed. Was he trying to insult her for being half-Chinese, or Diesel for being German? Luckily, Diesel didn’t seem to hear.

“Ardis, was it?” he said.

She nodded.

“I assume you will join me for breakfast?”

She mustered a smile, and followed him into the café. It smelled strongly of coffee and toast inside, and the wood-paneled walls gleamed with newness. They sat by a window and ordered waffles, which were promptly delivered steaming hot, with heaps of whipped cream and syrupy canned strawberries on the side.

“Waffles are essential in Belgium,” Diesel said.

Ardis nodded in reply. She appreciated his friendly chitchat, though this was a mission. She wasn’t here to entertain him.

As he shook more sugar over his waffle, Diesel glanced at her.

“American?” he said.

She nodded and stabbed a strawberry with her fork.

“They seem more interested in beer than in inventions,” he said, with a small shrug.

“Excuse me?”

“I sold the American rights to my engine to Adolphus Busch,” he said, “but he has been too busy with his brewery to profit much from them.”

Ardis cocked her head. “Is there more profit in London?”

Diesel held out his hands as if weighing his options.

“There is more opportunity there,” he said.

“Why not Germany?”

His spectacles flashed. “Are you loyal to America?”

He had a point.

~

At a riverside restaurant, Diesel’s colleagues joined them—two Belgian men, Georges Carels and Alfred Luckmann. From what Ardis could tell, Diesel and Carels were both directors of the Consolidated Diesel Engine Manufacturers. Carels ran a diesel engine factory in Ghent, where Luckmann worked as his chief engineer.

The men chatted in French, with a smattering of German, over their cream of endive soup.

French wasn’t a language that Ardis had mastered, so she sat against the wall and tried to be inconspicuous. Carels kept glancing her way and then laughing to his companions. Luckmann sat farther from her, fidgeting when she looked at him, until finally she pretended he was invisible. Diesel merely ignored her.

Finally, at six o’clock, they left the restaurant and took a taxi to the docks.

They boarded the SS Dresden, a gleaming steel steamship, and followed the Scheldt River into the sea. Carels and Luckmann disappeared below deck, but Diesel stood at the railing and watched the sun bleed gold into the water.

Ardis stood behind him, her teeth chattering in the icy sea spray and the wind.

“It must be dinnertime,” she said. “Your friends are waiting for you.”

Diesel sighed, and Ardis saw the darkness shadowing his eyes. He looked tired, so very tired, and older than she had thought.

“I suppose I should spend this one night with them,” he said.

Ardis frowned. “Aren’t they travelling to London with you? For the meeting?”

“They are,” he said.

She edged closer to him, one hand on the hilt of Chun Yi. The deck was nearly deserted at this instant, but soon they would sail outside of the influence of the Hex. Somewhere out on the English Channel, guns could kill again.

“You know why the archmages sent me,” she said quietly. “You aren’t safe out here.”

Diesel shrugged. “I am free to sell my patents to whomever I wish. Even if I sell them to the enemies of the German Empire.”

“Is the profit worth your life?”

He laughed dryly. “Do you honestly think that they will act upon their threats? My inventions are far too valuable to them.”

“Your inventions,” she said, “but you are only their inventor.”

“Only,” he said, and he laughed again.

Diesel looked back to the horizon. The sun had set, and the water was the dark color of a bruise. He shivered and rubbed his forehead.

“My friends are waiting for me,” he said in a distant voice, as if to convince himself.

Ardis touched his elbow, briefly, and walked with him down to the dining saloon. Inside, it felt a bit chilly, but cheery, with white paneling on the walls and electric lights in the chandeliers. Diesel found Carels and Luckmann and joined them at their table. Ardis sat alone nearby, to the obvious curiosity of the waiters.

She ordered a simple dinner—oxtail stew and boiled potatoes—and remained vigilant.

The Dresden’s dining saloon was fairly well visited this evening, with perhaps two hundred other passengers dining. None of them looked particularly out of place, but she didn’t expect anyone to attack Diesel in so public of a venue.

If she had been hired to threaten a man into cooperation, she would do it in his cabin.

With that in mind, Ardis waited. She watched Diesel joke and laugh with his companions, the darkness outside almost forgotten. He ordered several courses from the menu, encouraged by the flirtatious blonde waitress. Diesel started with the French onion soup, worked his way through halibut in hollandaise sauce, and finished with a chocolate éclair and coffee. Everything looked delicious from where Ardis sat. She poked at her potatoes broodingly, wishing she hadn’t spent so much money at the swordsmith.

Luckmann fingered a packet of cigarettes. “Shall we go for a stroll?”

Smiling, Diesel folded his napkin and stood. “That sounds like a fine idea.”

Ardis abandoned her oxtail stew and moved to follow them.

“Don’t forget your shadow, Diesel,” Carels teased.

Carels smiled at Ardis, but he was also looking at her like she was an exotic spice to taste. She brought that out in some men.

She followed them above deck, where stars glittered in the sky like shattered glass.

“Cigarette?” Luckmann said.

Diesel shook his head. “No, thank you.”

Luckmann shielded his cigarette from the wind and shared a match with Carels. Diesel leaned against the railing and looked heavenward. They talked together, their voices boisterous, and she wondered how much wine they had drunk.

“Well,” Carels said at last, “I think it time to be in bed.”

Diesel nodded. “We have an important day ahead of us.”

Carels leaned forward to clasp Diesel’s arm, and Ardis smelled a whiff of the wine on his breath. He caught her eye and winked.

“Good night!” he said.

Diesel lingered while his friends disappeared below deck. The Dresden plowed through a wave, and he stumbled forward. He staggered against the steamship’s railing. Ardis caught him by the elbow before he could fall overboard.

“Careful!” she said.

“Thank you,” he said, and he mopped his brow with his handkerchief.

“Too much wine to drink, sir?”

Diesel shook his head. “I had no wine, only water and coffee.”

Ardis’s stomach plummeted. He didn’t stink of alcohol like Carels, but he slurred his words. He gripped the railing, his knuckles tight, then lowered himself awkwardly to the deck. With unfocused eyes, he panted for air.

“Diesel,” Ardis said, “I need you to stay awake. Diesel!”

His eyelids closed, and he slumped on the deck. Ardis swallowed down her panic. She couldn’t fight poison with a sword. She leapt to her feet. A blonde woman in a uniform climbed above deck—the waitress from dinner.

“Get help!” Ardis shouted. “He needs a doctor!”

The waitress ran toward them, and then Ardis realized how odd it was for a waitress to be above deck so late, even to sneak a cigarette.

And how easy it would be to slip Diesel poison in his coffee.

Ardis’s hand twitched to her sword, and she unsheathed Chun Yi in a cascade of sparks. The blonde pulled a pistol from a holster on her thigh and sighted down the barrel with cold determination in her eyes.

Ardis squared her shoulders. “The Hex might still reach this far.”

“Want to risk it?” the blonde drawled.

“Who are you?”

“Really, darling? You don’t know?”

The blonde thinned her lips, and Ardis realized she was older than she had thought. Maybe a decade older than her.

“Natalya,” the blonde said. “Your superior.”

Ardis narrowed her eyes at the insult. “Superior? Doubtful.”

“Go back downstairs,” Natalya said. “Nobody has to get hurt.”

Ardis shook her head. “You already poisoned Diesel.”

Natalya rolled her eyes. “Amateur.”

“What?”

“He’s only unconscious.”

Ardis glanced down at Diesel, listening to him wheeze for breath, and Natalya slid her foot forward. Her gun gleamed in the starlight. Ardis tightened her grip on her sword and tensed the muscles in her thighs.

“Listen, darling,” Natalya said. “You brought a sword to a gunfight.”

Then why wasn’t she firing?

Ardis decided to find out. She feinted right, then swung left at Natalya’s neck. Natalya ducked—the blade whistled past her ear—and kicked Ardis in the kneecap. Ardis’s leg buckled, and Natalya shoved her sprawling. Ardis hit the deck hard, and the blonde aimed a kick at her face. Ardis rolled and sliced at her leg.

Natalya danced back. “Put down your pretty little sword.”

This pretty little sword wanted to taste blood. Ardis could feel Chun Yi’s thirst like a pulse in the palm of her hand.

Muscles bunching, Ardis surged upright and lunged at Natalya. She judged the angle to hit a vital artery and swung Chun Yi.

A blur of movement.

Pain exploded in Ardis’s head. Pistol-whipped, she crashed to the deck. Stars danced before her eyes, and she had to remind herself to breathe. She clamped down on her fear and pushed it far away. Fear could be fatal.

Blinking fast, she crawled to her knees and raised Chun Yi. Natalya wasn’t standing in front of her anymore.

There was a grunt, and a scraping noise.

Head spinning, Ardis staggered to her feet. Natalya dragged Diesel to the railing, hefted him onto the steel, and pushed him over. She watched him fall, and waited until the splash. Then she glanced back at Ardis.

“You saw nothing,” Natalya said. “If you want to survive.”

She vaulted over the railing and dove overboard. Ardis followed in her footsteps.

A long way down, the choppy waters of the English Channel unfurled.

Nausea washed over Ardis, and she retched. She stumbled to the stern, where the giant propellers of the steamship churned the waves. Out in the darkness, between tatters of fog, she saw a light bobbing in the waves.

A boat.

Shadowy figures dragged two people aboard—Diesel and Natalya. The light flickered out, and the boat vanished into the night.

Ardis slumped on a chair in the deserted dining saloon. The electric lights hurt her eyes, and her stomach still churned. She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, and tried to concentrate on what they were saying.

The steamship captain frowned and scratched his mustache. “He must have been drunk.”

“I didn’t see him drink any wine,” Carels said. “Diesel was an abstemious man.”

Nearby, Luckmann wrung his hands and kept quiet.

The captain bent down to Ardis’s level. “You saw him fall overboard?”

She nodded, and the movement nearly made her vomit.

“There—there was a woman,” she said slowly. “A waitress. She was pretending to be a waitress. She gave him poisoned coffee.”

The captain folded his arms. “Poisoned coffee? Preposterous.”

When she tried to remember, it was as if her memories were drifting farther away. Carels and Luckmann shared a glance. Even though she was having a hard time focusing, she could see the skepticism on their faces.

The captain pulled Carels aside, and muttered to him.

“…she must be intoxicated…”

What if this was more than a concussion? What if she had been poisoned, too? Fear chilled her blood, and she tried to stand. She staggered to her knees. The men caught her by her elbows. Bitter bile crept into her mouth.

“I feel sick,” she gasped.

They brought a bucket, thankfully, and she emptied the contents of her stomach. After vomiting, she sat shivering on the floor.

The captain touched her shoulder. “Bring this young woman to her room. She’s unwell.”

Crewmembers escorted her to a cabin and helped her lie down on the narrow bed. She squeezed her eyes shut against the spinning.

Listen, darling. You brought a knife to a gunfight.

Put down your pretty little sword.

Ardis tried to summon the memory of Natalya’s face, but she saw Diesel falling over the railing into the churning dark water.

You saw nothing.

~

The steamship docked in Harwich at six o’clock in the morning.

Fog cloaked the coastline of England, and Ardis’s mind felt equally obscured. She was steady on her feet, at least, and no longer nauseated. But she couldn’t remember many of the particulars from last night with Diesel.

She had to tell the archmages, before she forgot anything more.

Quickly, she found the nearest telegraph office. It was a relief to hear English spoken at last. She dictated her message to the telegraph operator in English, as well, since she knew Margareta would understand it.

Diesel overboard still alive taken by mercenary reply at once

She waited for the reply.

Return by airship immediately

Ardis had enough money to stay several nights—she had meant to book a room in Diesel’s hotel upon arrival—but instead she caught a train from Harwich to London, and then a direct flight from London to Vienna.

The airship was a lumbering beast of a zeppelin, scheduled for a two-hour journey.

In the cramped seating, Ardis rested Chun Yi across her knees and leaned her forehead against the cool glass of the porthole window. Below, England drifted away like a patchwork quilt of green fields and gray city. The zeppelin’s shadow rippled over the English Channel, which looked almost insignificant from the air.

Diesel could be anywhere by now. If Natalya had an accent, she couldn’t recall it.

By the time Ardis arrived in Vienna, she had a lingering headache. Gingerly, she touched the right side of her head. The pistol had left a painful lump. She stopped by a café for some ice, and wrapped the cubes in a napkin. Ignoring the stares on the street, she held the ice to her head as she walked to the Hall of the Archmages.

The Council Chamber was empty, so Ardis knocked on the door to Margareta’s office.

“Come in.”

Ardis let herself inside and sat at Margareta’s desk, the ice melting and dripping down her hair. She didn’t care how she looked.

“Ma’am,” Ardis said.

“What happened?” Margareta said, without any proper introductions.

“We were attacked, after dinner, on the deck of the Dresden. This blonde dressed as a waitress—Natalya—she pistol-whipped me.”

Margareta thinned her lips. “It looks rather painful.”

Ardis nodded and kept a straight face.

“And Diesel?” the archmage said.

“Gone. She… she poisoned him. I think. I’m having a hard time remembering.”

“What do you remember?”

“Diesel fell overboard, and Natalya jumped after him. A boat came from the fog and took them both aboard. I’m sure of that much.”

Margareta said nothing for a long moment. “He was drunk, wasn’t he?”

“No, ma’am, I don’t think he was.”

“He was drunk,” the archmage said again, “wasn’t he.”

This time, Ardis realized it wasn’t a question. “Ma’am?”

Margareta steepled her fingers and looked her directly in the eye.

“Diesel had too much to drink and fell overboard. An accident. You have no reason to believe otherwise. That is what you saw.”

The sickening truth of it settled in her stomach. She dropped the ice in her hand on the carpet and watched the widening puddle.

Ardis’s voice sounded hoarse. “This was staged?”

“Although it didn’t go according to plan,” Margareta said.

Ardis pointed to her head. “Was this part of the plan?”

“Of course not. But we didn’t anticipate that you would be so aggressive. Since when did you use an enchanted sword?”

“Since before I left.” Ardis balled her hands into fists. “Why did you hire me at all?”

Margareta shrugged. “Backup. We had reason to believe that our enemies might try to make a move on Diesel before we could carry out our plan. Our other mercenary couldn’t guard Diesel as well as carry out her mission.”

“What mission?” Ardis said stiffly. “Drugging and abducting Diesel?”

Margareta’s eyes glittered like frost. She slid open a desk drawer, grabbed a coin purse, and tossed it in Ardis’s direction.

“Your compensation,” she said.

Ardis resisted the urge to hit Margareta’s desk. “But I failed.”

“There’s no need for melodrama. You know now that our mission with Diesel was a success. You played your role.”

“As your pawn.”

Margareta’s nostrils flared. “Perhaps you would like some time off from being a pawn? Three weeks sounds nice, doesn’t it?”

Face on fire, Ardis shoved her chair away from the desk and stood.

“Yes, ma’am,” she said hollowly. “That sounds nice.”

She turned to go, but Margareta cleared her throat.

“Ardis?” she said.

“Ma’am?”

“Don’t forget your money.”

~

Disgusting. She had been so stupid to think they trusted her with Diesel.

They didn’t even trust her with the truth.

The thought of it burned in her throat like a hot coal. She stumbled into the nearest tavern, half-blind with anger. She would drown it all with ale. After knocking back two tankards of beer, she ordered dinner. Pricier than usual, since she hated the weight of Margareta’s money in her pocket. Then she ditched the tavern and checked into the guesthouse. With a long sigh, she kicked off her boots and fell onto the bed.

Her head sank into the pillow, and she began to feel better. Sleep would do her good.

Sunlight slanted across the wall, then faded into the cool light of dusk. Her eyelids slipped shut, and she lost track of time.

A knock on the door echoed in her room.

Ardis blinked herself awake. Outside, the sky lingered between purple and black, and the moon sailed between stars like a silver balloon. Another knock. She crawled out of bed, dragged on her jacket, and opened the door. The light from the hallway dazzled her eyes. Squinting, she saw only the silhouette of a man.

“I’m back,” he said.

Wendel.

Her heart leapt into her throat, and she couldn’t speak. She was afraid this was another dream like that lonely night in Vienna—

“May I come in?” he said.

His honey-gravel voice invoked a shiver down her spine. She nodded, and he stepped into the room. He stood close but didn’t touch her. Why wouldn’t he touch her? What had he done in those days they had been apart?

She knew the truth might shatter this moment, and she might never want it back.

“Wendel,” she said. “Shut the door.”

He did, and they stood in shadows together.

“I don’t want to know,” she whispered, “where you were. What you did to get here. Not now. Just—please don’t tell me.”

He was silent for a moment. “Then what do you want?”

“You.”

He stepped forward, but still he didn’t touch her. Her pulse rushed in her ears.

“Are you sure?” he said, his voice rough.

Ardis balled her hands into fists, her fingernails biting into her palms. Hot shame spread over her face. She felt desperate and it disgusted her. He planned to use her and leave her again. He wouldn’t stay. Not for her.

She forced the words past her choked throat. “Why did you come back?”

“Because I said I would.”

“Because you owe me?” she said. “Because you feel guilty?”

He said nothing.

Tears of frustration stung her eyes, and that frustrated her more. She wouldn’t be emotional when he was so damn calculating.

“Get out,” she said.

He retreated from her. “Why?”

“I would rather you left now than in the morning.”

“Ardis,” he said.

Wendel took her by the arms, his fingers so tight they almost bruised. In the narrow gleam of moonlight, his eyes were intense.

“I don’t want to leave you,” he said.

She challenged him with her stare. “Prove it.”

He arched his eyebrows, then bent closer, slowly, with immense restraint. A sliver of a space remained between them.

“Like this?” he said, his whisper on her lips.

She closed her eyes and kissed him. He groaned and drove her backwards against the bed. She couldn’t get enough air in her lungs.

“Wait,” she gasped.

He drew back with a look of alarm.

“Let me breathe,” she said.

Wendel’s smile was devilish. “Breathless? Already?”

Ardis growled at him, then dragged him down with her. He kissed her fiercely and her skin felt feverish with desire. She realized he was shaking. He yanked her jacket off, then ran his hands down the curves of her waist.

He seemed almost… hesitant.

“Why so polite?” she said, taunting him.

“Oh?” His eyes gleamed. “You don’t want polite?”

She hooked her arms behind his neck and lifted herself so she could whisper in his ear. “You know what I want.”

Any hesitation vanished from Wendel’s touch.

He slipped his hands under her shirt. She sucked in a breath and arched against him. Her breasts felt full and tender. A satisfied murmur came from the back of his throat. He cupped her breasts, tormenting her with his fingers. She opened his coat, peeled it away, and fumbled with the buttons of his shirt.

“Let me,” he said.

He unbuttoned his shirt in record time and flung it away. She raised her eyebrows.

“And the rest of it,” she said. “I already saw you shirtless.”

“Exactly,” he said, his eyes dark. “You owe me.”

Ardis pushed him away to give herself room. She stripped off her shirt, then wiggled out of her trousers, leaving only her underwear.

“Is that naked enough?” she said huskily.

He shook his head, and she smiled. Was he speechless?

She grabbed him by his belt and dragged him to her. He seemed to be having trouble keeping his face civilized. She wanted to see him lose control. With unsteady hands, she unbuckled his belt, aware of how close she was to him.

“Wait,” he said, “let me…”

“I almost have it,” she said, and she tugged the belt through its loops.

“That’s not what I mean.”

She looked up at him, and—

“Are you blushing?” she said.

He laughed, and even in the shadows, she realized he was.

“It might be prudent,” he said, “if we…”

Ardis crawled back across the bed, leaned over the edge, and rummaged in her bag. She found what she was looking for and held it high.

“This?” she said.

He picked up his coat, reached into the pocket, and took out another tin of preventives. Her limbs felt liquid with excitement.

Because she knew they had both hoped for this moment.

She walked to him and took his face in her hands. She kissed him, tenderly. He deepened the kiss. When she grabbed his buttocks, he bucked against her, his hardness insistent. He stepped back, already breathing hard.

“Not naked enough,” he said, somewhat incoherently.

“Obviously,” she said.

Watching her watch him, Wendel undressed until he stood utterly in the nude. He looked at her with stark desire in his eyes.

“We aren’t even,” he said.

“What?” she said.

He waved at her. She realized what he meant, then took off her underwear. They stood there with only darkness between them. She let her stare wander over his skin, imagining what it would be like to touch him everywhere.

“Ardis,” he whispered, “you are so beautiful.”

“You are—”

He interrupted her with an intoxicating kiss. They fell onto the bed together. He held himself over her and traced the lines of her body with his lips. She ran her hand over his chest, feeling the long scar across it.

Wendel flinched away, a crease between his eyebrows.

“Does that bother you?” she said.

“I haven’t forgotten it,” he said.

As an apology, she kissed him on the collarbone. She could feel other scars on his back, his arms, his thighs—some invisible to all but her fingertips, some old deep wounds—and she wondered what memories he had.

Wendel leaned back, kneeling over her, and for a moment she worried.

Then she saw the preventive in his hand, and anticipation shuddered through her body. She waited only as long as she had to before dragging him down to her. She clung to him, her fingernails biting his back.

“Please,” she whispered. “I want you.”

He looked into her eyes as he gave himself to her. In one long stroke, he buried himself completely. She gasped and pressed her face to his chest, his heartbeat pounding beneath her ear. They stayed that way, entwined, until he withdrew. She arched her hips, following him, and uttered an involuntary protest.

“You want me?” he murmured.

Ardis glared at him and tried to pull him down, but he stayed just out of reach.

His eyes were wicked. “How badly?”

“Wendel,” she scoffed. “I’m not going to beg.”

“Oh, I highly doubt that.”

He smiled dazzlingly, with his favorite arrogant charm, but there was a dark promise in his voice that made her shiver.

“Then try your hardest,” she said. “Emphasis on hardest.”

Wendel laughed. He lowered his head and teased her breasts with his tongue and his teeth. When he turned his face, the stubble on his cheek prickled her skin. She gasped, on the brink between pleasure and pain.

He lifted his head and looked at her questioningly.

“No time to shave?” she said.

He shrugged like this wasn’t important, then suckled one of her already tender breasts. She groaned and grabbed him from behind.

“Wendel,” she said, almost a whimper.

“Should I take that as begging?” he said, a rasp in his voice.

“Yes. Just—”

He thrust into her, hard, and she cried out. He thrust again, and again. She matched his rhythm. An ache built inside her with increasing ferocity. She kissed him on the mouth, then let her lips brush over his jaw. Mercilessly, he thrust deeper still. Slowly, then quickly, as he stared into her eyes to judge her pleasure.

He stopped, and the sudden halt tormented her. She wanted to writhe against him.

“Close?” she said.

Wendel muttered something wordless, and she knew she was right. God, she was tempted to make him come that instant. He started to withdraw, but she snaked her arms around his waist. Deliberately, she breathed into his ear.

“So am I,” she said.

He inhaled sharply. “Should I…?”

“Don’t stop.”

Wendel had been restraining himself, she realized. He pounded into her with calculated savagery. Her tension peaked. She clawed his back, riding out the waves of pleasure, and trembled against his sweaty skin.

Ever the gentleman, he didn’t stop until she came again.

Then he looked into her eyes like he wanted to memorize this moment.

“Don’t stop,” she repeated.

He lost any semblance of control, and shuddered with a moan.

She lay under him, panting for breath, until he climbed beside her. Her mind blank, her body glowing, she shut her eyes. He sighed and dragged her nearer in a satisfyingly possessive way. She smiled as he cupped her breast.

“Ardis,” he murmured.

As she drifted down into darkness, she thought she heard him say something else. His words whispered into her ear.

“I love you.”

She would have given it more thought, but the seduction of sleep was too strong.

Ardis woke to find herself lying against Wendel’s back. Startled, she withdrew, then remembered the night before. He was still sleeping. His hair spilled like ink across the pillow, glimmering blue-black in the morning light. She smoothed it away before she lay back down, and revealed the nape of his neck.

There was a mark on his skin, just over his spine. A black tattoo of a double-headed eagle.

Ardis sucked in her breath. After three years of looking, at last she had found what her mother had seen tattooed on her father’s neck.

But why Wendel?

Was it a symbol of Prussian nobility? The House of Hohenzollern?

Ardis brushed aside his hair. Strangely, the eagle’s claws clutched a skull and a six-petaled flower. Wendel tensed beneath her fingers and slid out of bed. He stared down at her, unashamedly naked, his face unreadable.

“What were you doing?” he said, his voice hoarse from sleep.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Ardis said. “I saw the tattoo on your neck.”

Wendel’s mouth hardened, and he bent to pick his clothes from the floor. She blushed, since she had obviously insulted him somehow.

“Why a double-headed eagle?” she said.

His eyes flashed. “It wasn’t my choice.”

He tugged on his trousers, then grabbed his shirt. He wouldn’t look at her. She leaned across the bed and caught his arm.

“Wendel,” she said.

He clenched his shirt in his fist, then tossed it against the wall. With a hiss of a sigh, he sank back down onto the bed and leaned with his elbows on his knees. His hair hid the tattoo on his neck until he brushed it aside.

“This was given to me,” he said, “by the Order of the Asphodel.”

Ardis’s stomach plummeted. Then… her father was with the Order?

“Against your will?” she said.

Wendel’s shoulders tightened. “It’s a hideous tattoo,” he said, with supreme derision. “I have better taste than that.”

“Is that why you let your hair grow long?” she said.

“Yes.” He glanced back and raised his eyebrows. “Why so many questions?”

Ardis swallowed hard. For some reason she felt awkwardly naked under his stare. She grabbed a fistful of sheets and tugged them closer.

“I…” She looked away. “I’m afraid to tell you the truth.”

Wendel lay down beside her on the bed, still not touching her yet, and propped his head on his elbow. When she glanced at him, he was looking at her with a kind of keen intensity in his eyes that made her cheeks burn.

“Tell me,” he said, “and I will tell you one of my secrets. Just ask.”

Ardis bent her mouth into what she thought was a smile.

“Okay,” she said.

“Okay,” he repeated, and the German way he said the word made her smile real.

She would have to show him. With unsteady hands, she leaned over the edge of the bed and took her brass locket from the nightstand. She slid her fingernail between the two halves of the locket and pried it open.

“Look,” she said. “My mother, and my father.”

Wendel tilted his head so he could see the tintype photographs. His gaze lingered on the pale-haired man, and his eyes narrowed.

“Your father?” he murmured.

“Yes,” she said. “Leo.” She shook her head. “That might not be his name. I never met him. My mother said he had a tattoo like yours.”

Wendel let out a long sigh and lowered his head.

Her mouth went dry. “You know him, don’t you?”

He said nothing, but his eyebrows angled into a frown. She studied his face, and she was panged by the thought of how handsome he was, and how he might never be hers when all was said and done.

“Wendel,” she said, “please tell me. I spent the last three years—”

“Leo isn’t his name.”

Ardis’s heartbeat skipped, then came back harder than before. She twisted the sheets in her fists to hide herself. Wendel looked at her with a perfectly bland face, but she could see emotions darting through his eyes.

“His name is Thorsten Magnusson,” he said. “He belongs to the Order of the Asphodel.”

“Thorsten Magnusson,” she said, just to feel the name in her mouth. “Have you met him? How well do you know him?”

Wendel paused, his jaw taut. “Yes,” he said, “and not well.”

Ardis let herself sink back onto the bed. She felt her eyes stinging, and she wasn’t sure whether it was with relief or frustration.

“Is he in Constantinople?” she said.

“I assume so.”

She looked at him. “Can you take me there?”

Wendel grabbed her hand, his fingers tight, and gave her an intense stare.

“No.”

She escaped his grasp. “You said you would tell me one of your secrets.”

He grimaced. “Regrettably, I did.”

“Is Thorsten your enemy?”

“The Order is my enemy.” His mouth twitched. He couldn’t even keep a straight face.

“Why?” she said. “What did they do to you?”

Wendel arched his eyebrow, his face smoothing into a haughty look, like he was beating her at chess and it mildly amused him.

“I said I would tell you one of my secrets.”

Ardis clenched her fists and resisted the urge to snap. She forced herself to smile, but she was afraid it looked like bared teeth.

“Don’t I deserve to know who you are?” she said.

“There are better ways for you to know me.”

Wendel smiled in a way that promised she wouldn’t want to leave bed. It was tempting, she had to admit, but she scooted away from him.

“Last night,” she said, with pretend innocence, “I thought I heard you say something.”

“Oh?”

“Before I fell asleep.”

He kissed her deliberately, trying to distract her. She made a noise of protest, pushed him away, and looked into his eyes.

“You said you loved me,” she said.

Wendel’s eyes darkened. He retreated, dragging a fistful of sheets with him, and looked down at her with a furrowed brow.

“That’s what you heard?” he said.

Ardis’s face flamed. Of course he would deny ever saying that.

“I thought I did.” She shrugged, then decided to bait him. “Not that I expected that much from you, necromancer.”

Wendel’s jaw tightened. “I see.”

“Frankly,” she said, “I don’t even know you.”

He flinched away like she had hurt him, and that was how she knew she was right. Perhaps it had been in a moment of passion, and perhaps he would never admit to it, but he had said I love you to her that night.

Seeing the anger and the shame on his face made her stomach clench into a tight ball.

“Last night you begged me not to tell you the truth,” he said.

She was sure her face was red. “That was different.”

“And now you want honesty?” he said. “Hypocrite.”

Wendel smirked, and only his eyes betrayed the true depths of his emotion. Ardis shook her head as she climbed away from him. She grabbed her scattered clothes from the floor and began tugging them on roughly.

“I don’t regret what I did,” she muttered, “but I won’t do it again.”

“Want to bet?” he said, still smirking.

She glared at him for a minute as she struggled with her boots.

“Good job,” she said. “You play the part of bastard well, Wendel.”

“I’m flattered,” he said.

“Don’t congratulate yourself. You need to work on your poker face if you want to pretend like last night didn’t mean anything to you.”

His mouth dropped, and he looked like he was torn between laughter and outrage.

“Wishful thinking,” he said. “And if you knew the truth, you would never wish for me.”

Ardis tossed a scornful glance his way.

“You know what you are?” she said. “Nothing more than a glorified assassin. And don’t assume this makes you so much less pure and virtuous than me. I’m not as heroic as you think, and I don’t think you’re all that villainous.”

Wendel stared at her without blinking. “A glorified assassin?”

“You heard me,” she said.

He curled his lip. “You know nothing.”

“Please, do tell. I would love to know more about the Order of the Asphodel.”

Wendel met her gaze, and loathing burned in his eyes for the Order, for himself. The intensity of it tightened her throat.

“Ardis.” His voice snagged on her name. “I have done terrible things for them. I could tell you that they made me, but that would be a lie. I knew what I was doing, after they had already pushed me further than I wanted to go.”

She tried to read his face, and failed. “We have all done things we regret.”

“Some things are unforgivable.”

“What do you want me to do? Hate you for something you won’t even admit?”

His eyes looked empty. “That would be understandable.”

“Then tell me.”

His mouth hardened, and he looked away again. Silently, he climbed to his feet, buttoned his shirt, and shrugged on his coat.

“I will never be able to trust you,” she whispered.

The revelation squeezed her throat like an iron glove. She expected him to sneer or joke about how of course necromancers were untrustworthy, but when he looked sideways at her, there was a definite frown on his face.

“What did you say?” he said.

“You won’t even tell me the truth.” Ardis shook her head, and her vision blurred. “I can only hope that you were lying about your fealty to me, because I sure as hell don’t want you following me out of here.”

A tear escaped from her eyes, then another. Ardis gritted her teeth. She never cried.

She grabbed Chun Yi and turned to go. Her fingers shaking, she struggled to fasten the scabbard to her belt. Still her eyes betrayed her. She didn’t know why it was so hard to walk away, or why his words had hurt so much.

“Ardis,” he said. “Don’t leave.”

She shook her head and reached for the door.

“Please,” he said.

Wendel stepped behind her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. The heat of his body pressed into her back.

“I apologize,” he said in a hoarse little whisper. “I—I have been a bastard.”

He bent so that his face rested in the curve between her shoulder and her neck, and his lips lingered there like the hope of a kiss.

“It isn’t easy for me to talk about these things,” he said. “Those memories… hurt.”

She tried to face him, but his arms tightened around her. Maybe he found it easier to tell the truth without looking into her eyes.

He exhaled onto her skin. “But I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

Ardis sucked in a shuddering breath. “I hope not,” she muttered.

“What?”

“If you did, you really would be a bastard.”

Wendel lifted his arms from her shoulders, and she turned to face him. His sad half-smile sent an ache straight to her heart.

“Are you staying?” she said.

“Yes. Of course.”

“Then will you tell me later?”

His response was an embrace tight enough to fight the tension in her muscles, and a kiss to sear away the darkness of their words.

~

As part of his apology, Wendel invited Ardis to have breakfast at a café.

“See?” he said, as they walked together through the gray morning of Vienna, “I give you proof that I’m not always a bastard.”

Ardis glanced sideways at him. “Proof? Are you saying it’s this hard for you to be nice?”

Wendel saw that she was joking, and pressed his hand to his chest. “Admit it,” he said. “I’m the nicest necromancer you have ever met.”

“The only necromancer.”

“But still the best.” He grinned shamelessly. “At everything.”

Blushing, Ardis coughed. She wouldn’t forget how bold she had been last night, and how he had returned the favor.

“You have delusions of grandeur,” she said.

“Delusions?” he said loftily. “Of being handsome, talented, and excellent in bed?”

Ardis glanced around, afraid the ladies on the street would overhear and be scandalized. She looked sideways at Wendel.

“At least you don’t pretend to be polite,” she said.

He laughed. “And that’s why you love me.”

Love. The same word as before, but not at all the same meaning. Her stomach tightened, and she decided to play it safe.

“You wish,” she said, with appropriate sarcasm.

Wendel suddenly seemed fascinated by the window of a bakery across the street. When he spoke, he sounded flippant.

“Have you ever had poor knights?” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“Poor knights.” He arched an eyebrow. “No? That’s a crime.”

Ardis scrunched up her face. “Now I’m curious.”

Wendel halted in front of the Café Amsel, a coffeehouse in a gleaming granite building, and held the door open. Warm air gusted out to meet them, deliciously scented with coffee and pastries. Ardis smiled and walked inside.

Her boots rapped on parquet floors, and she glanced between the glittering crystal chandeliers and billiards tables. She had never been to the Café Amsel before, and she suspected it was far outside of her budget. Her cheeks heated when she remembered that Wendel was being a gentleman and treating her to breakfast.

“After you,” he said.

She perched in a bentwood chair and ran her fingertips over the marble tabletop. He sat opposite her and leaned back in his chair.

“If I had known you were in Vienna,” he said, “we could have had dinner last night.”

“I wasn’t supposed to be here so soon.” She cocked her head. “How did you know where to find me, Wendel?”

He looked a bit smug. “Charm.”

“Charm…?”

“Applied liberally to that cranky boss of yours.”

Ardis touched her burning cheeks. “You tried to charm Margareta?”

A waitress arrived at this moment with a pen and paper held high.

“Good morning!” the waitress said, with a smile that seemed to be for Wendel and Wendel only. “Are you ready to order?”

“Ah, yes,” he said, his eyes sparkling, “we will both have poor knights.”

“With cream?”

“Everything tastes better with cream.”

Wendel glanced at Ardis when he said it, with a flick of his eyebrows, and she had the fleeting suspicion he was suggesting something highly improper for public conversation. Not that she had ever entertained such a thought.

The waitress stopping mooning over Wendel long enough to scribble down their order.

“Thank you,” he said graciously.

Blushing, Ardis cleared her throat. She was afraid to ask Wendel what that devilish look in his eye meant. God, did he intend to—

“As I was saying,” he said, “Margareta told me about your favorite guesthouse.”

“Not really my favorite,” she muttered. “Cheapest and cleanest. And I can’t believe she told you all that so quickly.”

“I have been, in her words, a tremendous help to the archmages.”

“Really?” Ardis arched her eyebrows. “Last time I heard, she called you a ‘dilemma.’”

He laughed. “Did she?”

“Yes.”

“Clearly that was before she met me.”

Ardis rolled her eyes. “Clearly. It must be nice to have people fawning over you. People will bend over backwards for a pretty face.”

Wendel grinned. “Pretty? I’m pretty?”

“I take that back,” she said, laughing. “Margareta only wants you for your necromancy. Actually, why did they want you?”

He shrugged, and his smile faltered. “You had it right the first time. My necromancy.”

“That makes sense, I suppose.”

“What, you don’t think my handsomeness had something to do with it?”

“You are not that handsome,” she lied, struggling to keep a straight face. “But what would the archmages want with a necromancer? Konstantin said something about Project Lazarus, but nobody told me anything.”

Wendel cleared his throat and wove his fingers together. He frowned for a moment.

“Your breakfast.” The waitress swooped in and slid two plates between them. “Enjoy!”

Ardis stared at her plate—two slices of bread, drenched in eggy batter and then fried until golden, with a dollop of cream on top.

“French toast!” she said, in English.

Wendel looked quizzical. “Gesundheit?”

She laughed and picked up her fork. “This is what we call French toast in America. I didn’t know that you call it poor knights here.”

“Ah,” he said, “but it isn’t really French. I grew up eating it.”

Ardis sliced into the toast with her knife and took a bite. It was indeed delicious. She closed her eyes and savored the taste.

“You said you weren’t meant to be back so soon,” Wendel said. “Why?”

The toast turned into a hard lump in her throat, and she struggled to swallow.

“To tell you the truth…” She grimaced. “I failed my mission. It wasn’t even tough. Just be a bodyguard, and keep a man safe.”

“May I ask who?”

She poked at her toast half-heartedly. “Rudolf Diesel.”

“Are you serious?”

Her gaze darted up to meet Wendel’s, and she saw he looked almost delighted. She glowered at him and clenched her fork.

“Don’t tell me you wanted him to die,” she said. “Besides, you might be disappointed.”

“Wait—disappointed?”

She lowered her voice. “I don’t know what you have heard. Diesel drank too much on the steamship, then fell overboard and drowned. That’s all lies. I only found out after the fact that this was all staged. They hired some other mercenary to drug Diesel and then smuggle him to a boat. But I still don’t know why.”

Wendel picked up his knife and stabbed his toast decisively.

“This all makes perfect sense,” he said. “I know exactly what happened to Diesel.”

Ardis felt a rush of blood to her head. She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms.

“They told you what happened to Diesel?” she said.

“Hilarious.” Wendel waved his hand as if brushing away her words. “Do you think they trust me enough for that? But I have been collecting crumbs and scraps of information here and there while I’m still valuable to them.”

She shook her head. “And how exactly is your necromancy valuable to them?”

“Remember Konstantin’s little project? When he wanted a week of my time?”

Ardis did remember the secret conversation she had overhead on the train to Vienna, before Sven the assassin had interrupted.

“You never told me why,” she said.

“Oh, you couldn’t guess?”

Ardis glared at him. “Wendel. Just tell me. I might be the silent mercenary who stands outside doors, but don’t treat me like I’m stupid.”

“Sorry.” He laid both of his hands flat on the table. “So. Project Lazarus.”

“Like I said, I’m completely in the dark.”

“Konstantin made me swear not to tell a soul.” Wendel smirked. “Naturally I would be happy to tell you everything.”

Good God, was he always this shameless?

“Project Lazarus,” he said, “started in 1912, when Kaiser Wilhelm II of Germany and King Joseph of Austria-Hungary convened the German Imperial War Council. Officially, they discussed the Hex in the Ottoman Empire.”

Ardis nodded. She remembered Konstantin returning from the Dodecanese.

“Unofficially,” Wendel said, “they discussed strengthening their army and devising superior military technology. That’s the aim of Project Lazarus. The Hex was meant to be a diversion, and buy them more time.”

“Konstantin told you all this?” Ardis said.

He snorted. “The archmage talks too much. You ask him one question, and he prattles on for thirty minutes about his precious technomancy. I have no clue why he even trusts me, although of course he needs my expertise.”

Ardis suspected Konstantin was just naïve enough to be impressed by Wendel.

“What kind of military tech?” she said.

“You should see it.” His eyes gleamed. “It’s fascinating. Have you heard of automatons?”

“I saw them at an exposition, once.”

“Imagine a man inside of an automaton,” he said. “Or a solider in a suit of armor that gives him superhuman strength. Thanks to some really clever magic, the man inside the machine can operate the metal arms and legs.”

“Let me guess,” she said, “the really clever magic is your doing?”

“Exactly.” He spread his hands. “Though I can’t take all the credit.”

“How humble of you.”

He tipped his head. “Konstantin was the one who thought of copying my necromancy so a soldier could control the automaton. When I revive the dead, I can control them from a distance. I only need to touch them once. Together, the archmage and I mimicked that particular aspect of my magic. A feeble imitation, but enough.”

Ardis sat up straighter. “And they must want Diesel for the mechanical work.”

“Precisely,” he said.

“But Diesel wouldn’t want to help the Germans, which is why they had to encourage him to join the team for Project Lazarus.”

Wendel arched an eyebrow. “Yet another insight,” he said dryly.

“Oh, please.” She picked up her knife and fork. “Tell that to Margareta. She told me to take three weeks of leave.”

He frowned. “For what?”

“For getting angry and running my mouth. I’m the only one who knows what happened to Diesel. Me and that blonde bitch, Natalya.”

“Blonde bitch?”

“The mercenary who abducted him. God, she looked ridiculous in that waitress uniform.”

Wendel squinted. “She was there the whole time?”

“She must have been.” Ardis waved at the side of her head. “The bitch pistol-whipped me. My memory is foggy.”

“She knocked you out?”

“It wasn’t that bad of a concussion,” she said.

He cocked his head, the daylight slanting through his eyes, then reached across the table as if he meant to caress her face.

“Here?” he said.

She nodded. “But I—”

He laid his hand on the side of her head, lightly, but it was enough to set off a ripple of dull pain. She jerked away from him.

“That hurts,” she said.

Wendel winced in sympathy, but didn’t bother to apologize. Ardis lowered her face and pressed her fingertips to her temples.

“Damn it,” she muttered, “if my headache comes back…”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

His words were gentle, so she tried not to glower at him. “Last night wasn’t the time for confessions,” she said, “don’t you think?”

He coughed. “Fair point.”

Ardis blinked a few times and picked up her fork, thankful she still had an appetite. Wendel reached across the table again, and she flinched, but this time he only rested his hand over hers and squeezed her fingers.

“You should rest,” he said. “If it still hurts—”

“I’m fine,” she said.

He smiled skeptically. “You aren’t a nurse, remember?”

“And you aren’t a doctor.”

“I could be.” He smirked. “I would, of course, order you straight to bed.”

“Wendel!”

She yanked her hand away and tried very hard not to laugh. He leaned back and smugly sliced his toast. When she looked at him, she found it hard to catch her breath, and felt emotions like a flight of birds through her chest.

“Wendel,” she said, before she lost her courage.

He glanced at her with questioning eyebrows.

She bowed her head. “I wish—I wish we could have more of this.”

“Poor knights? Let me ask the—”

“No. This.”

Wordlessly, she looked into his eyes. She didn’t know how to tell him how happy he made her when he was like this. And how afraid she was that it wouldn’t last, because this was only a glimpse of a Wendel that could have been.

“This,” he repeated.

She couldn’t read his voice, and she swallowed hard.

He glanced out the window and scanned the street. She watched tension return to the way he held his jaw. He tossed his napkin onto the table and drank a slow swig of water, then waved his arm at nothing in particular.

“It’s a lovely day,” he said. “Walk with me.”

She nodded and finished the last bite of her toast. He paid for their breakfast, and they left the Café Amsel together.

Wind tugged at Ardis’s jacket and tossed Wendel’s hair behind him in ribbons of black. With the sun lurking behind clouds, his skin looked white, his eyes almost as gray as the sky. He hesitated outside of the café, then met her eyes.

“Have you seen the cathedral?” he said.

Before she could reply, he hooked his fingers between hers and tugged her onward. He held her hand a little tighter than needed.

“I have,” she said, “but we can go there again.”

His smile was fleeting, and she wondered why.

They walked down the Ringstrasse, an old road built on the memory of an even older wall that once circled the heart of Vienna. At the center of the city, the great Gothic tower of St. Stephen’s soared heavenward. The cathedral’s roof gleamed richly with a mosaic of twin black eagles—one for Vienna, one for Austria.

Ardis remembered the eagle on Wendel’s neck, and she felt a flicker of anticipation in her stomach. Tonight, she would get him to talk.

The bells of St. Stephen’s began to ring. The heavenly clamor chimed over Vienna.

“The Angelus.” Wendel quickened his pace. “It must be noon already.”

“The Angelus?”

He shrugged. “A Catholic devotion. They ring the Angelus bell three times a day.”

“I didn’t think you were Catholic.”

“I’m not,” he said. “Though I do love cathedrals.”

They arrived on the steps of St. Stephen’s, dwarfed by its Gothic immensity, and Wendel held one of the iron-barred doors open. They stepped into the hush within. Incense and beeswax candles scented the air.

“Necromancers and cathedrals?” Ardis murmured. “You hardly seem holy.”

Wendel leaned close enough that his breath stirred her hair.

“I love cathedrals,” he whispered, “because they often have catacombs beneath them. Don’t act startled, but someone has been following us.”

Ardis tensed, her hand itching for Chun Yi. “Who?”

“Keep walking,” he said, “toward the high altar.”

As they strolled through the rows of pews, he murmured in her ear.

“An assassin from the Order of the Asphodel.” A muscle in his jaw twitched, but he smiled sardonically. “The bastard hasn’t found the balls to come after me yet, though I suppose he did see what happened to the others.”

She tried to talk without moving her mouth. “Others?”

“Six of them.” He shrugged. “So far.”

“You killed them all?”

“Not all at once,” he said, modestly.

Wendel turned toward the cathedral’s north tower. Ardis followed him, the muscles in her back tensing as if she expected a knife between her shoulder blades. Would the assassin dare attack in the sanctuary of a cathedral?

“Are we safe here?” she said.

He looked sideways at her. “Safe? Don’t worry, the assassins want me alive. I’m infinitely more valuable to them that way.”

She grimaced. “But I’m not infinitely valuable.”

He touched his lips to her earlobe, earning them a glare from a passing priest.

“You are to me,” he said softly. “Stay close. Once we reach the catacombs, the assassin won’t be able to resist attacking.” He held out his hands and shrugged. “I have to admit, it’s so much easier when they come to me.”

Ardis shivered, and not only because they had reached the entrance to the crypt.

Together they descended the stairs, each granite step worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. The glow from the candlelight and cathedral’s windows dimmed as they walked into the lantern-lit darkness. The crypt twisted underground like a macabre rabbit’s warren. She had never been down here before, but had heard rumors of royal innards kept in sarcophagi, and more common bones tossed in the catacombs.

“The catacombs are down this passageway,” Wendel said.

His voice sounded rougher than usual, taut with what could be expectation. He sucked in some air and let out a shuddering breath.

“I can feel them,” he muttered. “Thousands. Tens of thousands.”

Ardis gave him a questioning glance.

He shut his eyes. “The dead.”

The tiny hairs on Ardis’s arms stood at attention. She didn’t even see the catacombs yet, but clearly that didn’t stop the necromancer from feeling the bones through solid stone and earth. When she touched Wendel’s wrist, the electricity of his magic crawled onto her skin. She flinched away and rubbed her fingers together.

“Is there another way out of the catacombs?” she said. “Or is it a dead end?”

“A dead end?” he said, and he laughed.

“I’m serious.”

“There are two ways out. The way we came in, and stairs to the outside of the cathedral.”

She nudged his elbow to get him walking again. She didn’t want them to be the ones who never left the catacombs alive.

They strode down the shadowy tunnel, past mildew-slicked stone walls that glistened in the flickering lamplight. It felt like the weight of the entire cathedral aboveground flattened the air. She struggled to breathe steadily.

“It’s claustrophobic in here,” Ardis whispered.

Wendel shot a glance her way. “If we are lucky, this will be quick.” He guided her to the left. “Hurry, through here.”

They pushed through an iron-barred door that creaked on rusty hinges. Beyond, there was no light. The door groaned shut behind them and plunged them into utter darkness. A sliver of lamplight slithered under the door. Wendel took Ardis’s hand and tugged her forward, but she dug her heels into the dirt.

“Wait,” she whispered. “Step back!”

Ardis fumbled for Chun Yi and swept the jian from its scabbard. Smoldering rushed through the steel and instantly banished the darkness. And then she could see the bones, hundreds, thousands, stacked inside the catacombs like kindling for a bonfire in hell. Skulls stared back at her with empty eye sockets.

Wendel’s stunned face looked ghostly by the glow of the blade.

“Your sword!” he said. “Where did you—?”

“Same old sword,” she said. “A swordsmith unlocked the enchantment for me.”

He eyed the sword. “What sort of enchantment?”

“Blood magic,” she said, as casually as she could manage.

Wendel inhaled sharply. “Blood magic? Christ.”

“You know a thing or two about it?”

“Enough.”

Wendel reached into his jacket and withdrew his black dagger.

“Take my hand,” he said. “I want to try something.”

Chun Yi crackled in her hand, and Ardis’s stomach somersaulted. Frowning, she intertwined her fingers with Wendel’s. Smoke unfurled from Amarant and spiraled down Wendel’s hand, covering his skin with shadows. When they ran from his hand to hers, fiery pain burned her in the shape of his fingerprints.

Ardis gasped. “Let go!”

She yanked away and leapt back, shaking her hand. Her skin looked unmarked, but it still ached where he had touched her. Shadows dissolved from Wendel as he pocketed Amarant. He reached for her, then stopped himself.

“Did I hurt you?” he said.

“No,” she lied. “I’m fine.”

“I don’t trust your sword.” Wendel grimaced. “Seems evil to me.”

She glowered at him. “Evil? It must be your dagger—”

“Quiet!”

They fell silent. Outside the door to the catacombs, they could hear footsteps echoing down the tunnel. It sounded like only one person, though they weren’t even trying to be stealthy. Wendel stole closer to the sound.

“Get rid of it,” he whispered.

“What?”

“Your damn burning sword. Quickly!”

Ardis sheathed Chun Yi and plunged them into darkness again. She edged toward Wendel, her arms outstretched like a blindfolded child playing a game. Sweat trickled down her back in the clammy air, and she tried to breathe. She was afraid she was taking great ragged gulps of air that sounded far too loud.

“I’m here,” he whispered.

He touched her shoulder. She felt her way along his arm and pressed herself close him. His heartbeat thudded against her chest.

She lowered her voice so that it was barely audible. “Your plan?”

He shrugged underneath her touch. “Kill the assassin?”

She shut her eyes, though it didn’t make any difference in this inky black. Why did he always have to be so arrogant?

The door creaked open.

Wendel sidestepped away from Ardis, leaving her grasping air, and she heard a hissing that had to be Amarant cloaking him in shadows.

Footsteps.

She thought it was Wendel retreating deeper into the catacombs, but she couldn’t be sure. What did he expect her to do? Stand by and watch? God damn it, she was going to kill him herself if they survived this assassin.

A scraping sound, a whoosh, and then a lantern flickered to life.

Ardis flattened her back against the slimy wall, her fingers tight on Chun Yi’s hilt, and held her breath. The light stung her eyes. On the threshold of the catacombs, she saw the silhouette of a sinewy man with a crossbow. She curled her toes inside her boots. She hated crossbows ever since she took a bolt to the leg.

The crossbowman leaned over the threshold and loosed an earsplitting whistle. He wasn’t alone. If she moved fast, maybe she could disarm or disable him before—

A pungent aroma tickled her nostrils. She sniffed the air.

Naphtha.

Her stomach clenched. You never wanted to smell naphtha in combat. And definitely never underground down in some godforsaken catacombs. When the crossbowman stepped aside, her fears walked into the room.

Pyromechanics.

Ardis had seconds to size up her opponents.

Two pyromechanics in gasmasks and black-and-yellow asbestos armor. Salamanders. They lumbered into the room, their backs burdened with tanks of naphtha—fuel for the flamethrowers that made them infamous.

She breathed in the stink of naphtha, her fingers frozen on Chun Yi’s hilt.

One of the salamanders squeezed the trigger of his flamethrower and jetted a lazy sweep of fire through the air. It blackened bones and illuminated the catacombs with infernal light. The shadows wouldn’t hide her much longer.

Ardis backed into the darkness. She had to warn Wendel.

The crossbowman shouldered his weapon. “Don’t move.” He spoke German with a thick accent that could have been Turkish.

“What do you want?” she bluffed, and she sounded a lot braver than she felt.

“The necromancer.”

Ardis shook her head slowly. “I can’t help you.”

The crossbowman narrowed his eyes.

“Then I,” he said, “can’t help you.”

She ducked as a crossbow bolt whirred over her head. It struck a skull behind her and knocked it clattering onto the floor.

Before he could reload, Ardis fled into the catacombs. She sprinted down a long narrow tunnel, the light dimming, until she slammed against a rattling gate. Blindly, she groped in the darkness. She could go either left or right.

“Wendel!” Her shout sounded hoarse. “Wendel, they have flamethrow—”

A hand clamped on her wrist and dragged her closer to the wall.

“Do you have a vendetta against stealth?” Wendel hissed.

She could hear and feel him, but he still remained cloaked by Amarant’s shadows.

“Stealth won’t work,” she said, talking quickly. “Your dagger is useless.”

“Useless? It’s still sharp.”

She reached out and hit what she thought was his shoulder.

“Would you stop being so cocky?” she said. “You can’t hide in the shadows forever. They don’t even have to find us, Wendel. You do realize that? They can burn all the oxygen and smother us into surrendering.”

He growled under his breath. “Let’s not waste oxygen by talking.”

Flames hissed down the tunnel as the salamanders swept the catacombs with fire. Silhouetted against the burning, the crossbowman stalked nearer. He had left behind his lantern, but soon his targets would be bright enough.

“Where is the other exit?” Ardis said. “The one to the outside of the cathedral?”

“We passed it already,” Wendel said.

“Damn.” She licked her dry lips. “Can you revive some skeletons?”

He laughed grimly. “You have no idea how long it would take to sort these bones.”

“Then take out the crossbowman. I can distract him.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Wendel curled his fingers around hers, then vanished into the darkness.

Ardis flattened herself against the wall. Her fingers clamped around Chun Yi’s hilt. Smoke tickled her throat, and she swallowed down a cough. The crossbowman edged nearer and entered the junction of the tunnels.

Ardis tightened the muscles in her legs, then lunged into an attack.

She only had time to draw her sword halfway, but that was enough. She bashed her pommel into his crossbow and knocked it askew, then kicked him in the knee and sent him stumbling back. He found his footing and raised the bow. He still had a bolt loaded. She froze between dodging and attacking.

For an eternity of an instant, they stared into each other’s eyes.

Wendel stepped from the shadows and unceremoniously slit the assassin’s throat.

Blood spurted from the man’s severed artery. He fell to his knees and clutched his neck like he hoped to stop his life from pooling in the dirt beneath him. Wendel crouched beside the dying man, a stance that mimicked concern, though Ardis knew he was waiting. The necromancer’s eyes couldn’t be any colder.

When the crossbowman collapsed, Wendel touched his neck.

“Is he dead?” she said.

Wendel tilted his head. “Not yet.”

Ardis was acutely aware of her heart still pulsing in her throat. She instinctively backed away from the necromancer. At the sound of her footsteps, he looked at her. The coldness in his eyes melted into a strange distant sadness.

“Now,” he said softly.

The undead man staggered to his feet. Wendel retreated, glanced at his blood-slicked hands, and grimaced as if the filth was all that bothered him. But she could still see the look in his eyes, barely there behind his bravado.

“You can feel them die?” she said.

He looked sideways at her, and that was all she needed to know.

Ardis unsheathed Chun Yi. Her sword looked pitiful by the light of naphtha-fire, as if technology trumped magic.

“Wendel,” she said. “We have to run.”

He took the crossbow and checked the quiver—only one bolt left. That gave him two shots. Two slim chances to kill.

“Ardis?” he said. “Run without me. They want me.”

She stared at him. “I won’t abandon you.”

Singeing heat buffeted them as the salamanders advanced.

Wendel stared into her eyes. “You take the left tunnel, I take the right. When they follow me, you can attack them from behind.”

“Right,” she said.

He looked to the undead man. “Time for you to say goodbye to your friends.”

The man swayed on his feet and waited for the necromancer’s command. Blood seeped from his neck and soaked his shirt.

“Run to them.” Wendel shouldered the crossbow. “Bring them down.”

The undead man shambled straight at the salamanders, who seemed confused enough that they stopped torching the air. Wendel narrowed his eyes and squeezed the trigger. A bolt whirred down the tunnel and embedded itself in the eye of a salamander’s gasmask. The pyromechanic toppled backwards.

Ardis heard a muffled shout from the other salamander. She gripped Chun Yi.

“Do we run?” she said.

“Not yet,” Wendel said.

He hauled back the crossbow string and loaded another bolt. The undead man, who clearly had no sense of self-preservation, staggered in front of the remaining flamethrower. The salamander set him ablaze and left him to burn. Black smoke choked the cramped space. Ardis gagged at the smell of roasting meat.

Wendel fired the crossbow. The bolt missed the salamander and clattered off the wall.

“Run!” he said.

Ardis sheathed her sword and lunged down the left tunnel. She ran headlong for a minute, then skidded to a halt. Sweat soaking under her arms, she whirled around. The salamander lumbered into the junction.

Wendel loped down the right-hand tunnel. He hadn’t bothered to hide himself.

The pyromechanic saw the necromancer, and pursued his prey. Flames licked the walls and blackened the stone. Ardis hesitated for only a second before she ran back the way she came. Her breath rasped in her throat.

What if Wendel hit a dead end? What if she was too late?

Legs aching, she summoned a burst of speed. The heat from the salamander’s flamethrower was intense. Her eyes watered from the naphtha and the smoke. The salamander heard her coming and, ponderously, started to turn.

Ardis’s hand flew to Chun Yi. She unsheathed her sword and swung.

The blade sang through the air and arced toward the salamander. She saw the gleam of reflected fire in the eyes of his gasmask—the hesitation that reminded her he was human—the very second before she beheaded him.

The momentum from her swing brought her blade clanging against the wall.

Blood splattered her in the face. The salamander’s corpse toppled at her feet, the flamethrower still sputtering in his hands.

Chun Yi burst into flames. Stone-cold fire crackled over the steel.

Gasping, Ardis dragged her sleeve over her face to wipe away the gore. Blood magic thumped inside her bones. She angled the blade sideways and squinted against its brilliance, then thrust it into the scabbard. When she drew Chun Yi halfway, the sword burst into flames again. She let it fall back and snuffed the fire.

“God damn,” she muttered to herself.

She wasn’t sure if she should be afraid or amazed.

“Ardis!”

Wendel loped from the darkness, breathing hard, and swept her into a crushing embrace. She leaned against him and shut her eyes, relishing the warmth of his body, and the way it made her feel alive, before they broke apart.

“You beheaded him,” he said. He might have been impressed, or disgusted.

She grimaced. “I want to get out of here.”

Wendel nodded and backed away from the widening puddle of blood. In the back of her mind, Ardis wondered if Chun Yi was still thirsty. Her hand twitched to her sword’s hilt, and she swallowed hard. What was she thinking?

Together, they strode down the tunnel toward freedom.

“Flamethrowers,” Wendel said. “I never thought they would be so desperate.”

Ardis shook her head. She didn’t know what to say to that.

The charred corpse of the crossbowman lay in the tunnel where Wendel had left him. She wondered if he had relinquished his control, or if his necromancy had failed when the flames burned the body. She shuddered.

“Wait,” Wendel said.

The first salamander lay nearby, the crossbow bolt protruding from his gasmask.

“What are you doing?” Ardis said.

Wendel knelt beside the salamander and wrenched the bolt out of the gasmask, then peeled away the gasmask itself.

He had a sliver of a smile. “I always kill first, ask questions later.”

Wendel touched the corpse’s skin. He bowed his head, shut his eyes, and blew out his breath. Ardis had watched the necromancer do this before, more times than she had dreamed she would, but it still sickened her.

The undead man struggled to sit upright with the naphtha tank on his back.

“Stay down,” Wendel said, with a hand on his shoulder. “Tell me. How many did the Grandmaster send to kill me?”

The Grandmaster. This was the first Ardis had ever heard of that.

“Nine of us, sir,” said the undead man.

Sir. Ardis swallowed down a sour taste. Was that some echo of the man’s politeness?

“Nine?” Wendel said. “You were the last?”

“Yes, sir. We were the last.”

The undead man stared sightlessly, waiting for a command. He was still sweaty and red in the face, and didn’t look too far from alive yet.

Wendel narrowed his eyes. “Is the Grandmaster coming?”

“Sir,” said the undead man. “I don’t know, sir.”

Wendel glanced at Ardis. “The Order anticipated that I would question their assassins. Each of them knows only fragments of the truth.”

She nodded. “Smart,” she said.

Wendel lifted his hand from the man and let him collapse, dead once more. He wiped his hands on his trousers, but his eyes looked distant. He climbed to his feet and glanced between the two corpses in the catacombs.

“Convenient,” he said. “Leave the bodies here.”

Ardis said nothing, although she wanted to tell him that she saw straight through his callous words. She knew he was trying to hide his emotions. He didn’t relish killing in the slightest, not like some mercenaries she knew.

To feel your enemies die…

Again she realized he would never be anything other than a necromancer, but at the same time, he was Wendel, and she didn’t want to let him go.

~

Together they abandoned the dead and climbed the stairs to the street.

In the light of day, Ardis realized how terrible they looked. Blood crusted Wendel’s hands and splattered her clothes.

“We should make ourselves look less like murderers,” Wendel said.

She noticed how husky his voice was, from the smoke and the shouting.

“At least it’s raining,” she said.

The gargoyles of St. Stephen’s spat water from the gutters onto the cobblestones. They held their hands under the mouth of a snarling stone lion and washed away the blood. Even after Ardis finished, Wendel still stood with his head bowed, twisting his hands together, scraping his skin with his fingernails until it looked raw.

“Wendel,” she said.

He shook the water from his hands and glanced sideways at her. “Yes?”

“We shouldn’t stay here.”

He nodded and clenched his hands together, then glanced at the gargoyle again.

“There’s a nice hotel nearby.” He attempted a smile. “They even have showers.”

“That does sound nice,” she said.

She let him lead her through the streets of Vienna while rain fell upon them and soaked them to the skin. By the time they arrived at the hotel’s grand façade, she was shivering, and Wendel pressed his hand to her back.

They stepped into the warmth of the hotel. The foyer looked like it belonged in a palace with its glittering chandeliers, burnished wood, and gilding on the walls. It was gorgeous enough that it made Ardis feel ugly.

The concierge thinned his lips and glanced at the wet footprints they had tracked inside.

“We would like a room,” Wendel said, “with a hot shower.”

He laid a handful of koronas on the counter, and the clink of gold was enough to allow the concierge to overlook their rudeness.

With the key to their room in Wendel’s hand, they climbed a spiral staircase with lush brocade carpet and ornate iron railings. Ardis hoped she wasn’t staring, and wondered if Wendel often stayed in hotels this luxurious. He was still Prussian nobility, even if he was disinherited. She wondered how high-ranking he had been.

“This room will make you feel like a princess,” Wendel said.

She rolled her eyes. “I never wanted to be a princess.”

He glanced sideways at her and furrowed his brow, as if he couldn’t believe this, and looked as if he wanted to say something, but thought better of it. They reached the door to their room, and he handed her the key.

She struggled to unlock the door, and laughed. “My fingers are numb.”

“Almost to the shower,” he said. “As soon as you open the door.”

Ardis sighed in exasperation, but she was glad to see a hint of teasing in Wendel’s eyes again. She wanted to forget what had happened in the catacombs, and she suspected that a shower would help them both.

At last the lock clicked, and she pushed open the door.

The room was the color of peaches and cream, wallpapered in silk brocade, and the crystals of the chandelier winked in the dimness. She kicked off her boots and let her feet sink into the plush carpet. When she started to walk toward the bed, Wendel wrapped his arm around her waist and swung her toward the bathroom.

“Let me show you the shower,” he said.

She arched her eyebrows and tried to think of something clever, but he dragged her to him and kissed her hard. The length of his body pressed against hers, his wet clothes clinging to his skin, and she shivered against him.

“You feel so cold,” he said. “Shower. Now.”

Ardis could feel Wendel’s feverish desperation, and it was contagious. She followed him into the en suite bathroom. Her fingers unsteady, she unbuckled her scabbard and tossed her sword onto the carpet in the bedroom. He pulled her back into the bathroom. Laughing, shaking, she let him peel away her shirt.

“Help me,” he said. “I don’t want to rip your clothes—”

“Oh, I think you do.”

Ardis danced back before he could call her on her bluff. She wriggled out of her clothes and tossed them onto the floor. Wendel turned on the water in the shower and held his hand underneath to check the temperature. Rainwater dripped from his clothes and pattered on the tiles. She struggled with his waterlogged coat.

“Let me,” he said.

Wendel shrugged off his coat and tossed it on the floor, then shook his head and picked it up again. He brought the coat to the bedroom, and she realized he must be taking out Amarant and hiding the black dagger somewhere.

He returned with the tin of preventives held aloft. “Can’t forgot these.”

“These?” she said, with a teasing smile. “Plural? What makes you think—?”

He silenced her with a kiss, stopping only to strip naked and drag her into the shower. When the steaming hot water hit them, he closed his eyes and let out a moan of a sigh. He tilted back his head and let the water fall over his face.

“Better,” he said.

Wendel rubbed his hands over his face, then leaned against the wall with his eyes closed. His hair ran in black rivulets down his back. Ardis lathered the soap, then ran her hands along his shoulders. He let her massage away the tension still tight in his muscles. Her fingertips lingered on the scars crisscrossing his skin.

“Ardis,” he said.

She froze, afraid she had touched a scar he didn’t want to remember.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I—I can’t stop thinking about the catacombs.”

Ardis lifted her hands from his back. She felt an ache in the pit of her stomach.

Wendel turned around, his hair straggling in his face, and took the soap. Without looking at her, without saying a word, he rubbed the soap over his hands like they were still bloodstained. He stopped only to wash the rest of his skin, then returned to his hands, scrubbing under his fingernails to rid himself of imaginary dirt.

“Talk to me,” she said.

Wendel’s hands clenched around the bar of soap. “What is there to say?”

“You don’t like to touch the dead. You don’t like to feel anyone die.”

Wendel grimaced, and the soap squeezed out of his hand. He fumbled as he tried to catch it, and Ardis couldn’t help but laugh.

“Sorry!” she said. “I’m not laughing at you. It’s just…”

“It’s ridiculous, I know. I’m a necromancer. It shouldn’t bother me.”

Ardis shook her head. “If it didn’t bother you, I would worry.”

Wendel made a show of picking up the soap, though he looked at her with hesitant eyes.

“Help me forget,” he said.

Ardis kissed him on the lips, on the cheekbones, and on the water that clung to his eyelashes. Wendel let out a shuddering sigh. He curled his arms around her waist and buried his face in the curve of her neck.

“Can we stay like this forever?” he said, in a hoarse murmur.

“The water might get cold,” she said.

He smiled wickedly. “You should at least stay naked forever.”

Ardis rolled her eyes. Wendel reached around her hips and tugged her to him. He kissed her neck, lingering there, then bit her gently. She sucked in her breath. He bit harder, enough to mark her, and she tilted back her head.

“Good?” he said.

Shivering, she nodded.

He licked where he had bitten her, then took her earlobe between his teeth. When he traced her ear with his tongue, her knees wavered, and she leaned onto him to keep herself standing. He held her with an arm around her waist.

“Better?” he said.

“Still good,” she said, and she smiled. “Don’t think ‘better’ and ‘best’ will be easy.”

“Ah,” he said, “but you don’t like easy. You like hard.”

“That is a terrible pun.”

Wendel laughed, then rubbed the soap between his hands. He slid his slippery fingers over her breasts and looked into her eyes with bold intimacy. She didn’t break their gaze, her breath quickening, even as he explored her skin. Water soaked their hair, and the lingering aroma of smoke vanished into the steam.

“Would you like to stay in the shower?” he asked huskily.

“Unless you have ulterior motives,” she said.

“My motives should be very—” His hands tightened on her buttocks. “—very obvious.”

Ardis glanced down at him. “Oh?” she teased. “I hadn’t noticed…”

“This is not a joking matter,” he said, grinning.

Wendel backed her against the wall in a way that made it impossible for her to ignore how hard he was. She stroked him with her hand. He thrust against her, almost involuntarily, and growled in the back of his throat.

Panting, she breathed into his ear. “Maybe you should—”

“A preventive?”

“Yes.”

He lunged from the shower and disappeared for a minute. She leaned against the wall and let her fingers wander over herself. When Wendel returned, he wasted no time in flinging her back against the wall and grabbing her hips. She splayed her hands on the tiles, the muscles in her legs tight, and struggled for her footing.

He halted, tantalizingly close, and stared into her eyes.

“Let go, Ardis,” he said. “Let me hold you.”

She had never done this before, and it seemed so precarious. “But—”

“Trust me.”

So she nodded, and did.

He lifted her against the wall. She wrapped her legs around his waist and hooked her arms behind his neck, completely at his mercy. The muscles in his back tightened as he shifted his stance, and then he thrust into her.

A little involuntary cry left her throat. He made her feel so full and yet so empty. The hollowness of lust ached inside her. When he withdrew, she clung to him and bit his shoulder, hard enough to make him gasp.

“You aren’t allowed to stop,” she said.

“Oh?” he said. “Is that an order?”

“Yes.”

His eyes glittering, he did as he was told. He found a hard and fast rhythm, and she followed his lead. She angled her hips so that he plunged even deeper, and he uttered an incomprehensible moan. He clutched her to himself, breathing against her neck, and slowed down to grind against her with delicious deliberation.

“I have to tell you the truth,” he said.

She tensed. “What?”

“I won’t last much longer like this.”

She arched against him to make him moan. Smiling, she traced her fingernails down his spine and clutched his buttocks.

“Ardis,” he warned.

“I already gave you an order,” she said, enjoying her power over him. “You can’t stop.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What was it you once said? Prisoners don’t give orders.”

“Who said I’m your prisoner?”

“Who said I’m letting you go?”

Ardis took that as a challenge. She stared into his smoldering eyes. Her staccato heartbeat drummed inside her chest. She kissed him, savagely, and yanked him closer to her. He stiffened, the muscles in his arms taut, and she could feel him teetering on the brink of surrendering to pleasure. She wanted to make him fall.

He dragged in a shaky breath and started to withdraw, then groaned.

“I can’t—”

“Wendel,” she whispered in his ear. “I need you.”

He abandoned himself to his desires, one hand tangled in her hair, the other clutching her hip crushingly close. She savored the way he shuddered. Gasping, he lowered her from the wall. Her legs trembled beneath her when she stood.

She waited for him to look into her eyes. “Better? Or best?”

His eyebrows shot skyward. He seemed to be having trouble speaking, until finally he shook his head and dragged her out of the shower.

“The bed,” he rasped, and he cleared his throat. “Might be more comfortable.”

She nodded and bent over to turn off the water. He made a satisfied murmur, and she glanced back to see him staring.

“Distracted by my derriere?” she said.

He narrowed his eyes with a devilish smile. “Come to bed with me. You shouldn’t be nearly so articulate right now.”

“And you are?”

He yanked a towel from its rack and wrapped it around her, then hauled her toward the bedroom. She stumbled and nearly fell, laughing, and he helped her by sweeping her off her feet and dropping her on the bed.

“There’s no point in hiding yourself,” he said.

A blush crept over her cheeks when she realized she was clutching the towel to herself. Emboldened by the satisfaction in his eyes, she tore the towel away and stretched on the bed, letting him stare at her nakedness. He climbed over her on the bed and kissed her tenderly. She let herself relax beneath him.

When he withdrew, he looked into her eyes, a questioning vulnerability in his own. She wasn’t sure what he wanted her to say.

“Close your eyes,” he said.

She did, but peeked through her eyelashes. He kissed a path from her neck to her breasts. Water trickled from his hair onto her skin. His hand strayed lower, lingering on her thigh, and he distracted her by licking her nipple.

“That feels good,” she whispered.

He laughed, and the vibration of his voice on her skin made her shiver. She did more than shiver when he touched her between her legs. She arched her back, already aching for more, but he tormented her with his slow caresses.

“You like that?” he said.

“Yes,” she said.

He glanced at her with a wicked glint in his eyes, and she realized he knew perfectly well how he was torturing her with his touch.

“You are so evil,” she said. “You—”

He slipped his finger inside her, and she gasped.

“You were saying?” he said.

She glowered at him, then threw back her head as he touched her deeper, harder, quicker. Panting, she tilted her hips to urge him on. He discovered what pleased her most and stroked her unrelentingly. White-hot tension pooled inside her, then washed over her in waves of ecstasy. He held her close as she trembled.

“I want to hear you,” he murmured in her ear, “when you come again.”

She sucked in air to speak, but he resumed touching her, and her words became a gasp. She moaned against his shoulder while the tension built until it was almost intolerable, then cried out and lost herself to passion.

After she could catch her breath, she kissed him, and his lips felt like heaven.

“Wendel,” she sighed.

He smiled, then swung his legs over the bed. She propped herself on her elbows and watched him walk from the bedroom.

“Wendel?” she said. “Where are you…?”

He returned from the bathroom with the tin of preventives, shaking his head.

“Never can remember to keep these around,” he muttered.

Ardis wanted to tease him for being forgetful, but she was equally guilty. She sprawled languidly on the bed and stared at his nakedness. Sweat glittered over the lean length of his body. He was clearly ready for more.

“Tonight,” he said, “you belong to me.”

He held himself over her and slid inside, slowly, so that she could feel every inch of him. She pressed her face to his chest. He breathed in the scent of her wet hair, then let instinct take over. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t halt, thrusting and clutching her close until he groaned and shuddered in sweet release.

Spent, he sank down beside her on the bed and kissed her on the neck.

Ardis sighed. “That was amazing.”

“Thank you,” he said.

Laughing, she swatted him on the shoulder. “Don’t take all the credit.”

He arched an eyebrow, but seemed too satisfied with himself to protest. She rested in the curve of his arm and closed her eyes. Bliss sang through her blood. As she drifted into sleep, a single thought surfaced in her mind.

Of all the places she had been, here and now in his arms was where she belonged.

~

When Ardis woke, the cool purple shadows of evening stretched along the wall. She reached across the bed for Wendel, but he wasn’t there. Blinking away sleep from her eyes, she clutched the sheet and sat upright.

“Wendel?” she called.

No reply.

Her heartbeat quickened, and she drew a deep breath. He wouldn’t have left her, not now, not like this, unless—she shoved her doubts away and climbed out of bed. On the nightstand, she spotted a piece of paper with scrawled handwriting.

Ardis,

I will return soon. I suspect you will also be thirsty and hungry when you wake.

Wendel

He had written it in English, and she wondered if he remembered her reading the German newspaper on the train. She shook her head, laughed to herself, and wondered why he had never spoken English around her before.

Probably because he didn’t care to, and he was Wendel.

She showered, then dressed in a bathrobe and stood by the window. The glittering splendor of Vienna outshone the stars in the sky. Standing here in the hotel, looking down on the city, she felt a curious sense of longing.

A key clicked in the lock, and the door swung open.

Wendel strode inside, his clothes still damp from the rain, carrying a bottle of absinthe. He held it high triumphantly.

“I return victorious,” he said.

Ardis slipped the bottle from his hands and stared at the ornate golden label.

“How much was this?” she said. “It looks like it cost a fortune.”

He measured a pinch of air with his fingers. “A tiny fortune.”

She sloshed the absinthe in its bottle. “Let’s not drink any on an empty stomach.”

“Oh, I already ordered dinner for us both.”

“Ordered?” She furrowed her brow. “Where?”

“In the hotel restaurant,” he said, as if this were obvious. “Don’t worry, I asked the concierge if they could deliver it all to our room.” He smiled charmingly. “Which means you don’t even have to get dressed for dinner.”

Ardis angled a look at him. “I’m keeping the bathrobe on.”

Wendel’s smile turned wicked. “You look your best in nothing.”

When she started to scoff at him, someone rapped on the door. She clutched her bathrobe closer, feeling very nearly naked already.

“That should be dinner,” Wendel said. “Unless I missed a stray assassin.”

Ardis rolled her eyes, but she slid her foot closer to Chun Yi.

Wendel cracked open the door. “Yes?”

“Your dinner, sir,” said a man in a hotel uniform.

Wendel swept open the door, and the waiter wheeled in a trolley laden with covered platters and more than enough silverware and china for two. With a flourish of a bow, the waiter revealed each of the platters.

“We have lamb in mint sauce,” he said, “and grilled flounder in chervil butter. Followed by ragout of venison with butter dumplings, red cabbage with glazed chestnuts, and finally rhubarb cake with cream for dessert.”

Ardis breathed in the aromas shimmering on steam, her mouth watering.

“And thank you,” Wendel said, “for liberating the absinthe paraphernalia from the bar.”

“Most welcome, sir,” said the waiter. “Will that be all?”

“For now.”

Ardis tore her stare away from the food long enough to see him tipping the waiter with a generous handful of koronas. Silver korona coins, to boot. After the waiter bowed from the room, Wendel locked the door.

“Did you order half the menu?” Ardis said.

“Possibly.”

She made a faint noise of disbelief. “I’m not sure I want to know how you are so rich.”

He took back the bottle of absinthe and shrugged.

“Guilt,” he said. “My dearest beloved family cut off all communication with me the day they banished me to Constantinople, but I found out later that they arranged for a monthly allowance in a bank account under my name.”

“How much?” she said.

“Only a pitiful fraction of my inheritance, but enough to convince them I wasn’t living in squalor.” Wendel had a faint sneer. “I hadn’t touched a cent until the night I arrived in Vienna, when I promptly withdrew it all.”

Ardis stared at him. “All of it?”

“Before the Order could freeze the account.” He tilted the bottle of absinthe and peered through the glass. “Though I’m not sure I will have the time to spend it all. There’s enough for another week or two at least.”

A week or two? Ardis narrowed her eyes at Wendel’s pessimism.

“What happens after a week or two?” she said.

“By then I will be in Constantinople,” he said airily, “and won’t need the money either way. If I’m alive, then I can loot what I need from the Order. If I’m dead, then hopefully I will have died happily bankrupt.”

He made it sound like a joke, but she saw the truth in his eyes.

“You don’t expect to come back,” she said, “do you?”

“Ardis,” he said, “I told you, it runs in the family. The two traits go hand in hand. Necromancy and not living very long.”

She cocked her head. “Your great-great-great-grandfather? How did he die?”

Wendel shrugged. “From what I was told, that necromancer decided to threaten the King of Prussia. That ended rather badly.”

“Then don’t make any powerful enemies.”

He laughed. “Too late.”

She crossed her arms. “Let me rephrase that. Don’t make any powerful enemies that you know you can’t possibly defeat.”

He laughed again. “That is such a mercenary thing to say.”

“God, Wendel, this isn’t a joke. I’m not letting you run off on some suicidal revenge mission. You need help.”

His jaw hardened, but he smirked. “Help? Do you fear for my sanity?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Sorry, I don’t.”

“I’m coming with you to Constantinople.”

That knocked the bastardly smirk off his face. He swallowed hard, sighed, and set the bottle of absinthe down on the trolley.

“You want to come with me on my suicidal revenge mission?”

“Yes,” she said.

“And I can’t say anything that would stop you?”

“What do you think?”

Wendel ran his tongue over his bottom lip. “All right. You can come.”

“Really?” she said. She had expected more of a fight.

“After dinner, of course.”

She sighed, since he obviously wasn’t taking her seriously. She eyed the bottle of absinthe, then glanced back at him.

“Could you show me how to serve absinthe correctly?” she said. “You never did.”

His stance relaxed. “Certainly.”

“After dinner, of course,” she added, with a wry look.

If he wouldn’t tell her the truth sober, then a little liquor never hurt.

Ice clinked in the carafe of water as Ardis tilted it over the glass of absinthe. The carafe chilled her fingers, but Wendel’s steadying hand warmed her own. He angled the carafe to slow the water. It trickled onto a sugar cube in a slotted spoon, balanced over the glass. The sugar melted and swirled into the absinthe below.

Drop by drop, sweetness clouded the verdant green.

“This brings out the true essence of absinthe,” Wendel murmured. “Some call it la fée verte, the green fairy, who visits them with waking dreams. Not that I have ever seen such things. I merely enjoy the taste.”

“And this tastes better than drinking it straight?” Ardis asked.

He laughed, then tilted the carafe upright. “Taste it yourself.”

She took a long slow sip of absinthe. The chilly water mellowed the fire of alcohol, and a licorice taste lingered on her tongue.

“Agreed,” she said.

Wendel toasted her with his empty glass, then slid the bottle of absinthe nearer and started to make himself a drink. Ardis returned to her plate at the table and surveyed the remains of dinner. They had demolished all of the lamb in mint sauce, and only a sliver of flounder remained. She helped herself to another bowl of ragout of venison, then took the last slice of rhubarb cake with a healthy dollop of cream.

Near-death experiences did tend to whet the appetite.

Wendel stoppered the carafe and dropped onto the couch, glass of absinthe in hand. He kicked off his boots and stretched out with a sigh.

“I’m finishing the cake,” Ardis said.

“I can see that,” he said lazily. “Mind if I make myself more comfortable?”

She shook her head and licked cream from her fingers.

Wendel set his glass on the table, then shucked off his coat and tossed it on the floor. As he unbuttoned his shirt, he stared brazenly into her eyes. Her cheeks blazed when she realized she still had her finger in her mouth.

“Your plan won’t work,” she said.

“Plan?” he said.

“To seduce me right after dinner.” Still blushing, she reached for a napkin. “I’m too full of food for anything like that.”

Wendel tilted his head heavenward as if expecting a halo above himself.

“Your expectations amuse me,” he said.

He stripped away the last of his clothing, then lounged back on the couch. She let her gaze wander over his nakedness, her breath quickening. He sipped his absinthe, closed his eyes, and sank deeper into the cushions.

Ardis licked her lips and cradled her glass. Questions. She had to think of questions.

“If you weren’t a necromancer,” she said, “what life would you have now?”

Wendel opened his eyes a crack. “I would be trying my hardest to ruin my reputation. Though that might not be enough to stop them from marrying me off to some duchess or princess to uphold the Hohenzollern honor.”

She scoffed. “Duchess or princess?”

“Only the bluest blood,” he said, with a shameless smile. “I am the eldest son, after all.”

“Eldest son? So you have brothers?”

“One.”

“Is he as horrible as you?” she teased.

“Hopefully.” His smile faded. “I haven’t seen him since I left home. Or my sister.”

Ardis sipped her absinthe and rolled the bitterness on her tongue. She waited for him to speak, but he merely stared at the ceiling. Feeling a bit jittery, she swigged the rest of her absinthe and reached for the bottle.

“Let me refill your glass,” she said.

Wendel glanced sideways at her, then finished off his absinthe and handed her the glass. He watched as she rested the absinthe spoon over his glass, balanced a sugar cube there, and twisted the cap off the absinthe bottle.

“Backwards,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“You did it backwards. Add the absinthe first, then the sugar, then the water.”

“Oh.”

Wendel swung his legs over the couch and leaned against her back. He snaked his arms past her waist and reached for the glass.

“Like so,” he said, his voice tickling the nape of her neck.

Distracted by the heat of his skin, she turned in his arms. He stared down at her with a glint in his eyes. She was struck by just how much taller he was, and just how masculine he felt against her. Blood whooshed in her ears as she brushed her fingertips across his bare chest, feeling the scars crisscrossing his skin.

“Why so many scars?” she whispered, with a shy glance into his eyes.

“I have been hurt many times.”

Wendel leaned over her shoulder, and she heard the clink of metal on glass, then the gurgle of absinthe pouring from the bottle.

“You must be thirsty,” she said. “You want the absinthe more than me.”

His lips twitched. “I find you infinitely more charming. But I’m not seducing you, remember? My intentions are innocent.”

“Innocent?” she said, with a glance downward. “You look guilty to me.”

He couldn’t hide his nakedness, or the shadows in his eyes when he smiled.

“If only you knew,” he said.

She shivered at his words, and wondered if she wanted to know the truth about him. But she couldn’t keep trusting him blindly. Not when he wouldn’t talk to her about the Order of the Asphodel, or about her father.

A penny-sized scar puckered the skin above his collarbone. Her fingers lingered there.

“What is the story behind this scar?” she said.

Wendel laughed, surprisingly, and the sound reverberated in her chest.

“That particular scar,” he said, “was from a duel before the Hex.”

She flicked her eyebrows upward. “You were shot?”

“I lost the duel.” He rubbed the scar absently. “I can’t always be amazing.”

“There must be more to that story.”

He snorted. “In the infinite wisdom of my youth, I provoked a spy from the Russian Empire and challenged him to a duel. I had been sent to interrogate, then assassinate him. Rather than go to all the trouble of knifing him in a dark alleyway, I decided to take care of things in a duel. It sounded more sporting at the time.”

“A duel to the death?” she said.

“No. First blood. But that didn’t stop the spy from trying to kill me.”

She arched her eyebrows. “Damn.”

“He must have realized who I was, and that I didn’t need him alive to ask my questions.”

Wendel poured ice water into the absinthe, his smile equally as cold.

“Conveniently,” he said, “the dead never lie.”

Ardis felt like she should muster some disgust, but she couldn’t convince herself that this was all that different than her own assassinations. He had a point. His necromancy could be gruesomely efficient.

Wendel retreated, the glass of absinthe held high, and waved at the couch.

“Shall we talk about something other than my scars?” he said. “As much as I love to relive my failures, I had other plans.”

“Failures? Surely they can’t all be your fault.”

“True.” He tilted his head, his eyes full of darkness. “Please, sit.”

She sank onto the couch and stared up at him. He turned his back on her and flexed his shoulders forward, his skin tautening. Stark white scars raked across his shoulder blades and ran down the length of his back.

“The scar below my left shoulder blade,” he said. “See it?”

“Which?”

“The thickest one. About as wide as a dagger.”

“A… dagger?”

“Yes.” He sipped his absinthe, then laughed hoarsely. “Stabbed me in the back.”

She shrank back on the couch. “You survived?”

“Backstabs are easier to survive than you might think.”

“Now I have to know,” she said. “Who stabbed you in the back?”

His shoulders stiffened, and he didn’t say anything for a moment.

“An assassin from the Order of the Asphodel,” he said.

She sucked in her breath. “They tried to assassinate you?”

“That’s not what I meant.” He glanced back at her and grimaced. “This bastard didn’t like me, that’s all. Never did, once he found out that I was a necromancer. He always thought I was overshadowing him.”

She chose her words carefully. “He was one of your colleagues.”

“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.

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 hail 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.

“No, thank you,” Konstantin said. “I’m here on business.” He glowered at Wendel. “Are you sure you should be drinking?”

The necromancer smiled. “Better drunk than hungover.”

“I would prefer it if you were conscious tonight,” Konstantin said curtly.

“Tonight?” Wendel crossed his arms. “What do you want me for tonight?”

“I apologize,” Konstantin said, “for asking you on such short notice. But I’m missing the blueprints for a key component.”

The barmaid plunked down the vodka. Wendel knocked back the shot, leaned his elbows on the bar, and stared at the archmage.

“Of?”

Konstantin glanced furtively at Ardis. “Project Lazarus.”

“Wendel told me,” she said, “even if Margareta didn’t.”

The archmage heaved a sigh. “I suppose that saves us some time. And you might be interested in the job.”

“What kind of blueprints?” she said.

“A theoretical energy gun. I have been working on it for over a year now, but I keep hitting roadblock after roadblock. I’m afraid it will be impossible to meet Margareta’s deadline without Lord Adler’s blueprints.”

“Lord Adler?” Wendel straightened from his slouch. “The baron from Vienna?”

“He’s quite an accomplished technomancer, but he’s so damn eccentric.” Konstantin raked his fingers through his hair. “I spoke with him about buying his blueprints for Project Lazarus, but he refused. And the worst thing of all? Lord Adler bragged to me that he already has an interested buyer from America.”

Ardis leaned onto the bar. “Did the American buy them?”

“Not yet. He plans to meet with the American at a ball tonight.”

Wendel cocked his head. “A Viennese ball. Let me guess. You expect me to sweet talk my way inside without an invitation?”

“I do have an invitation,” Konstantin scoffed.

“Then why not do this yourself?”

“Because I already tried. Lord Adler won’t bother with me for a second time, not when he has American dollars in sight. And then the energy gun will be the plaything of some tycoon with too much time on his hands.”

Wendel frowned into his empty shot glass. “You think the baron will sell them to me?”

“I have the money,” Konstantin said. “And if the American has more, then you will have to secure the blueprints another way.”

“You mean steal the blueprints?” Wendel laughed. “Archmage, consider me shocked.”

Konstantin blushed, though he did look flattered.

“Lord Adler,” he said, “allows his greed to impede the innovation of technomancy. Did you know I helped him solve a very tricky problem with harmonic charms, and he didn’t even give me a footnote in a journal?”

“So not so much eccentric,” Ardis said, “as egotistical?”

Konstantin pursed his lips. “Precisely.”

“This makes much more sense now.” Wendel looked delighted. “Revenge, I understand.”

Ardis raised her hand. “I’m American. Let me talk to the buyer and distract him while Wendel persuades Lord Adler to reconsider.”

Konstantin stroked his chin and nodded. “The invitation does allow for a guest.”

Wendel sized up Ardis with a devilish smile.

“Archmage,” he said, “it’s a brilliant idea. The American will be more than distracted by a beautiful woman in a beautiful gown.”

Ardis blushed. “Do I look like I own a ball gown?”

“Honestly,” Wendel said, “they wouldn’t let you inside in those clothes.”

She glanced down at her trousers, though she didn’t admit he was right.

Konstantin cleared his throat. “I would of course be willing to compensate you both. Name your price, and we can negotiate.”

Ardis bit the inside of her cheek.

“When I said I was on leave,” she said, “I didn’t mean I’m on vacation.”

The archmage furrowed his brow. “Oh?”

Clenching her sweaty hands, she forced herself to look him in the eye.

“I was the one who guarded Diesel,” she said, “on the steamship to England. I was the one who failed. Only I found out later that the mission—the real mission—had been a success, and I was no more than a dummy.”

Recognition flickered on Konstantin’s face. “Margareta never told me that.”

“Why would she?” Ardis grimaced. “I spoke my mind, and now I’m out of work.”

The archmage shook his head. “That’s hardly fair. Help me with the blueprints, and let me have a talk with Margareta.”

“I will.” Ardis squared her shoulders. “Thank you.”

Wendel flicked a hazelnut with his finger. “And what could you possibly give me?”

“Ah,” Konstantin said, and for some reason he seemed uneasy. “I know you have unfinished business in Constantinople.”

“Yes,” Wendel said slowly.

Ardis glanced between them, and wondered how much the necromancer had confessed.

“I happened upon a secret,” Konstantin murmured, “that may help you.”

Not even looking, Wendel toyed with his glass. “A secret? About?”

“The Grandmaster.”

When Wendel lifted his head, the smoldering in his eyes flamed. The angles of his face looked shadowed in the lamplight.

“Archmage,” he said in a velvety voice, “you know I could never say no.”

Konstantin smiled, but doubt wormed through Ardis’s stomach. She knew the journey to Constantinople was inevitable.

She hoped only they would both come back.

~

Night tossed thousands of glittering stars across the cold clear sky. Ardis breathed shallowly, her ribs imprisoned by the steel boning in her corset. The silk sleeves of her ball gown fluttered in the wind. She shivered.

“Take my jacket,” Wendel said.

She shook her head, again, and glanced sideways at him. He looked stunning in a black tailcoat and ivory waistcoat, everything tailored handsomely to the lean lines of his body. She wished her own dress were half as practical, though she secretly loved the gown’s froth of golden lace spilling over emerald green silk.

Not that she, a mercenary, would ever admit to such a thing.

“I insist,” Wendel said. “Before you die of hypothermia.”

She blinked at a sudden memory. I didn’t drag your lifeless body all the way back to camp just so you could die of hypothermia.

Was it strange that this felt more surreal than the battlefield?

“I may be dressed like a lady,” Ardis said, “but that doesn’t make me delicate.”

Wendel laughed, but his amusement faded as fast as it had come. He quickened his step, his hand tightening on her elbow.

“You look lovely,” he said. “Though that is the trouble.”

“Trouble?” she said.

“I’m tempted to see you naked, and here we are in the middle of the street.”

“Wendel!” She laughed, then touched her fingers to her mouth. “Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

He captured her in a fierce kiss. Breathless, she pressed against him and savored the lean length of his body on hers. His skin burned beneath her touch, and she could feel his impatience in the tautness of his muscles.

He moved, his mouth by her ear. “But I can wait until later tonight,” he rasped.

“You are so unbelievably—”

“Seductive?” he said.

Tension wound tighter below her stomach. “Bad.”

“I think you mean naughty.”

She rolled her eyes. “Naughty makes me think of schoolboys.”

“Then you will have to educate me on the appropriate adjectives.”

“Later,” she said.

“Like I said.”

He kissed her again, below her ear, when they started walking again. She glared at him, though that only made him smile.

“I already feel naked,” she said, “without my sword.”

“I should remember that.”

She tried to think of a reply, something scathingly clever, but they had arrived at the ball.

Light spilled from the high windows of the Sofiensaal and illuminated the dance hall’s ornate stucco façade. Ladies and gentlemen sashayed from gleaming autos and carriages. Horses snorted mist into the chilly night.

Giddy, Ardis wavered as they climbed the Sofiensaal’s steps.

“Let me catch my breath,” she said, clutching Wendel’s arm.

He cast a sharp glance at her. “What’s wrong?”

“This corset,” she said.

Her nerves weren’t helping. A wave of unease prickled over her skin and left goosebumps in its wake. She glanced around the street, her eyes distracted by the resplendent confusion of women as bright as exotic birds.

“Don’t worry.” Wendel squeezed her hand. “Follow my lead.”

She forced herself to look mildly disinterested as they stopped outside the Sofiensaal.

“Good evening,” the doorman said.

Wendel nodded and slipped the invitation from his coat pocket. He handed it to the doorman with a lofty look. The doorman flipped open the invitation, gave it no more than a cursory glance, then let them inside.

The inside of the Sofiensaal glittered with chandeliers, gilding, and gemstone necklaces on many ladies. Ardis touched her own bare neck and hoped she didn’t look like an imposter, though she certainly felt like one.

“What did the invitation say?” she murmured.

Wendel scanned the ballroom. “What do you mean?”

“Who are we supposed to be?”

“Oh, I didn’t read the invitation,” he said blithely.

“Wendel!”

“Neither did you, from the sound of it.”

She sighed and let him lead her around the outskirts of the ballroom. Dancers waltzed under the chandeliers to the music of Strauss. Beyond the orchestra, they climbed stairs to a dining area with buffet tables. Centerpieces of fruit and flowers towered above silver dishes offering a feast of Viennese cuisine.

“Who are we?” Ardis said. “Or do we have no cover story?”

Wendel tilted his head. “I’m a penniless Prussian viscount. You can be a wealthy American heiress aiming for my title.”

She laughed. “A viscount? I would aim higher than that.”

“Would you?” His eyes gleamed. “Anything higher than a viscount, and we will have to answer too many questions.”

“True.”

He helped himself to a glass of champagne and meandered along the buffet.

“Any sign of Lord Adler?” he said.

“I don’t know what he looks like,” she said. “And I’m looking for the American.”

Not that Konstantin had done a good job of describing him. He had told her the man’s name was Jesse Howland, and given her a newspaper clipping with a group photograph where Howland’s face was a blurry smudge.

“Is Howland blond?” Ardis said. “Do you remember what Konstantin said?”

Wendel didn’t reply. Did he really pay so little attention? Sighing, she turned to face him.

He was gone.

“Wendel?”

Ardis’s heart leapt into her throat. She glanced around the ballroom, but she couldn’t see beyond the swirl of dancers.

“Excuse me!” said a young man.

She whirled to face him. Barely older than a boy, really, his black hair slicked smooth over a face he hadn’t grown into yet.

Something about the sharpness of his cheekbones…

“That man with you,” he said, breathlessly. “Where did he go?”

Ardis froze, her stomach in a knot, and rearranged her face into a smile. Could this stranger be from the Order?

Though it did seem too obvious to simply walk up and ask for Wendel.

“Sorry?” she said.

“He was with you a moment ago,” he said, “but then he vanished—”

“Men often vanish at a ball,” said a lady, “when they tire of dancing.”

She slipped from the crowd and smiled at them. Her silk gown shimmered, dusky pink embroidered with ornate silver brocade, with long silver lacework sleeves in a fashion that evoked the Orient. The lady, too, looked like she had come from afar, with dark hair and eyes that reminded Ardis of her own.

“Lady Maili,” the stranger said, and she held out an elegantly gloved hand.

The young man kissed the air above her fingers. “I remember.”

“You might want to introduce yourself,” Lady Maili said, “for her sake.”

“My apologies.” He dipped into a quick bow, his black hair shadowing his eyes. “Prince Wolfram of Prussia.”

Ardis arched her eyebrows and decided to mimic Lady Maili’s charm.

“A prince?” she said. “This will sound very American of me, but I must say I am surprised. I never met a prince before.”

Wolfram’s eyebrows angled in a frown that looked terribly familiar.

“Never?” he said. “But that man—I’m certain of it.”

“Certain of what?” Ardis said.

“He was my brother.”

When Wolfram looked at Ardis, his eyes glimmering, she sucked in her breath. She couldn’t deny the resemblance.

“Another prince?” Lady Maili laughed. “This ball is turning out all right.”

Wolfram shook his head.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I haven’t seen him for years. He left when I was very young. I may have my hopes up too high.”

“What was his name?” Ardis said faintly.

“Wendel.”

Ardis felt like he had punched her in the gut. Prince Wendel of Prussia? How had he hidden a lie so large from her for so long?

“That’s awful,” Lady Maili said, with a sympathetic frown.

“Sorry.” Wolfram bowed again. “I should return to my sister.”

Wendel’s sister. Princess of Prussia, no doubt.

Ardis blinked fast. “Wait,” she said.

Wolfram hadn’t heard her, so she grabbed his elbow. He gawked at her—probably commoners didn’t touch princes—but she held on.

“Wendel is here,” she said, “but I don’t know where.”

Wolfram’s eyes lit up.

“Is he? God, you have to let me see him. Please, I hope it’s him. I thought he was dead.”

Ardis grimaced at the sad desperation in Wolfram’s voice. Wendel must have abandoned her the moment he saw his brother. She hadn’t thought of Wendel as a coward, but it seemed like such a cruel thing to—

“Ardis!”

Wendel lunged from the crowd. His hand clamped on her arm. Before anyone could speak, he shook his head hard.

“We have to leave,” he muttered hoarsely. “Now.”

Ardis’s hand darted to where her sword should be, but of course she had left Chun Yi locked in their room at the hotel.

Wolfram stepped forward. “Wendel?”

The two brothers locked gazes, their eyes glittering. Wendel’s jaw hardened. Ardis could see him closing his emotions away.

“Wolfram,” Wendel said, his voice remarkably level, “are you here with Juliana?”

“Yes.”

“Find her and make sure she leaves. It isn’t safe here.”

Wolfram’s face crumpled. “You can’t—”

“What isn’t safe?” Lady Maili fanned herself. “What are you talking about?”

Wendel held Ardis’s arm so tight it hurt. She twisted out of his grasp.

“The Order?” she said.

He nodded.

Ardis stared at him. “But the assassins in the catacombs—you interrogated them.”

“I did.”

“You said the dead never lie!”

“I was wrong,” he said. “That was all they knew, and they never knew the truth. More, so many more, assassins have hunted me here.”

Lady Maili dropped her fan. “You must be mad.”

Wendel clenched his hands and glanced around the ballroom. “If they see me talking with you—I can’t stay much longer.”

“Don’t leave.” Wolfram straightened, not quite as tall as his brother. “I won’t allow it.”

Wendel laughed, a broken sound.

“Wolfram,” he said, “do as I say and keep Juliana safe.”

“No.”

“I outrank you.”

“Not anymore.”

Wendel glared at him. “I’m still your older brother.”

His eyes burning, Wolfram wouldn’t back down.

“My older brother is dead,” he said. “That’s what they told me. I never believed them.”

“Wolfram.” Wendel softened his words. “Wolfie. Please.”

A moment hung suspended in the air like an eternity, and then Ardis glimpsed a flash of gray—a man running along the edge of the ballroom. Wendel’s face hardened, and as he retreated from them, he drew his dagger.

“Run,” he said.

Wolfram reached for him, but Wendel stepped backward and slipped into the crowd. Lady Maili looked to Ardis, her face pale.

“Where is your sister?” Ardis said. “Juliana?”

“I don’t know,” Wolfram said.

“We need to find her, and we need to get out of here.”

Wolfram frowned, then nodded. “She should be dancing.”

Ardis scanned the ballroom. Near the back, Wendel stalked along the wall, but there weren’t enough shadows for Amarant to hide him. As the music floated into its finale, the ladies and gentlemen halted their waltz.

Polite applause echoed beneath the high arched ceiling.

“There.” Wolfram pointed. “Juliana.”

An elegant brunette in silver silk laughed at her dancing companion. A tiara twinkled on her head. She certainly looked like a princess.

Ardis hoped only that this princess would take orders.

She wove through the crowd and touched Juliana on her gloved hand.

“Excuse me,” Ardis said. “Milady?”

Juliana tilted her head at Ardis with a faint sneer.

“I’m afraid we haven’t been introduced,” she said. “And the correct form of address for a princess is ‘your royal highness.’”

Wonderful. Juliana was just as arrogant as Wendel, if not more so.

“I’m here to escort you from the premises,” Ardis said. “Your royal highness.”

“Escort?” Juliana narrowed her eyes. “Wolfram, who is she?”

The prince stepped forward. “She’s with Wendel.”

Juliana, already pale, became even paler. She touched her fingers to her mouth, then shook her head and laughed.

“That’s a cruel joke,” she said.

Wolfram clenched his hands at his sides.

“It’s no joke,” he said. “Wendel is here, but he is being hunted.”

“Hunted?” Juliana said. “By whom?”

Wolfram glanced at Ardis. “Assassins. He asked us to leave.” He reached for his sister’s hand. “We have to trust him.”

Juliana’s eyes flashed. “I will trust him after I have spoken to him.”

She swept from the dance floor and glided along the wall, her head held high, in search of her long-lost brother. Ardis didn’t think Juliana would find him. She had lost Wendel herself, in the crowd, and he didn’t want to be found.

She did, however, see the assassins from the Order of the Asphodel advancing.

Through the crowd, she glimpsed gray cloaks and the unmistakable glimmer of chainmail—enough armor to make a man nearly invincible in unarmed combat. Though they were, of course, armed. An assassin’s cloak billowed away, baring the steel of his scimitar and the throwing knives sheathed at his belt.

“Hurry,” Ardis said.

She grabbed Wolfram’s hand and dragged him through the crowd.

“Why do they want to kill Wendel?” he said, sounding more like a boy than a man.

“They won’t kill him,” she said.

Unless he fought to the death, which she feared he would.

An assassin strode past Ardis, so close that his cloak brushed her arm. She clenched her fists, then remembered that her gown disguised her. She swallowed hard and zigzagged through the crowd toward Juliana. The orchestra started playing another Strauss waltz, and she dodged dancers as they stepped onto the floor.

“Juliana!” Wolfram called.

The princess faced them, looking peeved.

“I can’t find him anywhere,” she said, “and I—”

A fantastic crash deafened them. Ardis whirled in time to see Wendel shove a second crystal decanter off the buffet table. It shattered into a thousand shards, and liquor sprayed onto the ladies and gentlemen nearby.

And now the assassins knew exactly where Wendel was.

“Wendel!” Juliana said faintly, and she teetered on her heels.

“What the hell is he doing?” Ardis said.

Wendel hefted a candelabra and hurled it over the table. The candelabra wheeled through the air, rolled into the spilled liquor, and torched the alcohol. Fire rushed along the parquet floor. Screams punctuated the music.

The orchestra squawked to a halt, and the waltz turned into a stampede.

In the panic, the assassins from the Order stood like stones in an ocean. They held their ground as ladies fled from the flames licking at their skirts, as gentlemen ditched chivalry and elbowed through the crowd to the exits.

Still holding Wolfram’s hand, Ardis grabbed Juliana’s wrist and hauled her forward.

They struggled against the jostling crush of people, then burst through the doors into the space of the street. Juliana wrenched free from Ardis’s grasp and slapped her across the face. It was all Ardis could do to not hit her back.

“Don’t you dare touch me,” Juliana said.

“Juliana!” Wolfram stepped between them. “She was trying to help.”

“Who is she? Why is she here with Wendel?”

“I don’t know.”

Juliana started toward the ballroom, but Wolfram caught her by the elbow.

“You can’t go back in there,” he said.

Juliana glared at him, and her earrings quivered with her barely restrained anger.

“But Wendel,” she said.

While they faced each other, Ardis backed away. Smoke billowed from the burning ballroom as coughing people stumbled out. She ran through them, toward sounds of chaos, even though every instinct screamed to run away.

The flames had spread fast. They crawled along curtains and devoured gilded chairs.

“Wendel?” she shouted.

“I said run!”

She whirled toward the sound of his voice.

Blood splattered Wendel’s face and drenched the linen of his shirt. He was breathing hard, but he didn’t look hurt. He wielded the black dagger in his left hand and a scimitar in his right. Doggedly, a dozen assassins pursued him. Wendel let an assassin come close enough to swing at him, then parried the scimitar and lunged down the length of the blade. He drove his dagger into the man’s neck, splitting chainmail.

The assassin toppled back. Blood spurted from his severed artery.

“Run with me!” Ardis shouted.

“No.” Wendel’s voice sounded raw from smoke. “I have to kill them all.”

“You can’t—”

“It’s the only way to stop them.” He bared his teeth. “They know you now.”

An assassin flanked him. Wendel slashed at the man with his scimitar, but the curved blade glanced off the chainmail. The assassin shrugged it off and swung at Wendel’s legs—a crippling cut, but Wendel jumped backward. As he stumbled over a chair, another assassin attacked. He barely parried the blow.

Ardis sprinted to grab a scimitar from the ground.

The instant her hand touched the hilt, she felt the caress of steel against the back of her neck. Her heart pounded in her ears. She didn’t know how many assassins waited behind her, or how fast this one could move.

“Wendel,” she rasped.

The flames in the ballroom soared into an inferno. The heat stole her breath away.

Panting, Wendel lunged for an assassin crumpled against the burning table. The necromancer bent long enough to touch the man’s face, then vaulted onto the table. The undead assassin staggered upright, hand clamped around a scimitar. He didn’t even have time to attack before a living assassin cut off his head.

“Wendel!” Ardis couldn’t speak above a croak.

The scimitar stung her skin. Blood mingled with the sweat trickling down her neck.

From the height of the table, Wendel kicked bowls of fruit onto the ground, and apples rolled under the feet of the assassins. The necromancer smiled as an assassin stumbled, then hacked open the man’s face with his scimitar.

The assassin behind Ardis spoke in a hoarse shout.

“We will kill her,” he said.

Wendel froze, his eyes finding hers, and an assassin leapt onto the table behind him.

Ardis sucked in air to scream a warning. The assassin hit Wendel with a pommel to the back of the head. Wendel toppled from the table and landed on his hands and knees. Still armed with dagger and scimitar, he staggered to his feet.

“No.” He snarled the word.

Ardis stared into his eyes. “Wendel,” she whispered. “You can’t win. Not like this.”

But she didn’t know if he could hear her words.

The assassin behind Ardis grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked back her head. Neck bared, she stared at the ceiling, watching flames spread above like the glorious destruction of the heavens. A chandelier plummeted only yards away and shattered into thousands of broken crystals. This was how she would die.

Like this, in a gown, in a ballroom. How humiliating.

Time fragmented into shards of clarity. She didn’t want to die on her knees. She didn’t want to die without a fight.

The assassin lifted the scimitar to hold it above her neck.

Ardis twisted, ripping her hair from his fist, and tackled his legs. She knocked the assassin off his feet and threw herself onto him. She hit him in the face, once, twice, and elbowed him in the eyes. He covered his face with his hands—everyone protected their eyes—and she heard his scimitar clatter on the floor.

She lunged for the scimitar, but yet another assassin kicked it out of her reach.

“Ardis!”

Gasping, she faced Wendel. The necromancer stood with outstretched hands.

With empty hands.

Wendel never looked away from her as he fell to his knees. He never looked away from her as he let the assassins take him.

The backbone of the Sofiensaal groaned, nearly broken, and chunks of the plasterwork ceiling cracked. Fire fell from above and roared through the distance between them. Ardis stumbled back and shielded herself from the intense heat. Smoke billowed in the ballroom and stung her eyes. Blinking back tears, she tore the skirt of her gown and pressed the silk to her mouth before she staggered onward.

When the smoke drifted away, Wendel was gone.

Ardis ran from the burning ballroom. Coughing, she sucked in a lungful of cold sweet air. She stumbled upon a horse hitched to an ambulance, and it shied away with flattened ears. Firefighters scrambled to pump water onto the flames.

Someone touched her arm. “Thank goodness you’re all right!”

Lady Maili. The sleeves of her beautiful silk gown looked a bit singed, and her eyes were bloodshot from the smoke.

Ardis cleared her throat. “Have you seen Wendel? The man I was with?”

“I’m afraid not,” Lady Maili said. “Are you alone? Why don’t you come with me?”

“Thank you, but I can’t.”

Lady Maili pursed her lips as Ardis wandered into the street.

You saved my life.

The night whirled around Ardis like a merry-go-round that wouldn’t stop. She clung to the thought that if she could return to Konstantin, he would be able to help. Flames still bright in her eyes, she plodded through Vienna.

I swear fealty to you until the debt is repaid.

Wendel had repaid his debt, but she wouldn’t let him go.

Wind raked its fingers through her hair and scraped the heat from her skin. Shivering, she hugged herself. Her feet slipped on the cobblestones. Her lungs burned, and every breath brought her closer to the feeling of drowning.

Smoke. It had to be the smoke.

Shadows smothered Ardis. Not much farther to the Hall of the Archmages. Not much farther before she was off the streets. What if the assassins were hunting her? She quickened her footsteps, her teeth chattering.

Passersby shied away from her like the horse had, and she almost laughed.

Her laughter died in her throat. There, across the street, stalked a tall pale-haired man. He stared ahead with purpose in his stare. Ardis’s heartbeat stumbled. It was the man whose photograph she held inside her locket.

Her father.

Between one blink and the next, he had vanished. A hallucination?

Ardis staggered to the Hall of the Archmages. Gasping, she leaned against the doors until they groaned open beneath her weight. The room tilted. She landed on her knees. She clawed her way standing again, giddy, only to sprawl onto the floor. The chilly marble beneath her cheek soothed the burning of her skin.

She splayed her fingers against the stone, clinging to the sensation of reality.

Then she fell into darkness.

~

“Ardis?”

She blinked open her eyes. She was lying on her back, and Konstantin leaned over her. His face looked deathly white.

“Where am I?” Ardis croaked, her throat raw.

“The Hall of the Archmages,” Konstantin said.

“I remember that much. I walked here, then…”

“You fainted.” He clenched his jaw. “Carbon monoxide poisoning, to hazard a guess, judging by your singed clothes.”

Her throat tightened, and she inhaled sharply. The fire. Wendel.

“Oh, no,” she said.

She struggled to sit, but Konstantin caught her by the shoulder.

“Lie down,” he said. “Please, you only just woke.”

She did as she was told, shivering, and realized she was resting on a couch in an office. Bookshelves reached to the ceilings, crammed with haphazardly stacked books. Sunlight crept through a lone curtained window.

Konstantin tilted his head and pursed his lips.

“Can you breathe better now?” he said. “We were worried when we found you. I have oxygen in my laboratory, and a pressurized chamber. It was built to test deep-sea diving suits, but it will work just as well for—”

“I’m fine,” she whispered.

Konstantin furrowed his brow. “Are you sure?”

She nodded.

“What do you remember, Ardis?”

“Wendel.” She swallowed hard. “Wendel is gone.”

Konstantin let out his breath in a little puff of air, a sound between disbelief and defeat.

A tear snuck from the corner of her eye and slid down her cheek. She rubbed it away. She couldn’t blame it on the smoke. Konstantin knelt beside her and draped a blanket over her body. Blinking, she clutched it closer.

“We failed the mission,” she said. “Spectacularly.”

It sounded so much like something Wendel would have said that her laugh threatened to break her voice. A sick ache lodged in the pit of her stomach. She didn’t want to cry, not here, but now she couldn’t stop herself.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Konstantin handed her a handkerchief, and she blew her nose to distract herself.

“The Order of the Asphodel.” She let out a shuddering breath. “They came for Wendel. There were too many of them, too many assassins, and he couldn’t fight them all. I tried to make him leave, but he wouldn’t retreat. He only surrendered when they threatened to hurt me. God, Konstantin, he let the Order take him.”

The archmage stared silently at her. His eyes glittered.

“I know,” he said.

Her heartbeat stumbled. “You know? But how could you—”

“Ardis, that was last night.”

She stared at him. “I was out that long?”

Konstantin climbed to his feet and strode to the window. He yanked open the curtains, and the amber light of afternoon poured into the office. His hands tightened around the curtains, and he rested his forehead against the glass.

“We sent for a doctor,” he said, “but he couldn’t say when you might wake.”

“You stayed up with me all night?” she said.

He glanced back at her and ruffled his hair.

“I had quite a lot of rather boring paperwork to catch up on,” he said, “so the all-nighter was prearranged.”

She met his eyes. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Honestly, I couldn’t sleep.” His jaw tightened. “Not after what happened.”

“But how did you know?”

“Ardis.” He laughed bleakly. “The Sofiensaal burned until the ballroom was completely destroyed. Word of such a disaster travels fast in Vienna. And I knew that you and Wendel must have been there, since I sent you.”

“Oh.” She winced. “Margareta must know.”

“Obviously.” Konstantin toyed with a tassel on the curtain. “Though she doesn’t care about Lord Adler’s blueprints. I tried to explain why I sent you and Wendel, but she won’t talk to me. She has bigger fish to fry, as you Americans say.”

“Bigger fish?”

“The Grandmaster.”

The blood drained from Ardis’s face and left her cold.

“He’s here?” she whispered.

Konstantin faced her and nodded.

“Margareta is meeting with him tonight,” he said. “He caught the first train from Constantinople to Vienna as soon as he learned that his rogue necromancer has been helping the archmages with Project Lazarus.”

She stared at him. “What will the Grandmaster do?”

Konstantin shook his head. “I don’t know. But I don’t believe this violated the terms of our truce with the Order.”

She sat upright and clutched her spinning head.

“We have to save Wendel,” she said.

“Ardis,” the archmage said gently, “Wendel belongs with the Order.”

“Wendel belongs to the Order. Konstantin, he was running from them. He was terrified.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Terrified?”

“They tortured Wendel when he disobeyed them.” Ardis touched behind her shoulder. “His back was covered with scars. They whipped him when he was sixteen, because he refused to raise his first dead man.”

Konstantin looked at her with stark skepticism on his face.

“He showed you his scars?” he said.

“Yes.” Ardis’s voice shook with vehemence. “He wasn’t lying, not about this. Konstantin, we can’t let them take him.”

He sank onto a chair opposite her and slumped, rubbing his thumb over his lip.

“We might want to ask Margareta,” he said, “before we do anything rash.”

“No.”

Ardis swung her legs over the edge of the couch. The tattered skirt of her ball gown slid to her ankles. She clenched her jaw.

“I need my sword,” she said. “It’s locked in a hotel room, and Wendel had the key.”

“Ardis!” Konstantin stood. “You aren’t in a condition to rescue anyone.”

“I’m not sitting here while they torture him.”

The archmage sidestepped in front of the door.

“Let me go,” she said.

“I can’t let you do this,” he said.

“Konstantin. I—”

“Not alone.”

Ardis arched her eyebrows. “You won’t stop me?”

“I can do better than that.” He smiled lopsidedly. “I can help you.”

She exhaled. “How so?”

“The archmages can’t officially interfere with the Order, but that wouldn’t stop us from orchestrating an unofficial escape.”

Ardis hugged the archmage. He startled, then patted her on the shoulder.

“Now,” he said, “you should rest. Carbon monoxide poisoning is a serious—”

“Konstantin.” She withdrew and gave him a look. “Not without my sword.”

He sighed. “Mercenaries!”

But he stepped aside from the door, then handed her a black coat.

“Wear this, at least,” he said, “so you stay warm.”

She slipped her arms through the coat’s sleeves. Konstantin was so much taller than her that it looked like she was wearing robes.

“Thank you,” Ardis said. “For everything.”

The archmage smoothed his hair. “Come back with that sword of yours and we can scheme. I’m good at scheming.”

She laughed hoarsely. “I don’t doubt that.”

As she opened the door, he held it halfway open.

“And Ardis?” he said. “Stay alive.”

She looked into his eyes. “I’ll try.”

~

Her teeth chattering from the cold in her bones, Ardis walked under billowing clouds and patches of bare blue sky. Shadows slanted long in the late sun. It would be twilight soon. The hotel looked no less grand than it had the night Wendel brought her there, but its magnificence seemed more foreboding than magical.

She strode inside with her head high. Now wasn’t the time to look hesitant.

“May I help you?” said the concierge.

The same man from last night, though he didn’t seem to recognize her in the slightest.

“Good afternoon,” she said, in what she hoped was a haughty voice. “Last night my fiancé and I checked into a room here.”

“Fiancé,” the concierge repeated, and his lip twitched.

Ardis knew she wasn’t wearing an engagement ring, though that wasn’t so uncommon.

“We stayed out late last night,” she said, “and I’m afraid we lost our key.”

“We?”

Damn, she didn’t want to invent an entire story about where Wendel was now. But the way the concierge inspected her with thinned lips gave her an idea. If he thought she was a courtesan, she might as well act like one.

She leaned forward and rested her elbows on his desk.

“I was under the impression,” she murmured, “that this was a professional establishment. One that would have already mastered the art of discretion. I left one of my valuables in the room. Once I have it back, I’ll leave.”

The concierge stared at her with the coolest look she had ever seen.

“Very well,” he said. “You may borrow the spare key if you return it at once.”

She smiled at him as she folded her fingers around the key, then walked briskly to the staircase. Once he was out of sight, she clung to the railing, her lungs burning for air. She hoped this sickness wouldn’t last much longer.

But she didn’t have the luxury of time.

Panting, Ardis hauled herself upstairs. By the time she reached the room, she had to trail her hand along the wall to keep herself steady. A maid narrowed her eyes and strode past, her heels clicking on the floor.

Well, maybe she just looked drunk. That was an easy enough cover story.

The teeth of the key pressed into the palm of her hand. She turned the key in the lock, but the lock didn’t click. Heart thudding, she gripped the doorknob. What if Wendel had escaped already and returned to the hotel? It had to be no more than a wish, but the hope made Ardis giddy. She turned the knob and swung open the door.

A man stood staring out the window. His pale hair glinted in the sunlight.

Her breath caught in her throat. Hands shaking, she backed away. He wasn’t alone. Two men in gray cloaks flanked him.

“Stop,” the man said, his voice soft and husky.

Ardis glimpsed Chun Yi lying carelessly on the couch—not where she had left it, or ever would—and gritted her teeth. She couldn’t abandon her sword, but she doubted she was quicker than the assassins, especially today.

“Don’t you already have Wendel?” she said.

The man turned around. “Why do you ask?”

Ardis stepped backward, shaking all over. Maybe she was delirious? Maybe dreaming?

The man’s gunmetal gray eyes gleamed with fierce intelligence. He had cropped hair and a beard like the devil’s. His tanned, battered face looked like it had been sculpted by years of hard weather and harder fighting.

Her father.

Of course he was with the Order of the Asphodel. Hadn’t Wendel admitted that, at least?

“You knew Wendel,” said the man. It wasn’t a question.

“Are you—?” Her voice failed, and she tried again. “Are you Thorsten Magnusson?”

The man raised one scarred eyebrow.

“Who are you?” he said.

Ardis’s knees threatened to betray her. She clutched the doorframe and tried not to seem so weak, though she suspected it was far too late for that. How helpless she must look, unarmed, breathless, in this oversized coat.

She forced herself to meet his eyes. “I have a photograph of you.”

The man who might be Thorsten narrowed his eyes.

“Do you?” he said. “Who sent you?”

“No one sent me.”

Ardis fumbled for the chain at her neck and lifted the locket from the neck of her gown. The brass heart was warm from her skin.

“Look,” she said. “Just look.”

The pale-haired man stepped forward and took the locket. The chain looked tiny in his hand. He tugged off his glove and wedged his thumbnail into the locket. As soon as he saw the photographs, he looked back to Ardis. He had an expression of sharp scrutiny in his eyes, one that served to hide his emotions well.

“Who gave you this?” he said.

She sucked in a slow breath. “My mother.”

He didn’t blink. He curled his fingers around the locket and tilted his head.

“Impossible,” he said. “I will ask you once again. Who sent you?”

“I already told you.” Ardis said. “No one sent me. I came here looking for Wendel.”

“Why were you with Wendel?”

She blushed, and his mouth hardened.

“I see,” he said. “You may prove valuable.”

Valuable? Anger uncoiled inside of Ardis. She wouldn’t stand here and be judged by this stranger, even if he might be her father.

“Is that what you think of women?” she said, and she bared her teeth. “Leo?”

One of the assassins stepped forward. “Sir?”

The pale-haired man raised his hand to halt the assassin.

“No,” he said to Ardis. “You know my name is not Leo.”

She lowered her head. She couldn’t look at him any longer.

“Thorsten Magnusson,” she said with cold confidence, “I’m your daughter.”

Thorsten reacted with remarkable calm. Like he didn’t care at all.

“I would like to speak with you,” he said.

When Ardis let go of the doorframe, she couldn’t disguise how her legs shook. Her stomach felt sour. She didn’t want to fight this argument. She suspected the winner would walk away with only disappointment.

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Are you well?”

She shook her head, since pretending was pointless. And he looked like a man who might take pity on a vulnerable woman.

“I was in a fire last night,” she said. “Breathed in too much smoke.”

Thorsten’s eyes glinted. “You were there? At the Sofiensaal?”

“I was.”

He glanced at the assassins. “Leave us for a moment.”

“Yes, sir.”

Their obedience prodded Ardis with worry. If Thorsten outranked these assassins, how high did he rank within the Order of the Asphodel?

“Please, sit,” he said.

Ardis lowered herself into a chair by the window. Thorsten dropped onto the couch. His stance gave her the impression of a tiger who had returned from a successful hunt, and was now feeling indulgent toward his prey.

He had, after all, caught Wendel.

“What is your name?” Thorsten said, his words far gentler than she had expected.

“Ardis.” She looked down at her hands. “I go by Ardis now.”

“Now?”

She glanced into his eyes. “After I left America.”

“Why did you leave?”

Might as well tell the truth.

“I killed a man,” Ardis said.

Thorsten flicked his eyebrows upward. “Why?”

“Self-defense.”

“And then?”

“I left America.” Ardis glanced at Chun Yi. “My mother gave me enough money to travel to Europe, where she said I could find my father.” She glanced into his eyes. “I don’t know why she thought it was so important for me to find you. We did fine without you then. And I’m doing fine without you now.”

His mouth tightened, and an emotion darted through his eyes too fast to name.

“I know I was never your father,” he said, “and I never intended to be. It would have been impossible for me to stay.”

“Why?” she said, the question that had haunted her for years.

“My life is with the Order of the Asphodel.”

She held her breath, then let it out in a sigh. “Wendel said he knew you.”

Thorsten reached across the short distance between them and placed his hand over her own. His hand felt rough and warm. Like she had imagined her father’s touch would feel, when she was a child, when she was lonely.

She blinked back tears and fought the feeling of being small and helpless.

“I know him,” Thorsten muttered. “I know that he is a sad and twisted man.”

Ardis jerked away from his touch, but he trapped her hand under his.

“He has lied to you,” he said. “I can see it in your eyes. And I know that he would not have brought you this far with the truth.”

All of Wendel’s words rang in her ears like a deafening silence.

“I know that he is a necromancer,” Ardis said, “and that he was born a Prince of Prussia. I know that he was running from the Order of the Asphodel because of what they have done to him. That he wants revenge.”

Thorsten looked at her without judgment in his eyes.

“What have they done?” he said.

She glanced away, unsettled by his calmness.

“I saw his scars,” she said.

“And you believed the stories he told you?”

“Yes.”

“How long have you known Wendel?”

She thought back. “No more than two weeks.”

Thorsten leaned back and crossed his legs.

“That would be long enough,” he said, “for him to gain your trust. Perhaps more.”

Her face burned with shame. She couldn’t pretend she hadn’t shared her bed with Wendel. Especially not in this very hotel room.

Ardis clenched her jaw. “Are you saying I’m a fool?”

“Not at all.” Thorsten softened his voice. “Even among assassins, Wendel was known to be remarkably arrogant and ruthless.”

Arrogant, she couldn’t deny. And ruthless…

“Do you know how many men he killed in Vienna alone?” he said.

“Nine,” she said. “At least.”

“He has killed many more in his lifetime.”

“By many more, what do you mean?”

“Wendel was one of our best. By his own hand, perhaps ninety. By his undead minions, more like nine hundred.”

Ardis locked gazes with him. “I don’t believe you.”

“He wants to kill me,” Thorsten said mildly. “He told me himself.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “He wants to kill all of us.”

“Maybe he has good reason.”

Thorsten’s eyes looked glacial. “You will regret saying that.”

She bit the inside of her cheek, then climbed to her feet.

“I’m done here,” she said. “This family reunion didn’t go the way I thought it would.”

“Ardis.”

Thorsten stood, and she saw herself reflected in the stubborn set of his jaw.

“I won’t be in Vienna much longer,” he said. “I return to Constantinople soon.”

“With Wendel?” she said.

His eyes narrowed. “Of course.”

“Where is he now?”

Thorsten merely shook his head. “I realize you may have grown attached to the necromancer, but you need to let him go. He belongs back with the Order, in Constantinople, where we can help him.”

Ardis laughed bleakly. She suspected their brand of help constituted torture.

“I should go,” she said.

“Before you leave,” Thorsten said, “take your locket.”

He cupped the necklace in his hand. Careful not to touch him, she retrieved the locket and dropped the chain back over her head.

“And my clothes?” She waved at her borrowed coat. “I’m still wearing a ball gown.”

Thorsten paused, then nodded. His face could have been carved from granite. She didn’t want him touching her clothes, so she strode to where she had left them, folded on the bed, and bundled them into her arms.

Chun Yi lay on the couch. Almost within reach.

“Take it,” Thorsten said.

Was that a threat?

The muscles in her legs tensed, but she held her ground. Thorsten handed her Chun Yi in its scabbard, his face blank, his eyes gleaming. When her fingers closed around the pommel, he held her wrist with his free hand.

“Ardis,” he murmured, “I’m sorry to disappoint.”

A prickling shiver crawled down Ardis’s spine. She yanked her arm free.

“What a nice sentiment,” she said.

To her own ears, she sounded cavalier, but she wondered if he could see how her eyes stung with tears. Thorsten held the door open. She turned back to look at him, to thank him with a nod, and he looked at her with an intense stare.

“Goodbye,” he said.

Ardis turned her back on her father, her shoulders stiff, her head high. She heard the soft click of the door. Then she sagged against the wall and pressed her fingertips to her eyes, feeling her hopes shatter under the weight of reality.

~

Evening fell on Vienna. The dying sun’s fingers slid down the sky. Walking through the streets alone filled Ardis with a vague paranoia. She tugged her borrowed coat tighter around herself as the wind tossed her hair into her eyes.

Something gnawed in the pit of her stomach. Loneliness? Despair?

She breathed in through her nose and touched the pommel of Chun Yi. Now wasn’t the time to lose focus. She needed to find Wendel.

Dusk softened the hard angles of the Hall of the Archmages. She leaned against the doors and slipped into the cool silence. Her footsteps echoed as she walked briskly to Konstantin’s office. She rapped on the door.

“Who is it?” called a muffled voice.

“Ardis,” she said.

The door swung open, and Konstantin stood there, blinking like someone who had spent too much time alone in the dark. His curly hair had been mussed to a spectacular degree, a pair of aviator goggles pushed up over his head.

“I see you found your sword,” he said, and he smiled.

“I did,” she said flatly.

His smile faded. “Is something the matter?”

Ardis bit her lip. She didn’t know Konstantin well enough to want to tell him the whole story about her father.

“I’m a little tired,” she said.

He cocked his head, took a breath, and then shook his head.

“Better come inside,” he said. “I have something to tell you.”

Ardis crossed the room, sat on the couch, and hunched with her elbows on her knees. Konstantin shut the door.

“Wendel is still in Vienna,” he said, “and I know how to find him.”

His voice was muffled by the shadowy stillness of the office.

Ardis almost agreed with him, then realized she wouldn’t have known about Wendel without meeting Thorsten Magnusson first.

“How?” she said, keeping her face blank.

“The automatons,” he said simply.

“The automatons in Project Lazarus?”

He glanced at the door, then dragged a chair closer to her and sat.

“It’s brilliant!” he murmured, his eyes bright. “The technomancy involved in the automatons’ control systems was inspired by Wendel’s own necromancy. Specifically, his ability to control the dead remotely.”

“Wendel told me,” she said. “Called it really clever magic.”

Konstantin blushed. “We have a lot of work ahead of us. Still getting problems with interference. The technomancy is, at best, only a crude approximation of Wendel’s magic. A necromancer can control an army of the dead as a legion, or command each man independently. We still don’t have the level of precision required to pilot more than one automaton. Commands sent to one interfere with the others.”

She chewed on the inside of her cheek. “I don’t see how this helps us find Wendel.”

“Ardis, the interference. Each of the automatons responds to Wendel’s necromancy. We can rewire the control systems to find him.”

“Like a compass?” she said.

He broke into a smile. “Exactly.”

It was brilliant. Ardis felt herself floating from a dark place.

“How long will it take?” she said.

“I already started,” he said, and he grinned. “There’s only one problem.”

She dug her nails into her palms. “What?”

“I need a pilot.”

The way he was looking at her, with that glint in his eyes, made her mouth go dry.

“Me?” she said. “But Margareta will murder me.”

“Please.” Konstantin sniffed. “I’m the technomancer who’s loaning out a top secret automaton to go rescue a necromancer.”

Ardis laughed. “Good point.”

“Can I take that as a yes?”

She tugged her jacket straight. “I can’t say no.”

The archmage sprang to his feet, and she hoped she wouldn’t regret this. But at the same time, she was glad to have any hope at all.

~

The Academy of Technomancy resided in a monumental brick building that looked as if it might house something as mundane as a bank or government office, if the place didn’t always smell peculiarly like a thunderstorm. And in the evening, Ardis saw the windows flicker with tiny wisps of escaped magic.

The archmages weren’t officially part of the University of Vienna, but they had the political clout to treat the campus like a playground. It wasn’t so shocking, then, that the Academy of Technomancy had burned to the ground after a magical containment issue a few years back. The laboratories had just been rebuilt.

“This is it?” Ardis said.

Konstantin nodded and held a finger to his lips. He veered from the main entrance to the Academy and walked down an alleyway. The archmage stopped outside an unmarked door and fumbled in his pocket before finding a key ring.

“A key?” Ardis said.

Konstantin glanced at her with wide eyes.

“Seems a little simple,” she said, “for security purposes.”

“Oh,” he said, and he shrugged.

He unlocked the door and stepped inside. She followed him into a dimly lit concrete stairwell that spiraled down. The rapping of their shoes echoed. It smelled like mildew and stale air, the concrete walls slicked with damp.

At the bottom of the stairwell, Konstantin unlocked another door and held it open.

“Ladies first,” he said, with a quick smile.

With a nod, Ardis walked through the door and into the underground laboratory.

She was struck by the length of the room, which stretched out of sight, and the height of the ceiling, which was at least ten feet. Rows upon rows of stark electric lights stretched overhead. Around a dozen men and women in white coats bustled around the laboratory, tinkering with a menagerie of technomancy gadgets.

She lingered by the door, afraid to blunder too far into the busy room.

“Damn!” she muttered to herself. “This is Project Lazarus?”

“Impressed?” Konstantin said, startling her with how close he stood.

Ardis pretended like she wasn’t on edge. She paced along the wall, trying to orient herself in the laboratory.

“Careful!” the archmage called out. “There’s a lot of voltage over there.”

Her hand clamped on Chun Yi, though she was pretty sure a sword wouldn’t be any good against high-voltage electricity. She felt completely out of her element around so much mysterious technology and magic. They walked deeper into the laboratory at a brisk pace. Then she saw the reason for the high ceiling.

The automaton.

It stood against the wall, seven feet tall, its steel carapace gleaming like a suit of plate armor for a giant. The automaton had no face, and she could see inside its hollow head. There was what could only be a cockpit inside.

Her stomach tightened with equal parts unease and excitement.

“Ardis!”

She knew that voice. She spun around and looked straight at Diesel. He stood there, quietly, and wore a white coat like everyone else in the laboratory. He dabbed the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief.

“Dr. Rudolf Diesel.” She shook her head. “I thought I would never see you again.”

His mustache twitched with a smile.

“We parted under unusual circumstances,” he said.

“Circumstances I regret.”

That night on the Dresden wasn’t her fault, but she still didn’t imagine being drugged, dumped overboard, and abducted had been pleasant.

Diesel licked his lips, then sidestepped nearer. “Ardis,” he muttered. “I’m worried.”

She stared at him. “About?”

“Project Lazarus is powerful. I shudder to think of that power in the wrong hands.”

A shiver crawled down her spine. She didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t even seen these automatons in action yet.

Konstantin stepped forward, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Sorry to interrupt, Dr. Diesel,” he said, “but we are rather pressed for time. Do you know who has the second prototype?”

Diesel glanced between them. His eyes glinted with curiosity.

“Archmage Carol,” he said. “Yet another flaw in the leg pneumatics, though she should be finishing the repairs as we speak.”

Konstantin winced. “I had hoped we might borrow both of them.”

“Borrow?” Diesel said.

“Both?” Ardis added. “Don’t we only need one automaton?”

“True.” Konstantin cocked his head. “We can’t operate more than one at a time, not with the interference, but we can power up two to triangulate his position. Otherwise we will be working with much less accuracy.”

Diesel clucked his tongue, then met the archmage’s eyes.

“May I ask who you want to find?” he said. “And why you rewired the control systems for both of the automatons?”

“Ah,” Konstantin said. “Well.”

Ardis cleared her throat. “Unusual circumstances.”

Diesel stepped back and held up his hands.

“Then I will stay out of your way,” he said.

“Thank you.” Konstantin blew out his breath, and smiled tentatively. “If you wouldn’t mind finding Archmage Carol…?”

Diesel nodded. “Might as well stretch my legs.”

He tucked his handkerchief in his pocket and trudged down the length of the laboratory.

Konstantin glanced back at Ardis.

“Good,” he said, nodding. “Ready?”

“Ready to what?”

He smiled like she might be joking. “Pilot the automaton, of course.”

Ardis froze, staring into the automaton’s hollow metal head. Konstantin clapped her on the shoulder and steered her closer.

She stiffened her legs. “Why can’t you pilot the automaton?”

“Because I need your help,” he said. “And I’m a bit too tall for the prototype. My legs cramp if I stay in there for too long. Uncomfortable and unproductive. Though the final automatons will be much bigger.”

Much bigger? Ardis arched her eyebrows. Clearly seven feet tall wasn’t tall enough.

She sighed. “Technically, I have to take orders from you.”

“Excellent!”

Konstantin rubbed his hands together. Humming, he hurried to the automaton and unlatched a metal door in the chest, revealing the pilot’s chair inside the cockpit. Ardis unbuckled Chun Yi’s scabbard from her belt, and when she touched the sword, she felt a boost of courage. She stared up into the automaton.

Konstantin hovered by her side. “Here, let me give you a hand.”

“Thanks,” she said.

The archmage grasped Ardis at the waist and boosted her into the cockpit. She twisted around and lowered herself into the seat. She found boots to slide her feet into, and articulated metal gloves for her hands.

“Now for power,” Konstantin said. “The ignition should be near your left shoulder.”

“Inside the automaton?”

“Yes. Twist the key.”

Ardis pressed her chin to her chest to peer inside the cockpit. Right over her heart, she found a slot with a key. She slipped her right hand from the metal glove. The key turned with a click, and the automaton shuddered to life. A deep rumbling vibrated through the steel and reverberated through her chest.

Konstantin danced back and raised his hand. “Carefully, now!”

Ardis flexed her fingers, and the automaton’s metal fingers clinked together. When she raised her arm, the automaton’s arm swung upward. Power hummed through the giant metal body, and she was its puppeteer.

She waved at him. “How is this?”

“I’m impressed.” Konstantin laughed. “You have a real knack for that.”

Another archmage came running down the laboratory, her white coat billowing behind her in the wind of her speed. She had the lean look of someone who never stopped moving for long, and she glanced between them with a grin.

Konstantin waved at her. “Archmage Carol!”

“Found a better test pilot?” Carol said.

Better? Ardis hoped the last one hadn’t met a sticky end.

Konstantin nodded. “She will be helping us today. Is the other prototype ready?”

Carol waved them onward. “Come and see for yourself.”

Archmage Carol jogged down the laboratory, and Konstantin hurried to follow. She easily outpaced even his long strides.

“What about me?” Ardis called.

Konstantin glanced back. “Walk!”

Oh. Of course.

Clenching her jaw, Ardis took a tentative step forward. The automaton’s massive metal foot swung forward and clunked on the floor. She worried it might be unsteady, but it seemed to borrow her sense of balance. Another step. Then another. After only three lumbering strides, she had already caught up with Archmage Carol.

“That’s it,” Carol said. “Nice and slow.”

“Slow?” Ardis laughed. “How fast is this thing when it runs?”

“The prototype is twice as fast as your average soldier.”

“Wow.”

“The technomancy in our automatons,” Carol said, “combines the speed and strength of the machine with the skill of the pilot. The pneumatics aren’t always flawless, though. That’s what happened to the next prototype.”

They reached the far end of the laboratory. The second automaton lay on its back on a massive flatbed trolley. The metal plate on its shin had been removed, revealing the gleaming oiled innards of the automaton’s leg.

“Konstantin?” Carol said. “When do you need this up and running?”

Out of breath, Konstantin caught up with them. He shook his head, then tugged his goggles down over his eyes.

“Not literally up and running,” he said. “Powered should be sufficient.”

Carol leaned over the trolley. She turned the key in the ignition, and the automaton rumbled to life. Lying flat on its back, it purred with a low hum that echoed inside Ardis’s automaton and sent a thrill down her spine.

Maybe, after this was over, she should spend more time down in the secret laboratory.

“Wait!” Konstantin said. “Did you disconnect the control systems from the pneumatics?”

“Obviously.” Shaking her head, Carol looked sideways at him. “Otherwise I would never run both prototypes at once.”

Ardis raised her hand. “I’m guessing the interference is bad? Very bad?”

Carol nodded with a grim smile.

“Nearly lost one of our pilots,” she said, “before we figured out why.”

Konstantin clambered onto the trolley and scooted into the cockpit of the automaton.

“That’s why we need Wendel,” he said.

Ardis clomped forward, towering over him, and waited. He fiddled with something inside the second prototype, then crawled back out and leapt down from the trolley. He ran to a workbench and grabbed a notepad and a brass instrument that resembled a pocketwatch, though the dial clearly didn’t measure minutes.

“But now,” he said, “interference will be our friend!”

Konstantin climbed onto the trolley and pried open a panel in the automaton’s chest. He clipped the instrument to a wire inside the hulking machine and stared at the dial. He jotted down notes, his pencil scratching furiously.

“Archmage Carol?” he said. “How far is it to the other end of the laboratory?”

She shrugged. “Two hundred meters, exactly, if you start at that mark on the floor.”

“Exactly?”

Carol laughed. “They didn’t build me a track to test the speed of the automatons, so I measured one out myself.”

Konstantin stared at her like she had given him all his Christmas presents early.

“Perfect!” He pointed at Ardis. “Walk to the other end of the laboratory.”

“Yes, sir,” she said.

Ardis marched down the laboratory. The archmages followed in her footsteps.

“According to my initial reading,” Konstantin said, “we should be looking about seven kilometers southwest of here. So with a baseline this small, our triangulation will be primitive. But it should be better than nothing.”

When they reached the other end of the laboratory, Konstantin halted Ardis.

“Let me take another reading,” he said.

The archmage clipped the pocketwatch lookalike to a wire within the guts of the automaton, took notes on the reading, and then leaned over a table. He scribbled a page of mathematical computations, frowned at the numbers, and scratched his head with his pencil. Carol stood watching with crossed arms.

“Never liked trigonometry,” Konstantin muttered.

Carol leaned over his shoulder. “Need help?”

He curled his arm around the paper and dragged it closer protectively.

“I need a map of Vienna,” he said.

With a bemused smile, Archmage Carol nodded and sprinted away. She returned a few minutes later with a rolled map.

“Thank you,” Konstantin said, and he snatched the map from her.

He spread the map on the table. With his tongue poking from his mouth, he sketched out a few points over the city. He circled one of the points, then lifted the map to show them both. He jabbed the pencil at the map.

“There,” Konstantin said. “South of Vienna, in the town of Liesing.”

Ardis shook her head. “What’s in Liesing?”

“An industrial area.” He frowned. “A lot of factories. Abandoned, under construction. They could be keeping Wendel anywhere.”

Ardis caught his gaze. “Then we should start looking.”

~

Under cover of darkness, they drove from the Academy of Technomancy with a questionably borrowed truck and an even more questionably borrowed automaton. With Konstantin behind the wheel, Ardis sat shotgun with her sword across her knees. She kept glancing in the side mirror at the bulk in the back.

“Are you sure you tied down the tarp?” she said.

“Ardis,” Konstantin said, “for the nth time, I’m sure. They won’t see us coming.”

She clenched her fingers around the scabbard.

“The Grandmaster is meeting with Margareta tonight,” she said. “This is it, Konstantin. We don’t have time for mistakes.”

“I don’t intend to make mistakes.”

“Then you might want to double-check the tarp.”

“Ardis!”

Konstantin looked sideways at her, and she glared at him. He softened his voice.

“We won’t let them take Wendel,” he said.

She stared straight out of the windshield and tried to ignore the stinging in her eyes. Waiting never satisfied her.

“How much farther?” she said.

“Twenty minutes,” he said. “Twenty minutes, and then we can find him.”

She nodded and counted down in silence.

“And remember,” Konstantin said, “be extremely careful with the automaton. We only have two prototypes, and we have to bring this one back in one piece. I don’t want a single dent or scratch on it. Do you swear?”

“I swear,” Ardis said. “I won’t scratch your precious automaton.”

A corner of his mouth tugged into a crooked smile.

They left behind the glittering lights of Vienna and drove through the darkness. Ardis listened to the humming of tires on road and let it lull her into a trance. Her mind circled through the same thoughts again and again.

She had to find him. She had to save him.

Not until now did she realize how much she feared losing him forever.

A hollow hurt lingered inside Ardis. She hugged herself, pretending she was only cold. She waited without speaking until Konstantin pulled into a weed-choked empty lot. Brick factories loomed in the shadows.

“Are we here?” she said.

Konstantin nodded at the truck’s odometer.

“That’s about seven kilometers,” he said.

When he killed the engine, it was deathly quiet, broken only by the sound of rain.

“I need you to pilot the automaton,” he said, “while I take some readings.”

“That’s why I’m here,” she said.

Ardis opened the door of the truck and jumped outside. She grabbed Chun Yi from the seat, gripping the scabbard in her hands, and craned her neck to look at the black sky. Wind scattered rain onto her face.

Konstantin flicked on a flashlight and yanked off the tarp from the automaton.

“Get in,” he said.

She blew out her breath, steaming the air, and climbed into the back of the truck. Hesitating, she handed the archmage Chun Yi. She had been holding it so tight, the scabbard’s sharkskin left its pattern on her hands.

Konstantin held the sword gingerly. “What do you want me to do with this?”

“Hold onto it for me,” she said.

“I could leave it in the truck?”

She shook her head. “We’re not leaving my sword.”

Konstantin sighed, then tucked the scabbard under his arm. He steadied her with a hand on her elbow as she lifted herself into the cockpit of the automaton. She fumbled for the ignition, then turned the key. The automaton hummed to life.

“Good,” Konstantin said. “Let me take the first measurement.”

The archmage opened the front panel of the automaton and hooked up the pocketwatch lookalike. He bent over the dial and rubbed rainwater from the glass with his sleeve, then squinted at whatever the numbers told him.

“Not far from here,” he said.

He unhooked the device and pointed his flashlight about forty-five degrees to their left.

“The interference is strongest that way,” he said, and he waved her onward.

Ardis jumped from the back of the truck and landed in a crouch. She pressed the automaton’s knuckles into the dirt and pushed herself to her feet. The pneumatics of the metal limbs pumped with smooth power.

“Follow me,” Konstantin said.

She lumbered alongside him. The automaton left deep footprints in the dirt as it softened to mud in the rain. They crossed half of the empty lot, and he held up his hand to stop her. He took another reading on the device.

“Turn clockwise. More. Less. Stop.” He unhooked the device. “Walk.”

She did as he said. They walked for a few hundred meters, stopped, took another reading, turned right and kept walking. Rain silvered the air like scratches on glass. Water trickled down the cold metal skin of the automaton.

“Somewhere,” Konstantin murmured. “Wendel has to be here somewhere.”

Ardis scanned their surroundings. The nearest factory looked out at her with shattered and empty windows. Deep within the darkness, a light flickered for no more than a second, then vanished. She froze and stared at the factory. Faded white letters had been painted over the doors, but she struggled to read the German.

“Konstantin,” she said. “Look. I saw a light over there.”

He ran the beam of his flashlight over the lettering.

“Sargfabrik,” he read. “Coffin factory.”

They shared a glance, and she felt a slithering of unease.

“It looks abandoned,” he said. “Are you sure you saw a light?”

“Yes,” she said.

Konstantin backed away from the factory and reached into his pocket.

“Let me take another reading,” he said.

She waited for the archmage to do so. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears.

“The interference is off the charts,” he said. “He has to be here.”

“I’m going in.”

She left him behind in three giant steps and stood at the threshold of the factory. A padlocked chain hung across the doors. She wrapped the chain in her metal fist and snapped it like it was no more than a stray thread.

“Ardis!”

Konstantin sounded horrified enough that she glanced back. He stood gawking at her.

“Stop,” he said. “You can’t go in there with the automaton.”

“Isn’t it fully functional?” she said.

“Yes, but it’s only a prototype.”

She paused. “Prototypes are made to be tested.”

He bit his lip and tilted his head.

“We can’t risk it,” he said.

She tried to smile. “I won’t scratch it, I promise.”

“We would jeopardize Project Lazarus.”

“More than we already have?”

He squared his shoulders. “Ardis, get out of the automaton.”

She narrowed her eyes, then unlatched the cockpit door and hopped out of the automaton. The archmage’s sigh clouded the air.

“Give me my sword,” she said.

He held out Chun Yi, and she buckled the scabbard to her waist. He caught her by the wrist and looked into her eyes.

“Don’t,” he said. “We don’t know who’s inside there.”

“We know Wendel might be.”

“We won’t be any help to him dead.”

She stared at the factory doors, zeal burning in her chest, and drew Chun Yi. Flames shivered over the blade and hissed in the rain. Konstantin squinted and retreated from her sword, and Ardis wondered if he mistrusted blood magic.

“If we turn back now,” Ardis said, “we might never find him again.”

“We should assess the situation first,” Konstantin said.

“Fine.” She reached for the broken chain. “Let me start.”

The doors squealed open on rusty hinges, and the mustiness of decay rolled over Ardis. She stepped into the gloom, her legs tense, her arms in a wary fighting stance. The coffin factory’s ceiling, spiderwebbed with mildew, floated high overhead. Decrepit iron machinery hulked like the black bones of giants.

The floorboards creaked under her feet. She glanced at a machine with a press in the shape of a cross. Clearly, the factory hadn’t profited enough from the dead. She wondered if the Order would, once they had their necromancer back under their command. She also wondered how they planned to break him.

If they hadn’t already broken him.

Rain drummed on the roof. She furrowed her brow. That couldn’t be the roof. There should be a second story above them, judging by the number of windows. She found a zigzagging steel staircase and followed it upstairs.

Half of the roof had collapsed. Rain splattered on the floorboards and splintered furniture. There must have once been offices here. The faint glow of distant streetlamps leaked through the jagged chasm in the ceiling. In the shadows beyond, she could barely see the opposite wall and the jumble of dark shapes there.

One of the dark shapes moved.

A small movement, but enough to make her clench her sword. She slid her feet forward, wary of rotten floorboards. Chun Yi burned brightly enough to light her way. Slowly, the darkness yielded to her sword’s fire.

Until she saw who waited for her there.

Wendel slumped against the wall with his hands shackled above him. He lifted his head. Blood stained his mouth and trickled down his jaw. His long hair had been hacked away, and the ragged remnants fell to his chin.

Ardis sucked in her breath, then ran across the rain-streaked darkness.

“Wendel!” she said. “Wendel. I’m here.”

He looked at her, his face tight, and parted his lips. More blood dribbled down his mouth.

She crouched beside him. “Are you alone?”

He shook his head.

Pain glittered in his eyes. No, it wasn’t only pain. Fear. Panic. She swallowed past the fierce ache in her throat and checked his handcuffs. The chain looped through the iron frame of a window with shattered glass.

“Wait here,” she said. “Let me get Konstantin.”

Wendel yanked against his handcuffs. The chain rattled. She looked into his eyes, and she saw his face twist. He shook his head.

The incessant roar of rain filled the silence, broken only by the sound of breathing.

The tiny hairs on Ardis’s arms prickled. When she climbed to her feet, Wendel shook his head, harder, and the muscles in his arms strained. But she wanted to break him free, and she needed the automaton for that.

A floorboard creaked, and armored hands closed around her neck.

Ardis barely had time to suck in a breath before darkness constricted her vision. The pressure on her arteries was relentless. Her cheek hit the floorboards. Rain splattered her face. The sensation faded, and she closed her eyes.

~

Blood whooshed through Ardis’s ears. She blinked open her eyes. She sat with her arms pinned to the arms of a chair, rope twisted tight around her wrists. Something was wrong with her head, or something was wrong with the world. Time stuttered and sped forward like a bad movie reel, and she couldn’t hear anything.

She squeezed her eyes shut, and sound returned to her ears.

“Look at me,” said a man.

Adrenaline jolted her nerves. She peeked through her eyelashes.

An assassin stood watching her at arm’s length. His white cloak flowed to his feet, blood-splattered, and intricately engraved gauntlets armored his hands. Although he had a grizzled beard, his dark eyes glinted with vitality.

Behind him, rain fell through the chasm in the roof of the coffin factory.

“Temporal magic,” said the assassin, “often does strange things to the mind.”

So that had been no ordinary chokehold. No wonder she had blacked out so fast.

“Who are you?” Ardis said.

The assassin pondered her question.

“A technomancer,” he said. “You may call me Hieronymus.”

“Hieronymus,” she whispered to herself.

“And you?” he said.

She narrowed her eyes. She didn’t know what Hieronymus already knew, and she didn’t want to tell him any more than she had to.

“I think he knows your name,” Hieronymus said.

The technomancer grabbed her chair and dragged her to face the wall. Now she could see Wendel. He fought his handcuffs, his wrists raw, and knocked shards of glass from the window. He held her gaze and shook his head.

Ardis swallowed hard. “Why can’t he speak?”

Hieronymus leaned over her shoulder and smiled indulgently, like she was a stupid child.

“Because he wouldn’t,” he said.

She knew that the blood on his white robes had to be Wendel’s blood, and rage bloomed in her ribs like a firework.

“You should have never touched him,” she said.

He tilted his head. “Do you care about him?”

The icy fist of fear clenched her gut. There was no right way to answer that. She forced her face to be blank before replying.

“Why do you care?” she said.

“Curiosity.”

Hieronymus tapped her shoulder, and she flinched.

“What is your name?” he said.

“Ardis,” she said.

“Ardis,” he murmured in her ear, “I’m afraid that pain has lost its meaning for Wendel. Hurting him is pointless.”

Her heartbeat drummed in her ears. She stared straight at the floor.

“You cared enough to find him,” Hieronymus said. “Is the feeling mutual?”

Ardis looked at Wendel, and saw how badly he was shaking. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed the black blade of Amarant.

Her mouth went bone dry. She decided to play dumb.

“I’m a mercenary,” she said in a monotone, “with the archmages of Vienna. I was hired to watch the necromancer. They didn’t trust him without a guard. They had him working on some secret project with automatons.”

Hieronymus circled her and traced the razor edge of Amarant along her forearm.

“I have friends outside,” she said, “waiting for me.”

Which wasn’t a lie, though she could only pray that Konstantin would realize something had gone terribly wrong.

She forced herself to meet his gaze. “Talk to the archmages if you don’t believe me.”

“Ardis?” Hieronymus sighed. “You are a pitiful liar. I see the truth in Wendel’s eyes.”

The assassin twisted her left arm and bared the veins in her wrist. She curled her fingers into a fist and forced herself to look away.

She had never been tortured before. She had to be strong—

Hot liquid spilled over her skin, chased by a bolt of pain. She gasped and glanced at her wrist. Blood trickled down and pattered on the floor. Hieronymus smiled and slashed her right wrist. Amarant cut her skin like a razor through silk, so mercifully sharp she felt nothing until her nerves responded a second later.

“God,” she said through gritted teeth, “that smarts.”

She tensed the muscles in her legs and moaned, trying to ride out the pain, but with every heartbeat the searing hurt pulsed along the length of her arms. An alarming amount of her blood pooled on the floor by her feet.

When she looked at Wendel, she saw his perfectly blank face. If he couldn’t keep it together, then this whole ruse was useless.

“How do you feel?” Hieronymus said.

She bared her teeth in a smile. “Like I want to kill you.”

Hieronymus circled her, inspecting his handiwork, and cupped his hands. His gauntlets crackled with the green glow of magic. She had seen magic like this before, when Konstantin healed Wendel, and she remembered Wendel’s agony. Her heart raced so fast the beats became uncountable. She sucked in a shaky breath.

“Too much blood,” Hieronymus said, “too quickly.”

The technomancer grabbed her wrists and squeezed the magic into her wounds. Pain roared through her head and obliterated all thought. She doubled over, her muscles in spasms, and she heard herself screaming.

“There,” he said. “Better.”

She opened her eyes, blinking back tears, and stared at the technomancer’s gauntlets bruising her flesh. Blood seeped between his fingers. He lifted his hands and revealed pink scars running the length of her arms.

He had healed her, but she knew he would only hurt her again.

“Thanks,” she said, her voice raspy.

Hieronymus hardly seemed amused by her sarcasm. He clucked his tongue, then turned to Wendel, who slumped with his head bowed, his ragged hair shadowing his eyes. Hieronymus lifted the necromancer’s chin.

“Well?” he said.

Wendel stared at him with hollow eyes. He didn’t even glance at Ardis.

“Disappointing,” Hieronymus said. “Perhaps I’m wasting my time.”

Blood from his hand smudged Wendel’s jaw. He let Wendel’s head drop, then strolled to the table where he had left Amarant.

“I may have to simply kill Ardis,” he said.

Shivers washed over her skin. She felt her heartbeat grow far away, felt her emotions floating higher than she could reach.

“You don’t want to do that,” Ardis said.

Hieronymus lifted Amarant and tilted the blade. A drop of blood rolled to the ground.

“Why not?” he said.

She bit the inside of her cheek, her mind scrambling for lies, and—

The window nearest them shattered. An iron beam flew through the air and crashed against the opposite wall. Shards of glass chimed on the floor. Slack-jawed, Hieronymus tiptoed to the window and peered outside.

Ardis waited for Wendel to look at her. She mouthed, “Konstantin.”

Downstairs, a massive crash shuddered the walls of the coffin factory. Plaster sifted from the ceiling. The rain-soaked floorboards groaned. She heard the unmistakable thudding of the automaton’s footsteps, then startled shouts.

Hieronymus backed away from the window and swooped behind Ardis. He clutched her shoulder and held the dagger close.

“Ardis,” he said, “you may prove—”

An excruciatingly long screech like metal on metal. Silence. Then the floor exploded.

A hunk of iron machinery splintered the rotten wood. The force of it flung Ardis and Hieronymus into the wall. Still tied to the chair, she landed on top of the technomancer and knocked the breath out of him.

She felt the rope around her wrists loosen.

The hunk of iron thudded against the opposite wall. Ardis clenched her fingers together and wrenched her hands free. She elbowed the chair away, jumped to her feet, and saw the black dagger spinning to a stop. It teetered on the brink of falling to the first floor. Gritting her teeth, she tightened her legs to lunge.

Hieronymus seized her ankle. She twisted and kicked him in the face.

Time around her slowed to a crawl. Every instant stretched into an eternity. Sweat dripped from the technomancer’s cheek and hung, suspended, in midair. She glanced at Wendel and saw him staring at her in silent horror, caught between one blink and the next. Her skin prickled with the wrongness of it.

She had broken the technomancer’s temporal magic. Too much, or too little.

Her heartbeat drummed in the uncanny silence. She might have mere seconds before her luck wore out. A handcuff key glinted on a chain at Hieronymus’s neck. Fingers shaking, she crouched over him and snapped the chain.

When she whirled around, her vision flickered. The magic had to be fading fast.

The black dagger tumbled infinitesimally to the first floor, barely within reach, and she snatched it from the air. Clutching the key, she ran to Wendel. As she unlocked his handcuffs, his eyes flicked toward hers.

Time lurched back on track.

Wendel sprang to his feet and staggered into the light. Blood dripped from his mouth, and he wiped it on his sleeve. Ardis’s hand closed on Amarant’s hilt, and she faced Hieronymus just as the technomancer straightened. He glanced down at his gauntlets, as if surprised they had failed him, then eyed the black dagger.

“That won’t work,” Hieronymus said. “That’s a necromancer’s dagger.”

Ardis angled the blade. Soundlessly, Wendel stepped beside her.

“I don’t want to hide in the shadows,” she said.

Blood trickled from Hieronymus’s nose. He shuffled backward, more like an old man, and leaned onto a battered desk. He tugged away a cloth and revealed Chun Yi. The sword looked dull and dark without its fire.

“Where did you steal this sword?” Hieronymus said.

“Steal?” Ardis narrowed her eyes. “What makes you think I stole it?”

His fingers slipped around Chun Yi’s hilt, caressing it, and brilliant flames whispered down the length of the blade.

Hieronymus smiled. “Because it longs to betray you.”

Wendel’s hand closed around hers. His necromancy skittered like icy fire over her skin. It jolted down the length of her arm, electrifying her nerves, and travelled into the hilt of Amarant. Darkness unfurled from the dagger.

Ardis gasped as shadows swept over them both.

Wendel squeezed her hand, but she didn’t know what he meant when he couldn’t speak. He tugged her away from Hieronymus and pressed them against the bricks of the wall. His frantic heartbeat beat against her chest.

“We need to get the hell out of here,” she whispered.

He shook his head, then pried Amarant from her hand.

Shadows rushed from Ardis like a wave retreating into the ocean. She stood illuminated in the dim light. Hieronymus spun her sword and traced a burning figure eight in the air. She bared her teeth. She hated theatrics.

“Wendel,” Hieronymus said, “you should have never—”

The floor shuddered. Ardis risked a look downstairs. Konstantin powered the automaton into a sprint and swung at an assassin. The assassin rolled out of the way, and the archmage punched the wall with bone-shattering force.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Hieronymus advancing.

He closed the distance between them in a few long strides. One more step, and he could strike. If he swung high enough, she could catch the blade with her hands. Painful, but it might deflect the blow. She edged along the wall and searched for an impromptu weapon. God, why had Wendel left her empty-handed?

“Pity,” Hieronymus said. “It would have been a pleasure to kill you slowly.”

A boot ever so softly scraped the floorboards. Hieronymus narrowed his eyes, then turned to look behind himself.

He only made it halfway.

Wendel stepped from the darkness like an avenging angel. He drove his dagger into the technomancer’s eye. Savagely, he twisted the blade before wrenching it out. Hieronymus clutched his face and screamed. Wendel kicked him in the back and knocked him down, then crushed his sword hand beneath his boot. Chun Yi clattered on the floor, flames sputtering out, and Ardis lunged to grab it.

But would her sword betray her? Fear sickened her stomach.

On the floor, Hieronymus clawed his way upright. Wendel grabbed a fistful of his beard and yanked his face skyward, then slit his neck and left him to drown in his own blood. He wiped Amarant on the man’s robes.

Shaking, Ardis backed away and sheathed her sword.

“Is he dead?” she rasped.

Wendel met her gaze, emptiness in his eyes. He pocketed his dagger and took both of her hands. She flinched, but he bared her wrists with great delicacy. His fingertips traced her scars. The emotionless mask of his face cracked.

Wordlessly, Wendel clutched her to himself, tight enough to calm her trembling muscles.

When her fingers found the nape of his neck, he shuddered at her touch. Hieronymus’s foot twitched in the corner of her vision. She escaped Wendel’s embrace, and she couldn’t stop staring at the blood on his hands.

Downstairs, they heard the automaton’s footsteps, then a quaking thump.

“Konstantin,” she said. “We have to help him.”

Ardis skirted the splintered floorboards and tiptoed downstairs.

The dimness of the factory disguised the assassins. Konstantin, in the automaton, wasn’t nearly so subtle. He swung a massive arm and swatted an assassin. The man flew clear across the room, slammed against the wall, and crumpled on the floor. Another assassin dodged and narrowly escaped the same fate.

Konstantin had taken out six assassins, but six more had him cornered.

Worse, he was limping. The pneumatics in the automaton’s leg had been damaged by an assassin’s blade. If they crippled his other leg, it wouldn’t take much to drag him down and pry him from the cockpit like crabmeat.

Ardis knew now would be a good time for a distraction, and she would happily oblige.

Her fingers closed around Chun Yi’s hilt. She pressed the sharkskin’s pattern into her skin. The armor of confidence hardened her heart.

Sword blazing, she leapt from the stairs and charged the assassins.

The nearest assassin barely had time to turn before she feinted with a swing at his face. He dodged, predictably, and she slashed his arm. She meant to incapacitate him, but Chun Yi sliced flesh and gouged bone like a knife through butter and bread. The assassin screamed and clutched his half-severed arm.

Shaking with adrenaline, Ardis retreated.

“Ardis!” Konstantin said, his face grim and pale.

She flashed him a smile. “Here to help.”

Konstantin limped forward a few steps, the floor shuddering under the automaton’s weight, then swung his arm and smacked the assassin she had just wounded. The man flew through the air and slammed on the bricks.

Five more assassins to go.

A flash of steel sliced the darkness—a throwing knife. Ardis dove to the bricks, tucked into a roll, and sprinted to hide behind a machine. The knife ricocheted off the iron above her head. She flattened herself to the floor. Her fingers grazed the arm of a dead assassin Konstantin had tossed aside like a broken doll.

No. Not dead yet. The man moaned and opened his eyes.

She should kill him. Now, before he alerted the others.

Trembling with tension, she stared into the fallen man’s eyes. She could see his pain and his fear. This instant of sympathy shook her.

Wendel stepped from the darkness. Amarant’s shadows still clung to his skin.

The wounded man crawled on his stomach, struggling to drag himself upright. Wendel grabbed a fistful of the man’s hair and drove his dagger into the back of his neck. He severed his spine and lingered only long enough to raise the dead.

“Wendel,” Ardis whispered.

He looked at her with emptiness in his eyes, then turned to another wounded man and slaughtered him. An instant later, the dead man climbed to his feet and waited for the necromancer’s command.

Wendel grasped Ardis’s hand, and she let him help her stand.

Metal clanged on metal. She peeked over the machine and saw an assassin hacking at the automaton’s undamaged knee.

“Is that another scratch?” Konstantin said.

Like he shouldn’t be worried about dying.

Konstantin grabbed the assassin by his cloak and dangled him so that his feet kicked. Disgusted, he flung him away. Ardis tracked the man’s arc through the air. She didn’t see where he landed, but she heard a sickening crunch.

Only four assassins still stood. If, of course, she didn’t count the undead ones.

Ardis crept closer to the automaton, her heartbeat thudding in her throat, and wished that Wendel would let go of her hand. It made it so much harder for her to be strong. She could hear his undead minions shambling breathlessly behind them. God, she could feel his necromancy, skittering like icy fire over his fingers.

“Let go of me,” she whispered.

Wendel met her gaze. His eyes looked almost pleading, but she had no real way of knowing. He lifted his black dagger.

“Not the shadows,” she said. “I need my sword.”

His mouth hardened, and he dropped her hand abruptly. She held Chun Yi at a low angle, and the sword’s flames dimmed like it knew she needed stealth. An assassin lingered nearby, searching the darkness, and she crouched.

Wendel sucked in his breath, then waved his minions onward.

The undead men dragged their scimitars along the floor. Ardis winced at the screeching. The assassin’s arm jerked upward with the throwing knife, but he narrowed his eyes, holstered the knife, and unsheathed his scimitar. He held his blade at a high angle, ready to behead the dead men, and backed away.

Ardis crept around the machine and circled the assassin. He never saw her coming.

She aimed for his heart and stabbed him between the ribs. Chun Yi cleaved his flesh and sank to the hilt with stunning ease. The assassin died within a few heartbeats. Wendel raised him from the dead not a minute later.

Ardis yanked out Chun Yi, the sword blazing even brighter.

“Three more,” she whispered to Wendel.

He nodded and commanded his tiny army of the dead with a wave. The undead ran almost as fast as the living, their muscles still not yet stiff, and marked the floor with bloody footprints. The assassins retreated into the center of the room. They stood back-to-back and held their scimitars in a low defensive guard.

Ardis edged closer, keeping to the shadows, wary of the throwing knives.

But the dead men threw themselves onto the blades without hesitation. Impaled to the hilt of a scimitar, a dead man clawed at an assassin. The assassin’s ally hacked at the dead man’s neck and swore when the blade stuck. The third assassin faced two undead at once, struggling to shove them back.

Konstantin limped closer and loomed over the fight.

Ardis tensed, ready to duck flying machinery, but the archmage balled his hands into fists. He reared back, then charged forward and punched the assassins. He knocked two out of three flying and clobbered an undead man on the way.

Ardis flinched at the sound of bones cracking, then ran to finish off the last assassin.

The man dropped his scimitar, the whites of his eyes bright, and held up his hands. He backed away from the undead men.

“I surrender,” he said. “I surrender!”

Ardis hesitated, then started to lower her sword.

The assassin stiffened as the shadow of a blade sliced his throat. Darkness descended behind him—Wendel. The man went limp, like a marionette with its strings cut, then straightened as the necromancer puppeted him.

“He surrendered!” Konstantin stammered.

Wendel didn’t even look at him. And Ardis, her stomach churning, looked the other way.

Assassins lay scattered across the factory, silent or moaning, many with limbs at awkward angles. Wendel walked from assassin to assassin like an efficient reaper, slitting their throats and severing their spines.

He killed them all, and she did nothing to stop him. Nothing to show mercy.

But should she?

“We have to go,” she said, “before the Grandmaster shows up.”

Wendel stared at her with such concentrated fury that she retreated a step.

“Ardis!” Konstantin fell in step beside her. “What’s wrong with Wendel?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “We have to get him out of here.”

Konstantin had to duck to fit through the doors. Ardis followed close behind him, counting on the automaton’s bulk as a shield. The flames of Chun Yi rippled, reflected, in the automaton’s steel. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Wendel lingering near one of the windows, staring intently into the darkness.

“Wendel,” she said in a hushed voice. “Wendel!”

He looked to her, then, and followed her into the light.

Outside the factory, it was still and silent. Any number of assassins could be lurking. Ardis shared a grimace with Konstantin.

“See anything?” she said.

From the height of the automaton, he scanned their surroundings.

“No,” he said.

“There could be more.” She waved him forward. “Stay in the shadows.”

Konstantin laughed nervously. “I feel very visible.”

Ardis led the archmage and the necromancer away from the coffin factory and across the empty lot. Rain weighted down her hair and trickled down her clothes. She wished she were in the automaton. She would be drier, and safer. Again she glanced back to check on Wendel, and again she saw him lingering in the darkness.

What was wrong with him? She backtracked to meet him.

“Wendel,” she said.

He opened his mouth, as if to speak, then winced. Blood dribbled down his chin. He wiped it on the back of his hand.

“Can you keep walking?” she said. “It isn’t much longer.”

He nodded, his eyes hollow.

She had never seen him look so lifeless. Fear settled in her gut like a lump of ice. Had the Order done something irrevocable to him?

“Is it—?” Her voice faltered. “Is it very painful?”

Wendel’s mouth curled into crossbreed of a sneer and a smile. Maybe he thought it was an obvious question. Maybe he thought she was pitying him. But even bleeding and mute, he still had the fortitude to be a bastard.

And that, at least, reminded her of the Wendel she knew.

“Good,” she said, and she squared her shoulders. “There’s hope for you yet.”

He arched an eyebrow.

She lowered her voice. “Believe me, Wendel, I know you want to hunt down every last assassin in Vienna. But now is really not the time for revenge. Especially brutal soulless revenge that will get you killed.”

He narrowed his eyes, then spat blood on the ground.

“You owe me,” she said.

He questioned her with his eyes.

“You fulfilled the terms of your fealty,” she said, “but I saved your life again.”

He worked his jaw back and forth. She knew he would be sarcastic if he only could. He dropped to one knee in parody of the time he swore fealty. He spread his arms, his eyes glittering, and challenged her with his stare.

She held out her hand. The start of a headache panged in her temple.

“Get up,” she said.

Never looking away, he clasped her hand and let her help him to his feet. She didn’t flinch at the feel of his necromancy.

“And get rid of those undead,” she said.

Frowning, he tilted his head.

“Do you have a vendetta against stealth?” she deadpanned.

A smile shadowed the necromancer’s face. He snapped his fingers, and the dead men behind him fell to the dirt.

She started walking, and hoped he had the sense to follow.

Ahead, Konstantin reached the truck and climbed into the back. He lowered the automaton to its knees, tucked in its arms, then killed the engine. He jumped from the cockpit and bent over the automaton’s knee.

“For heaven’s sake,” he muttered. “That scratch won’t buff out. And the pneumatics—”

“Konstantin!” Ardis said.

“Right.”

Between her and Wendel, they had far more scars than the automaton. Not that the archmage seemed to notice. She sighed and helped Konstantin drag the tarp over the automaton. He climbed behind the wheel, and she hopped in beside him. Wendel slumped to her right, slammed the door, and stared through the windshield.

“Cross your fingers,” Ardis said.

Konstantin’s eyes flicked over to hers. “Why?”

“That we won’t run into any more assassins.”

Wendel gave her a sideways glance, and the look in his eyes said he didn’t believe in luck.

“Konstantin?” she said. “How long was the Grandmaster meeting with Margareta?”

The archmage frowned and twisted the key in the ignition. The truck coughed to life.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Then we shouldn’t return to the Hall of the Archmages,” she said. “Not tonight.”

“I have a first aid kit and my temporal magic in the laboratory, so I should be able to patch up both of you.” Konstantin blew out his breath and muttered, “Though patching up the automaton won’t be so easy.”

Temporal magic? Pain panged through the scars along her arms.

“I’m fine,” she said.

“Do me a favor?” Konstantin said.

“What?”

“Pray that Margareta doesn’t go looking for the prototype.”

Ardis laughed bleakly. “At least we didn’t leave any witnesses.”

She glanced at Wendel. He had closed his eyes and rested his head against the window. No blood trickled from his mouth, but cold fear clenched her stomach. God, let him be all right, though he looked anything but.

~

Night shrouded Vienna. In an alley behind the Academy of Technomancy, Konstantin gingerly maneuvered the automaton from the back of the truck and limped to the freight elevator. Ardis hit the call button and waited.

Beside her, Wendel touched her arm.

“What is it?” she said.

Wendel looked deeply tired, but he managed half of a smile. The elevator arrived. He lowered his head and strode inside. When she followed at his heels, she saw the double-headed eagle tattooed on his neck. It would be impossible for his hair to hide it now, and she knew they had done this to shame him.

Konstantin joined them in the elevator, and Ardis hit the button to the basement.

“If anyone asks,” the archmage said, “we were out testing the automaton.”

“We were,” she said. “Unofficially.”

He coughed. “Nobody but student interns should be up this late. Midterms, you know. And if they value their grades, they won’t interfere.”

Wendel smirked, and Ardis wondered what snide comment he wished he could say.

The doors to the elevator clunked open, and they entered a dull concrete hallway. Konstantin waved them forward, the knuckles of the automaton accidentally scraping the ceiling, and he winced at the noise.

Luckily, nobody seemed to notice, and they reached the laboratory without incident.

It was dark inside, so Ardis switched on the lights. Bank after bank blinked on above. Konstantin hobbled to a flatbed trolley and hoisted himself onto it. Slowly, he lowered the automaton onto its back. After scooting from the cockpit, he swung his legs over the edge of the trolley and hopped down to the floor.

Konstantin staggered on stiff legs, and Wendel caught his arm.

“Thank you,” Konstantin said crisply, but he wouldn’t look into Wendel’s eyes. “Ardis? Help me hide the automaton.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Hide?”

“Until I can fix it. Or explain why it needs to be fixed.”

The archmage grabbed a tarp and unrolled it over the battered automaton. She took the opposite corner and helped him.

“What happened to Wendel?” Konstantin whispered. “Do you think they…?”

Ardis glanced into his eyes. She couldn’t even guess what they had done to Wendel. She had once a seen a criminal with his tongue cut out, but that had been much bloodier. And that hadn’t silenced him so completely.

“I don’t know,” she said.

Wendel leaned against the wall and raked his fingers through his ragged hair, as if he still didn’t believe how much shorter it was. Then he pressed his hand to his face and slid to the floor. He let out his breath with a hiss.

Ardis felt a twinge of alarm. “Wendel?”

He tried to speak, and failed again. She saw that it hurt him greatly to do so, though she still didn’t know why.

“Wait,” she said.

She found a pen and notepad and slid them across the floor to him. He started to write, his words wavering as his hand shook.

Clever of you. Thank you.

“Can you tell us what happened?” she said.

Konstantin wheeled a chair from a table and nodded at Wendel.

“Sit,” he said, “please.”

Wendel climbed to his feet and sat on the chair. He tugged the notepad straight, then hesitated, the tip of his pen digging into the paper. Ardis saw him swallow hard. He caught her gaze, then motioned to his mouth.

This is their curse. To punish me.

“A curse?” she said. “What kind of curse? What do you…?”

Wendel put down his pen. He clenched his hands, his shoulders rigid, then tilted back his head and opened his mouth. His tongue had been inked with black symbols she couldn’t read. They cut deep enough to bleed.

Ardis found herself speechless for him, afraid that her voice would betray her.

“God,” Konstantin said. “This is worse than I thought.”

“What is it?” she said.

Konstantin pressed his knuckles to his mouth and stepped back.

“I would recognize those runes anywhere,” he mumbled. “It’s a curse. A silencing curse.”

Wendel swallowed hard. Then he picked up the pen.

Is there a countercurse?

Konstantin nodded, then shook his head.

“Curses aren’t my specialty, but I do know one thing. Only the technomancer who cursed you can remove the curse.”

The light in Wendel’s eyes dimmed. He stared at the paper before writing.

That man is dead.

Wendel leaned forward, his head propped on his hand, and touched the pen to the paper. Ardis waited for him to write more, but he sketched line after line across the corner of the paper. His eyes looked distant, his face tight.

Dread settled in Ardis’s stomach like an anchor.

“Who did this to you?” Konstantin said.

Wendel kept blackening the paper. Ardis placed her hand on his to stop him.

“Wendel,” she said. “Was it Hieronymus?”

He narrowed his eyes, then nodded.

Ardis grimaced. “The technomancer at the coffin factory.”

“There was a technomancer there?” Konstantin said.

“Yes.” She rubbed the scars on her wrists. “Wendel killed him.”

Wendel stood, swayed on his feet, and sat back on the chair. His face was deathly pale. Ardis gripped his arm to steady him.

“Wendel?” she said, her heart pounding. “Are you okay?”

He shook his head.

Ardis looked to Konstantin. “Help me. Don’t let him fall.”

Konstantin grabbed his other arm. Wendel shook his head, but didn’t fight the archmage. He blew out his breath slowly.

“I don’t think he’s slept since the assassins found him,” Ardis said.

Konstantin looked nearly as pale as Wendel. “He can’t stay here. But my apartment isn’t more than two blocks from the laboratory.”

“Can you walk, Wendel?” Ardis said

He nodded. They helped him to his feet. After a few paces, he no longer looked so frighteningly pale, and he shrugged off their hands. Konstantin still hovered nearby, glancing at him, until Wendel managed a glare.

“We can take the freight elevator,” Konstantin said. “It’s the long way around, but…”

Ardis nodded. She wasn’t sure Wendel had the strength left in him for the stairs. Predictably, Wendel grimaced at this acknowledgement of his weakness, but she didn’t give a damn about his pride at the moment.

They ascended to the city above.

“Snow,” Ardis said, and she tilted her head skyward.

It fell like goose feathers from the clouds and hushed the nighttime sounds of the city. Shivering, she followed close behind Konstantin, making sure that Wendel never left her side. True to his word, the archmage walked for two blocks before he stopped outside of an apartment building on the corner of the street.

Konstantin let them inside, then hesitated at the bottom of the stairwell.

“Good?” he said, looking at Wendel.

Wendel gave him a thumbs up and a sarcastic glance. Konstantin bounded upstairs, and they followed at a somewhat slower pace. The archmage jangled his key ring, searching for the right key, then unlocked the door.

“Let me get the lights,” Konstantin said.

He flicked on a switch, and electric lamps blinked awake. Curious, Ardis looked around the archmage’s apartment. Small and cluttered, with overflowing bookcases and glowing technomancy apparatuses that looked liked they belonged back in the laboratory. The corner of her mouth curled in a smile. She wondered how much luggage he had brought to Vienna, and how chaotic it had been when he unpacked.

Konstantin patted the back of a couch. “Please, make yourself at home.”

Wendel lingered by the door, wariness plain on his face, like he didn’t trust that much technomancy in such a little space.

“You should sit down,” Ardis said, “before you fall down.”

Wendel looked mildly insulted, but it motivated him enough to walk to the couch. Konstantin bustled off to the kitchen and began banging open cabinets. When the archmage stopped looking, Wendel dropped onto the couch and sank into the cushions. He closed his eyes, and the tension left his muscles.

“Tea?” Konstantin called from the kitchen.

Wendel nodded without opening his eyes.

“Yes, please.” Ardis settled in a battered old chair. “Wendel, too.”

A clock with gleaming naked gears caught her eye. This was bizarre—teatime at two o’clock in the morning, with a necromancer and an archmage. She laughed quietly, feeling the drunkenness of extreme fatigue.

Wendel cracked open an eye and tried to speak, then caught himself.

“Are you hungry?” Konstantin said.

“A little,” Ardis said.

“Good!”

Konstantin sounded happy to have guests. He returned to the living room balancing a platter piled with sausage, half a loaf of dark bread, a stick of butter, and a little jar of mustard. He delivered it all to the coffee table, ducked back into the kitchen, and brought each of them mismatched plates and silverware.

“Here you are,” Konstantin said. “Now you can refuel.”

Ardis smiled at his analogy.

The only seat left was on the couch next to Wendel. The archmage hesitated, then sat as far away from the necromancer as possible. Wendel straightened, completely alert now, and pantomimed writing in the air.

Konstantin jumped to his feet and fetched a notebook.

Wendel wrote, and Ardis tilted her head to read his words. Thank you for saving me.

Konstantin blushed to the roots of his hair. “We couldn’t leave you there in the laboratory. Or in the coffin factory, for that matter.”

Wendel arched one eyebrow. You could have.

“Please,” Ardis said. “What kind of people do you think we are?”

Wendel realized she was joking, and bit his lip to fight a smile.

“And thank you for inviting us here, Konstantin,” she said. “It was very kind of you.”

“You’re most welcome.”

Konstantin cleared his throat, still blushing, then sat down again next to Wendel.

They ate together in a companionable silence. Ardis helped herself to a second sausage and liberally applied mustard. She hadn’t realized just how hungry she was until now, or how much being here cheered her spirits.

“So,” Ardis said, “a Prince of Prussia?”

Wendel winced.

Konstantin glanced between the two of them.

“Who?” he asked.

Ardis surreptitiously pointed to Wendel, and the archmage’s eyes widened. He fumbled with the bread he was buttering, almost dropping it, and his face went crimson. He seemed to be having trouble deciding how to act.

“You should have said something!” He blushed redder. “I mean, when you could speak.”

Wendel covered his face with his hand. He reached for the notebook.

Too late, he wrote. Disinherited a long time ago.

Konstantin leaned closer to Wendel to read what he had written. Their arms bumped, and the archmage retreated like he wasn’t allowed to touch royalty. Still blushing spectacularly, he buttered his bread so hard it crumbled.

“I should have known,” Ardis muttered.

Wendel cocked his head.

“With that kind of arrogance?” she said. “Of course you were a prince.”

Wendel’s eyes glinted, but he cringed and rubbed his mouth. He couldn’t even laugh. Worry wormed in Ardis’s stomach. When she looked at Konstantin, she saw the same in his eyes. The mood in the room darkened.

Wendel toyed with the pen for a moment. How did you find me?

Konstantin brightened. “The automatons!”

Wendel cocked his head and waited for him to explain.

“I rewired the control systems,” Konstantin said, “and used the interference to triangulate your location in the coffin factory.”

If the archmage was waiting for a compliment, he wasn’t going to get one.

I see. Wendel clenched his jaw. The automaton was not what I expected.

“What do you mean?” Konstantin said.

Wendel tilted his head and hunched over the paper as he wrote. Then he leaned back and slid the notebook closer to them.

You killed those assassins like insects.

Konstantin’s eyes flickered as he read and reread the words.

“Killing efficiently, Wendel?” Ardis said. “That bothered you?”

Wendel locked gazes with her. Something unnamable burned in his eyes. He touched a napkin to his mouth, and it came away red with blood. He wanted badly to speak, so badly that he couldn’t stop himself from trying.

“The Hex will not last forever,” Konstantin said. “We need Project Lazarus.”

Not even the archmages believed in the architecture of their peace.

“Wasn’t that the plan?” Ardis said.

Konstantin pressed his mouth into a grim line.

“I may be the youngest archmage in Vienna,” he said, “but I’m not the most naïve. Removing gunpowder from the equation might buy us another year, two at most, but that hasn’t stopped Romanian rebels from fighting Austria-Hungary for control of Transylvania. We have been on the brink of war for months.”

Ardis nodded. “I know. I was a peacekeeper there. It’s anything but peaceful.”

Wendel’s pen scratched quickly across the notebook. And you think an army of automatons will help with peace?

Konstantin frowned. “Austria-Hungary’s safety depends on the strength of her army.”

An army of metal men. You don’t intend to give your enemies a fighting chance.

“Isn’t that the point?” Ardis said. “We win this war as fast as possible.”

His eyes shadowed, Wendel looked away. He tore the page from the notebook, crumpled it in his fist, and tossed it into the fireplace.

The teakettle shrieked. Konstantin leapt to his feet like a wasp stung him.

“Wendel,” Ardis said quietly. “Now isn’t the time to argue with the archmages.”

Wendel looked into her eyes, a crease between his eyebrows, and she couldn’t decipher the complexity of his emotions. There was something like disappointment there, and a desperation that some people called hope.

Konstantin returned with a chipped teapot. He poured them each a cup.

“Enough about the Hex,” he said. “I have been thinking about Wendel’s curse.”

Wendel cupped his teacup in both hands, and Ardis knew he was listening intently.

“It might be impossible.” Konstantin paced around the table. “It might even be too late. But theoretically, if we can work out all the technicalities, Wendel should be able to resurrect Hieronymus and countercurse himself.”

Wendel straightened, the fire in his eyes rekindled, and reached for the notebook.

Constantinople, he wrote. The Order will send his body to Constantinople for a funeral.

“When?” Ardis said.

Wendel frowned. Hieronymus was Greek. They never bury the dead on Sundays. His funeral will be Monday, at the earliest.

Of course a necromancer would know so much about funerals.

“Monday,” she repeated. “The day after tomorrow. Is that enough time, Konstantin?”

Konstantin smoothed back his hair and looked toward his overflowing bookshelves.

“If we hurry,” he said.

~

Magic remained a mystery to Ardis. She tried her hardest to decipher the thick books on curses and countercurses, but after half an hour, the symbols swam through her head in a soup of nonsense and impossibilities.

“Sorry,” she said, stifling a yawn. “I’m better with swords than sorcery.”

Konstantin leaned back on the couch and stretched so that his spine cracked.

“You look exhausted,” he said, as if he weren’t himself. “I wouldn’t be a gentleman if I didn’t offer you the bedroom.”

Konstantin’s bedroom? Her cheeks warmed.

He held up his hand. “Please, I insist. There shouldn’t be too many books on the bed.”

She smiled and shoved her chair from the table.

“Good night,” she said.

Wendel glanced sideways at her, and she could see the unspoken words in his eyes. She wondered what he wanted to say. She waved at them both, then wandered down the hall to Konstantin’s bedroom. The archmage wasn’t joking about the books on his bed. Ardis had to haul away several hefty textbooks on technomancy. She unbuckled her sword, kicked off her boots, and stretched out on the bed.

With a sigh, she shut her eyes and let herself sink into sleep.

Darkness invaded her dreams. She was chained to the wall in the coffin factory. Blood slicked her mouth and spilled from her wrists. She snapped her chains, but Hieronymus and the faceless Grandmaster blocked her way. Time tortured her with its slowness, favoring her enemies, and left her helpless as they advanced.

Ardis jolted awake, disoriented, and thrashed against the sheets tangled around her legs.

Then she remembered where she was—the archmage’s apartment. Konstantin’s words murmured through the wall.

“You don’t need to keep suffering in silence,” he said.

Konstantin sounded bland, almost clinical, but there was a strange rasp to his voice.

Barefoot, Ardis crept from the bedroom and peered around the corner of the hall. Konstantin and Wendel sat together on the couch, nearly close enough to touch, but she saw the tension in their shoulders.

“I could give you laudanum for the pain,” Konstantin said.

Wendel cocked an eyebrow, then shook his head.

“But not temporal magic.” Konstantin bit his lip. “They hurt you with it, didn’t they?”

Wendel’s jaw hardened, and he scribbled his reply on a piece of paper. Konstantin read it, then locked gazes with Wendel.

“You know why I care,” he whispered.

Wendel wrote quickly. He leaned across to press the paper into Konstantin’s hand.

Konstantin stared at the paper, then clenched it in his fist.

“Why?” he said. “What do you have to be sorry for?”

Wendel looked down, his eyelashes shadowing his cheeks. He ran his tongue over his lip and leaned closer to Konstantin, as if whispering a secret, but of course he could only be silent. His eyes glimmered in the lamplight.

Ardis leaned against the wall, holding her breath, and couldn’t look away.

When Konstantin tilted his face, Wendel met him halfway. Their lips crashed together. Ardis stifled her gasp with a hand pressed hard to her mouth. Wendel kissed Konstantin with breathtaking fierceness, backing him down against the couch, his fingers twisted tight in his curls. A startled noise escaped from Konstantin’s throat. Trembling, Konstantin traced his fingertips along Wendel’s sharp cheekbones.

Then, abruptly, Wendel retreated.

Konstantin staggered to his feet, and Wendel stood watching him. They stared at each other, both of them breathing hard.

It felt like the bottom dropped out of Ardis’s stomach. She had to be dreaming.

“Wendel,” Konstantin said huskily.

Without a backward glance, Wendel walked to the door. His hand closed on the doorknob.

“Don’t go,” Konstantin said. “Please.”

Wendel strode out of the apartment and let the door slam behind him.

Numb, Ardis backed into the bedroom. She tugged on her boots, buckled her scabbard to her belt, then returned to face the archmage.

“Konstantin,” she said. “What happened between you and Wendel?”

He smoothed back his hair with shaking hands, his face remarkably pale.

“We—we had an argument,” he stammered.

“About?”

Konstantin wouldn’t say.

Ardis started toward the papers on the table, the ones Wendel had written on, but Konstantin beat her to it and snatched them up. With shaking hands, he tore them into tiny pieces and let them drift into the fireplace.

Ardis forced herself to take a calming breath. Her pulse pounded in her temples.

“Konstantin,” she said. “Tell me what happened.”

“Nothing happened.”

Glassy-eyed, he lit a match and dropped it onto the shredded papers. Wendel’s words curled and blackened into ashes.

“Then why are you burning the papers?” she said.

“Nothing. Happened.”

Ardis closed her eyes for a moment. “I saw you kissing.”

Konstantin flinched. He licked his lips, then spoke in a remarkably level voice.

“A mistake,” he said.

“And before that?” she said.

Konstantin looked into her eyes, breathing a bit too hard, and shook his head.

“Nothing,” he said.

Wendel had promised to help him for three days, but what had happened those three nights? Konstantin could never openly admit to being with him. In most countries, a man convicted of sodomy would face death.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll ask Wendel myself.”

Her heartbeat thundering in her ears, she stormed out of the apartment.

“Ardis.” Konstantin followed at her heels. “Wait!”

She stopped, her hands clenched in fists, and bared her teeth.

“I’m tired of waiting for the truth,” she said.

Konstantin stood outside the door, rummaging through his pockets. He patted down his coat, looking increasingly panicked.

“Where are my keys?” he said. “I can’t find my keys. Damn it, he took them.”

Wendel had picked the archmage’s pockets. Ardis felt a flicker of relief. The kiss could have been a distraction, nothing more.

“Why would Wendel want your keys?” she said.

Konstantin sucked in his breath.

“Because now he has the key to the laboratory,” he said.

“But why…?”

Wendel’s argument against Project Lazarus. An army of metal men. You don’t intend to give your enemies a fighting chance.

They shared a glance, then started running down the hall.

Through the thickening snow, they ran from the apartment to the Academy of Technomancy. Arms swinging, legs pumping, Ardis gulped air as she ran, nearly sprinting to keep up with Konstantin’s long strides.

They jogged to a stop in the alleyway, and Konstantin rattled the door.

“Locked,” he said.

“Maybe he isn’t here yet,” Ardis said.

Konstantin’s breath steamed the air. “Maybe he locked it behind him.” He waved her onward. “The service elevator. Quickly.”

They dashed down the alleyway and turned the corner. Konstantin jabbed the call button.

“God,” he said, panting, “I hope—he didn’t—lock the laboratory door.”

Ardis sucked in a breath. “What do we do then?”

He shook his head.

The elevator doors clunked open. They jumped inside. When the doors shut, Konstantin stared at the ceiling, his cheeks pink. Ardis was still breathing hard, and she wasn’t sure it was entirely from the exertion.

“I won’t tell anyone,” she said. “About the kiss.”

He kept staring at the ceiling. “You won’t?”

“I’m half-Chinese. My mother and my father broke the law to be together.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ardis, it never went that far. On my honor. There was one kiss, before, when we both had too much to drink. We wanted to celebrate finishing the automaton’s control systems. Halfway through the bottle, I thought he might be flirting with me. I kissed him, and he kissed me back.”

She rubbed her forehead as if this would help her brain digest these thoughts faster.

“Just kissing?” she said.

“Yes.” He sighed. “I thought he would never be with a woman. I was wrong.”

“We were both wrong.”

He glanced sideways at her. “I’m sorry. I never would have done it, if I had known. Clearly he chose to be with you.”

“Don’t apologize,” she said. “Wendel is the bastard here. As usual.”

It was easier to joke about it, and pretend that her throat didn’t ache with anger.

The elevator shuddered to a stop. Before the doors opened halfway, Ardis and Konstantin bolted through and ran toward the laboratory. Konstantin leaned against the door to the laboratory, and it swung open under his touch.

The battered automaton they had taken out that night lay on the trolley. A panel on the front had been pried off, and a thick fistful of wires trailed from the automaton’s insides like it had been disemboweled.

“No,” Konstantin said, and it became a chant. “No, no, no.”

Deeper in the laboratory, the screech of bent metal echoed off the walls.

Ardis held her finger to her lips. “He’s still here.”

Konstantin bared his teeth, then grabbed a monkey wrench. He sprinted toward the sound of the dying automaton.

The automaton stood against the wall like a silent metal man. Wendel leaned across the automaton, reached into its guts, and clutched a fistful of wiring. He yanked it savagely and tossed it over his shoulder. Then he stabbed a screwdriver inside the automaton and pried out a piece of technomancy machinery.

A strangled sound escaped Konstantin. “The control systems.”

Wendel hefted the piece of technomancy machinery, then hurled it on the floor and smashed it beneath his boot.

“No!”

Konstantin lunged and swung the monkey wrench at the necromancer’s head. Wendel stepped into the attack, gripped Konstantin’s arm, and threw him on the concrete. Konstantin landed hard on his back. That knocked the wind out of him. Wendel twisted the wrench from his grasp and hurled it out of reach.

“Stop,” Ardis commanded. “Step away from him.”

Wendel tossed the stolen keys onto Konstantin, then slipped his hand into his pocket and vanished into the shadows.

“God, I hate that dagger.” She clenched her fists. “Wendel!”

His footsteps echoed down the length of the laboratory. She chased him to the stairwell and sprinted upstairs. His boots hammered the steps, echoing off the concrete, and he flung open the door. She skidded on the snowy cobblestones and searched the darkness, her breath clouding the air, but she had lost him to the shadows.

“Wendel!” she shouted.

Silence. Ardis swore under her breath. All he had to do was hide.

Footsteps crunched the snow. She whirled around. Warm fingers touched the back of her wrist, then pressed a scrap of paper into her hand. Her heart thumping, she backed against the wall and stared at the paper.

A tram ticket? It had been punched already.

“Wendel?”

The falling snow erased his footsteps. He was gone.

Ardis clenched her hands into fists and returned to the laboratory. Konstantin crawled on his hands and knees, picking up the scattered pieces of broken machinery. He had bloodshot eyes and utterly untamed hair.

“I can’t believe he did that,” he rasped. “I can’t believe it.”

“Konstantin,” she said.

“Is he gone?”

A droplet splashed on the floor, and she realized it was a tear. She stiffened, not sure what to say to the archmage.

“Gone,” she said. “How bad is it?”

Konstantin kept his head down. He concentrated on some especially tiny fragments.

“Bad,” he said. “I don’t know if I can fix it.”

Ardis knelt and helped him pick up the pieces of the automaton. He cleared his throat and rubbed his nose on the back of his hand. She thought about offering him her handkerchief, but she wasn’t sure if that would insult him.

“Damn.” He dried a tear from a technomancy component. “Corrosion.”

Ardis touched his arm. “Konstantin.”

He glanced at her and smiled miserably. “Yes?”

She handed the tram ticket to him. His smile faded.

“The 71 tramline,” he said. “But it’s an old ticket.”

“Wendel gave it to me.”

His glanced sharply at her. “Did he?”

“Yes.”

Konstantin sat back on his heels and studied the ticket.

“Ardis,” he said. “Have you heard anyone talk about taking the 71?”

She shook her head.

“It’s a euphemism for death,” he said. “The 71 line has a terminus in the Zentralfriedhof. The grandest cemetery in Vienna.”

Ardis’s blood chilled. So the ticket could be a threat or a promise.

“Then that’s where I’m looking for Wendel,” she said.

Konstantin’s face tightened with a curious mix of hope and despair.

“Ardis,” he said. “I won’t stop you, but I must warn you—Wendel has made an enemy of the archmages. And if you side with him, I can’t guarantee your safety. So consider that carefully before you do anything regrettable.”

Faced with his honesty, her heartbeat stumbled.

“You know what I would regret more than anything?” she said. “Leaving Wendel to die, knowing I could have saved him.”

Konstantin looked at her with quiet resignation. “I understand.”

Ardis swallowed past the ache in her throat. She removed the edelweiss pin from her lapel and handed it to Konstantin.

“Since I’m no longer acting on behalf of the archmages,” she said.

Konstantin’s fingers closed around the edelweiss. “Are you sure?”

She let her breath escape her lungs. “Yes.”

“I won’t lose it.” He smiled. “I promise. It will be right here when you return.”

Ardis didn’t tell him that she might never return. She wasn’t sure she could survive another year as a mercenary.

“Thank you again,” she said.

“You’re welcome.” Konstantin caught her gaze. “And what I said earlier still stands.”

“What was that?”

“Stay alive.”

~

Vienna floated in mist, the highest of its towers and spires lost to the walkers below. Snow sifted from the sky. It was a day close to Christmas. Ardis sat near the back of the 71 tram, swaying as it clattered along the tracks. She hadn’t slept since her nightmare in the apartment, but a cold clarity sharpened her senses.

The 71 whined to a halt at its terminus.

She leapt out on stiff legs and looked around. Just shy of six hundred acres of land sprawled before her, populated with the dead. More dead than any other cemetery in all of Europe. This was the Zentralfriedhof.

“I hope you’re here,” she whispered to herself. “I hope you’re waiting for me.”

Even Wendel couldn’t be cruel enough not to say goodbye.

Her sigh fogged the frigid air. Starkly black trees veined the sky. Gravestones reached from the snow and tried to touch the heavens. The sun arced in its short-lived flight above the earth, and she knew the light would die at four o’clock. She had only a short day to find Wendel, before the darkness overtook them.

A crow flew overhead with a rowdy caw. A second crow, and a third, rushed above her on the rustling of wings. Crows foreshadowed necromancers. She had seen it herself. Ardis chased the birds deeper into the cemetery.

Snowfall erased angels and monuments, white on white, but couldn’t diminish an ancient gnarled oak. The crows perched in its branches, blinking at her with their black glittering eyes. She circled the tree and tried not to hope.

A man in black left the shadow of a mausoleum and walked down a row of graves.

Wendel.

The necromancer strode through the snow, and the crows fled from the tree like ragged scraps of black. He mouthed her name before licking blood from his lips. He was still cursed, still unable to speak.

Ardis wasn’t sure which of the emotions battling in her chest would win.

“Why is it,” she said, “that I’m always finding you in the snow, alone, bleeding?”

He shrugged with a smile more pained than sarcastic. Then he stepped close enough that he could have touched her, but he didn’t. He reached into the pocket of his long coat and withdrew a letter without an envelope.

She read the letter with a pounding heart.

Ardis,

This letter must be my apology, and my goodbye. I am sure you have more questions than I can answer, but I will try my best. I kissed Konstantin to steal his keys, but I am sure you have already guessed this. I knew it would work because he had kissed me once before, with an awful lot of alcohol involved, and I saw an advantage to be taken. Yes, I have kissed other men before. It isn’t a crime in Constantinople. I have also kissed other women. Yes, I am very far from a saint, though I think you know that by now.

Wendel had blacked out a sentence or two. She skipped to the next legible line.

I meant to tell you the truth when I could still speak. That night in Vienna, when I found you again, I meant what I said—if you can believe a liar. I was a coward the morning after. But it is too late for me to say it now. It was always too late for me to promise you anything forever. It would be cruel of me to tell you how I feel now. I must go to Constantinople. Until they die, or I die, you will never truly be safe.

I am not sure how to end this letter. Sincerely? As sincerely as I can? I hate endings.

Wendel

Ardis stared at the letter until the words blurred.

“You meant what you said that night?” she said huskily.

Wendel looked into her eyes. His own were such a luminous green that she could see the depths of his emotions clearly. He was guilty, and regretful, and yes, he still loved her. Even though he thought he would lose her.

Her heart hurt so savagely that tears stung her eyes.

The letter crumpled in her hands. She ripped it down the middle, sighing at the destructive satisfaction, and watched his words drift into the snow. Then she met his eyes, and smiled at the shock on his face.

“I hate endings, too,” Ardis said. “This isn’t goodbye.”

Wendel closed his eyes. He kissed first on her forehead, then on her mouth. She tasted his blood on his lips, bitter with iron. He broke away. She saw his face, and knew he was ashamed to be bleeding from the curse on his tongue.

Fiercely, she hooked her hand behind his neck and kissed him again.

She didn’t care. She didn’t care how angry she was with him, or how afraid she was that she might never hear him again. She just wanted to know that there was someone in this world who still loved her despite everything.

Ardis opened her eyes. “Wendel.”

He looked at her with parted lips, waiting. Then his eyes narrowed, and he backed away, his hand still locked on her arm.

“What is it?” she said.

He shook his head, then yanked on her arm to swing her around.

Natalya stood in the snow. Her blonde hair gleamed golden in the sunlight. She had a rapier in one hand, a dagger in the other, and a smile that said Ardis had brought her exactly what she wanted most—Wendel.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Natalya said. “I can take it from here.”

Wendel raised an eyebrow. God, Ardis hoped he took Natalya seriously. He couldn’t afford to be cocky with a mercenary this good.

“Hello, Natalya.” Ardis reached for her sword. “Tired of waiting tables?”

The blonde’s smile widened. “The archmages sent me. You just kissed a wanted man.” She tilted her head. “I have to say, you are an adventurous woman. I don’t think I could sleep with a man with a thing for necrophilia.”

Wendel sneered at Natalya like she had crawled from a cesspit.

“Not very clever,” Ardis said, “even for you.”

Natalya shrugged and let the tip of her rapier rest on the snow. Squinting, Ardis eyed the dagger in Natalya’s left hand. She doubted Natalya would hunt a necromancer with such simple blades. The dagger was probably enchanted.

There was only one way to find out.

“Honey,” Natalya said, “if you leave the necromancer now, I won’t have to hurt you.”

Ardis scoffed. “That was my line.”

With an impatient sigh, Wendel drew his dagger.

“Wendel.” Ardis stopped him with her hand. “I have a vendetta against this bitch.”

He nodded and stepped back. Of course he understood revenge.

Ardis unsheathed Chun Yi and let flames ripple down its length. Natalya’s shoulders tightened, almost imperceptibly. Ardis licked her lips, then tensed her legs and charged. She swung Chun Yi high. Natalya deflected the blade with her dagger. Ardis angled her sword into a counterattack. She drove the dagger away and hacked at Natalya’s neck. The mercenary dodged and backed against the mausoleum.

“Too flashy,” Natalya said.

Ardis arched her eyebrows. “What?”

“Beheadings are too flashy.”

“Oh? Always worked for me.”

Ardis pressed her advantage, swinging at Natalya’s shoulder, forcing the mercenary to defend with her dagger. Natalya kicked Ardis in the stomach. Ardis staggered back, winded, and Natalya’s rapier whipped through the air.

A cut slashed across her cheek. It burned like a wasp’s sting.

“Don’t toy with me,” Ardis said, and her words slurred.

She retreated and touched the wound on her cheek. Her skin felt numb. A strange kind of numbness, one she had felt before.

The dagger wasn’t enchanted. The rapier was. With paralysis magic.

Ardis heartbeat thundered. The numbing poison pulsed outward through her blood. She knew she couldn’t rely on strength or skill to win this fight, not anymore. But deception seemed to be the plate of the day.

With exaggerated clumsiness, Ardis stumbled to her knees and clutched Chun Yi. Natalya edged nearer. Out of the corner of her eye, Ardis glimpsed Wendel striding into the fight. Natalya’s attention shifted to him.

Good.

Ardis surged to her feet and swung Chun Yi. She chopped Natalya’s rapier in half, then jerked her sword backward and bashed the pommel into Natalya’s face. Blood gushed from the blonde’s nose. Natalya staggered back, but Ardis caught her by the arm, wrenched it hard, and stabbed the broken rapier into her chest.

Shock froze in Natalya’s eyes. She tottered into the snow.

Ardis stared down at Natalya. The blonde lay like a bug pinned to a wall. Her lips stayed open in a silent gasp, and her breath misted the air. Blood trickled past the rapier’s blade, still embedded to its hilt between her ribs.

“I could make a joke,” Ardis said, “but I won’t.”

Her tongue didn’t feel so fat in her mouth, and she rubbed her cheek again. The numbness seemed to be fading.

Wendel crouched near Natalya and cocked his head. He held his dagger in his hand.

“Don’t,” Ardis said.

He had the audacity to look innocent, like he had never killed in cold blood before.

“Someone will find her eventually,” she said.

Wendel arched his eyebrows. She knew he didn’t want to leave any witnesses. But he shrugged and pocketed his dagger.

Ardis sheathed Chun Yi. “I think we have overstayed our welcome in Vienna.”

He straightened, his gaze on the horizon. The wind stirred his butchered hair, the tattoo of the black eagle bare on his neck.

“Constantinople?” she said.

Wendel nodded, his eyes still focused on his destiny.

~

The Orient Express Airways zeppelin floated, anchored to a steel mooring mast, over the grass of Aspern Airfield in Vienna. Sunlight angled through the haze of clouds and shimmered over the airship’s silvery skin.

Ardis waited in line to board the zeppelin. Anticipation buzzed in her stomach. In her hand, she clutched two first-class tickets. Wendel hadn’t given her enough money for a round trip, but then again, who knew how long they would spend in Constantinople. He stood beside her, gazing at the zeppelin, and a faint smile shadowed his face. For a moment, they could have been newlyweds off to their honeymoon.

The impossibility of the idea ached in her chest.

A page ushered them into an electric elevator at the bottom of the mooring mast, and they climbed to the height of the zeppelin. Whistling wind stung their eyes. They hurried over the swaying gangway and stepped inside the zeppelin’s nose, where they were greeted by smartly dressed officers of the Orient Express Airways.

Ardis wanted to glance around the luxurious foyer, but Wendel slipped his hand into hers. She followed him to the left-hand promenade deck. Windows ran along the wall, tilted so that passengers could lean against the railing and see the ground below. Wendel found them a spot by the windows just as the airship began to glide away from the mooring mast. Below them, people waved handkerchiefs and hollered goodbyes.

“I wonder when we will see Vienna again,” Ardis said. “Or if we will.”

Wendel’s fingers tightened around her own, and he kept his stare on the ground.

They departed at noon. By two o’clock, Vienna had disappeared in the distance, and they could see the cathedral of Budapest towering over the city. By five o’clock, the sun had set, and the zeppelin sailed over Serbia.

As they sat in the airship’s dining room, Ardis gazed through the windows at the glittering lights, so far beneath them. Her breath clouded the air. The interior of the zeppelin had no heat, and it was a chilly night. Around them, passengers wore furs and scarves while they sipped wine and ate their dinner.

Wendel had liberated some stationary from their cabin, and he slid it toward her now.

I hope the waiter arrives while I’m still awake.

“Have you slept at all?” Ardis said. “Since the ball?”

He shook his head, then scribbled his reply. I feel like the walking dead.

“You should know,” she said.

His mouth quirked into a smile.

The waiter arrived at last and served them sea bass with almonds. Ardis rubbed her thumb over her fork, concentrating on the silverware’s ornate engravings. Her stomach squirmed. A thought had haunted her for hours now, but she hadn’t had the courage to ask. Finally, she curled her fingers into a fist.

“Wendel?” she said.

He glanced into her eyes, still focused on cutting his bass.

“When I went back to the hotel,” she said, “I met my father.”

Wendel’s knife scraped his plate.

“Who is Thorsten Magnusson?” she said.

His shoulders stiffened, and he looked at her with shadowed eyes.

“If I’m coming with you to Constantinople,” she said, “I deserve to know.”

Wendel put down his knife and took up his pen. He wrote only two words before he pushed the paper toward her.

The Grandmaster.

The blood drained from her face. “Oh. Well.” She grimaced. “Why am I not surprised?”

He furrowed his brow.

Ardis sucked in a slow breath. She felt a bit faint.

“I can’t blame you for lying,” she said, and she sounded conversational. “I suppose he’s the man you want to kill the most?”

At least Wendel had the decency to look ashamed.

Ardis forced herself to cut her fish and take a bite. She had to swallow hard. She swigged some wine to fortify her nerves.

“God, Wendel,” she said. “Please don’t do this.”

He slid the paper to himself, then back to her. I have no choice.

“Of course you have a choice!”

The words exploded from Ardis, and nearby diners stared at them. She sucked in air and lowered her voice to a murmur.

“You can always walk away, Wendel. You always have that choice.”

The intensity in his eyes fragmented into glittering. He lowered his head. Mechanically, he cut his fish into bites. Ardis couldn’t bear to look at him. Her throat aching, she forced herself to eat, but she didn’t taste a thing.

Wendel finished dinner first, and excused himself with a nod.

She let him go, then let herself breathe. Her eyes blurred. She dabbed them quickly with a napkin, before the waiter returned, then faked a smile.

“Would that be all, ma’am?” said the waiter.

“No,” she said. “I’m not done yet.”

~

Ardis sat alone on the promenade deck for a long time. She watched the world drift away beneath her until her thoughts simmered down. When she climbed to her feet, she suddenly felt weary, her boots like lead.

She made her way to their cabin and opened the door without knocking.

Wendel lay in the bottom berth, his arms curled around a tangle of blankets. He had fallen asleep with the electric light on, and the yellow glow illuminated his face. Sweat glistened on his forehead despite the coldness of the cabin. She hesitated, not wanting to wake him, though she also wanted to sleep.

His hands clenched around fistfuls of blanket, and he jerked like someone had hit him.

Ardis tensed. Was he having a nightmare?

He doubled over, grinding his teeth, and shuddered. She bent over him and shook his arm. He flinched, but didn’t wake up.

“Wendel,” she said.

At the sound of her voice, his eyes snapped open.

He lunged from the berth and grabbed her by the arm, driving her against the wall. Her back slapped the paneling. The shock of it flooded her blood with adrenaline, and she had to tell herself not to fight back, he wasn’t awake yet—

Then she saw the black dagger in his hand. He held it inches from her cheek.

“Wendel!” she said. “Wake up!”

He was breathing hard, his hand bruising her arm. Then, suddenly, he let her go and staggered back. Awareness sharpened his eyes.

“You were having a nightmare,” she said, her heartbeat still galloping.

Wendel dropped the dagger. It fell with a dull thud on the carpet. He looked at her, and then he took her by the arms with cautious gentleness. Ardis winced when he touched the bruises from his fingers.

“I shouldn’t have woken you,” she whispered.

Wendel’s face crumpled into what could only be described as anguish, and he bowed his head, his hands still on her arms. He released her and backed away, stumbling against the berth, sinking to his knees on the floor.

His shoulders heaved, and he dug his knuckles into his temples.

Barely breathing, she backed toward the door. He lifted his head at the sound of her footsteps. He looked into her eyes, for no more than an instant, and looked away. But not before she saw the glittering of his tears.

She couldn’t leave him there, looking so lost and broken.

Ardis dropped beside Wendel and dragged him into her arms. He buried his face against her shoulder, shaking, his ragged breaths muffled against her. She held him close, stroking her hands over the scars on his back, knowing now that his scars ran much deeper. She sensed his suffocating fear, and she finally understood that he could never truly escape the Order. Not even by returning to face them.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, even though it was a lie. “It’s okay.”

His tears wet her shirt. He withdrew, blinking, and ran his thumbnails over his eyelashes.

“Wendel,” she said, but she didn’t know what else to say.

He put on a brave face, though he couldn’t hide the pain in his eyes. He climbed to his feet and bent over the nightstand. His pen scratched across the paper, and she peered over his shoulder to read what he had written.

I don’t want to go.

Her throat constricted so that she almost couldn’t speak. “Then don’t.”

His eyebrows descended, and he shook his head.

“We can get off at the next stop and take a train to Switzerland. They don’t want anything to do with this war. We can find some little cottage in the mountains and learn how to make cheese.” She laughed. “Actually, I’m pretty bad at cooking. We might have to raise cows, or do whatever else it is the Swiss do.”

He stared sideways at her, incredulous, then broke into a smile.

Chocolate, he wrote. I like Swiss chocolate better than Swiss cheese.

She laughed again. “I’m not sure I trust your skills in the kitchen. Princes aren’t exactly known for cooking. Neither are necromancers.”

His smile faded. I can’t— He crossed it out. I would love more than anything to run away with you. To Switzerland or America or anywhere else. He tapped the nib of the pen on the paper. But the Order will hunt me down.

She breathed in through her nose. “I know.”

Wendel sank onto the bottom berth and rested his head in his hands. They both stared at the black dagger on the floor. Then he ducked for the dagger, yanked open the nightstand drawer, and locked the blade inside.

“I’m still afraid of your nightmares,” she whispered.

He stared at the paper. Forgive me.

Ardis crossed her arms and rubbed the bruises there. Wendel saw her do this, and he looked tormented by what he had done.

Please don’t touch me when I’m sleeping, he wrote. I’m not myself.

“I won’t,” she said.

He watched her as she kicked off her boots and stripped to her underclothes. She climbed into the top berth and lay down, her pulse throbbing in her neck. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried not to feel so sick with fear.

He touched her gently on her wrist. She opened her eyes.

Wendel leaned across her berth and kissed her on the cheek. She hooked her hand behind his neck and kissed him on the lips, harder, until he melted against her. She kissed him with all of her concern and forgiveness.

“There,” she said huskily. “That’s more like it.”

He looked at her with a crooked smile, then switched off the light.

“Good night,” she whispered.

After counting a hundred heartbeats, she heard his breathing settle into a gentle rhythm. Only then did she sleep.

~

When Ardis woke, she had no sense of time. The zeppelin soared so soundlessly that she didn’t know if they were moving or moored at a faraway city. She listened for Wendel’s breathing, but she heard nothing.

She flicked on the light. His berth was empty, the blankets neatly folded.

Ardis swallowed, her mouth dry, and decided to find a drink before looking for Wendel. She dressed, left the cabin, and discovered it was morning. The night’s chill still lingered. On the promenade deck, she peered through the tilted windows. Sunlight gilded a carpet of fields and tufted trees. They flew not more than five hundred feet above the red-tiled roof of a farmhouse, and children chased the zeppelin’s shadow.

They had to be flying over Turkey already.

She walked to the dining room and found Wendel standing by the windows, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Good morning,” she said.

Wendel looked over his shoulder. Sleep had smoothed much of the worry from his face. Ardis stood beside him, and he tugged her into the crook of his arm. She leaned against his chest and heard his steady heartbeat.

A city shimmered in the haze of distance. She could even see the spires of the mosque Hagia Sophia, soaring heavenward, which she had once only imagined from the gray crosshatchings of an engraving in a book.

“Constantinople,” she said.

They wandered through the Grand Bazaar of Constantinople. Wendel had bought a black cloak, and he wore it with the hood shadowing his face. Ardis tugged the scarf straight over her hair and clutched a golden Ottoman lira in her hand. The Grand Bazaar’s covered streets no doubt swarmed with pickpockets.

The kaleidoscope of sights dazzled her eyes. On her left, men praised rich Turkish rugs. On her right, glowing glass lamps like fairytale baubles hung as high as the vaulted ceilings. Exotic spices perfumed the air—sandalwood, ginger, nutmegs, cinnamon. She saw opium hawked beside dates and pistachios. A woman with birdlike eyes beckoned her with toy scarab beetles that flicked open their iridescent shells and flew on mechanical wings. Ardis couldn’t tell where the magic ended and the clockwork began.

Wendel lingered at the edge of the street, waiting, and she hurried to meet him.

“I wish we had more time,” Ardis said. “I would love to get lost here.”

He smiled wistfully, and she wondered if he had before.

She followed him down a street that echoed with the hammerings of coppersmiths. They turned the corner and came upon a newsstand. Wendel bought a Turkish newspaper and Ardis wondered just how many languages he understood. He read the newspaper with narrowed eyes, then tapped the page with his finger.

She recognized one word: Hieronymus.

“His obituary?” she said.

Wendel nodded and tapped his wrist where a watch would be. Ardis realized he meant that they didn’t have much time. They darted out from the Grand Bazaar and into the cold. Wendel flagged down a hackney carriage and showed the driver the obituary. The driver replied in Turkish, then waved them inside.

They rattled through the crowded streets of Constantinople. Wind corrugated the steely waters of the Bosporus. Ardis glimpsed many faces from faraway lands. She wondered if even she might blend into this city’s crowds.

The hackney stopped outside a small church with a stark white façade. Wendel leapt from the carriage, helped Ardis to the street, and tossed the driver a coin. Then he flipped back the hood of his cloak and strode inside.

The velvety smoke of frankincense sweetened the gloom. At the far end of the nave, an intricate gilded screen glimmered by candlelight and dwarfed a simple wooden casket. Mourners shuffled toward the casket in a procession.

Wendel held his finger to his lips and slipped into the procession. Ardis followed in his footsteps, her heart racing, and prayed that nobody would recognize them. She tugged her scarf closer over her hair and bowed her head. They inched closer, until only a gray-haired woman stood between them and the casket.

Hieronymus lay in eternal sleep. But soon he would be woken.

The gray-haired woman bent over the casket, weeping, and kissed a cross placed on Hieronymus’s chest. His widow? She walked away from the casket and was comforted by others. Ardis’s chest tightened, and she backed out of the procession. No one questioned her behavior. Perhaps they mistook it for grief.

Wendel strode to the casket and bent over the body as if paying his respects.

Hieronymus sat upright.

His widow glanced back, looked into his dead eyes, and collapsed in a faint. Ardis caught her before she hit the floor, then handed her to a young man who reached out to help. Screams and gasps punctuated the silence.

One word echoed in the church. “Necromancer!”

And Ardis saw Wendel as they saw him—a sinister man cloaked in black, his pale face devoid of emotion. Then, strangely, he offered his dagger to the corpse. Hieronymus seized the dagger and grabbed Wendel by the jaw. He shoved Wendel’s head back, yanked open his mouth, and carved an X across his tongue.

Ardis scarcely breathed. It looked like he was crossing out the curse.

Wendel broke away from Hieronymus, doubled over, and spat what looked like black ink onto the carpet. The corpse fell back down in the casket. Wendel wiped his mouth on his sleeve, straightened, and raked his hair from his eyes with a shaking hand. He took back his dagger and turned toward the horrified crowd.

“You can bury the body now,” he said, his voice unbelievably hoarse.

A priest darted toward the necromancer and tossed a flask of holy water into his face. Wendel blinked, curled his lip, and dried himself on his cloak. He flipped up his hood and strode down the aisle to the doors.

Ardis held out her arm to stop the priest from pursuing him. Then she bolted after him.

Wendel waited for her outside the church. He bent with his hands on his knees and spat more of what looked like ink.

“This curse tastes horrible,” he said.

He didn’t sound quite so hoarse anymore, some of the honey returning to his voice.

“Are you bleeding?” she said.

He dabbed his tongue with a handkerchief, which came away stained black.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “And it definitely doesn’t hurt so damn much.”

The priest ran from the church, brandishing a cross, followed by a mob of mourners. Ardis and Wendel shared a glance.

“We should go,” she said.

“Before they bring pitchforks.”

She shot him a glare for the wisecrack.

They dodged into the commotion of the street and zigzagged through the crowd. They didn’t stop running until they had reached the banks of the Bosporus, where they slowed to a walk. Their breath clouded the salty air.

Wendel sucked in a breath, then leaned back and stared at the sky.

“Finally!” he shouted.

Ardis furrowed her brow. “Wendel, are you sure you want to announce your location to all the assassins in Constantinople?”

He laughed, and it was only a little rusty for a laugh. “I make a terrible mute.”

“Actually,” she said, “I agree.”

“Should I be mildly insulted?”

She rolled her eyes. “But we should keep quiet. We just desecrated a funeral.”

“Desecrated?” He squinted at her. “Did I do anything to the body? Believe me, I thought about it, but even I have standards.”

“I hope you’re joking.”

Wendel gave her a look. “Ardis. Please.”

Her heart betrayed her and skipped a beat. God, she had been so afraid she would never hear him say her name again.

“I missed your voice,” she said.

Wendel’s eyebrows tilted into a questioning slant. He may have had his voice back, but he didn’t seem to know what to say.

Finally, he folded his arms and lowered his head.

“Walk with me,” he said. “I want to show you something.”

She followed him across the slick stones. He halted at the edge of the strait, his eyes narrowed against the wind. The Bosporus spat saltwater onto his boots. He pointed across the water to a lighthouse on an island.

“The Maiden’s Tower,” he said. “Long ago, an oracle foretold that a beloved princess would die by snakebite on her eighteenth birthday. Her father, the sultan, built the tower to keep her safe. When she turned eighteen, the sultan brought her a basket of fruits. And of course the story ends tragically, like all fairytales.”

“All?” Ardis said. “What kind of fairytales have you heard?”

“The old ones they tell to scare children at night.” His smile didn’t touch his eyes. “When the princess ate the first fruit, she startled an asp hiding in the basket. One snakebite was enough. And she died in that very tower.”

She shivered. “How morbid.”

“There’s another tower,” he said.

He curled his arm around her shoulders and turned her to the left. The heat of his body on hers accelerated her heartbeat. She wanted to touch him. Wind buffeted them, a perfect excuse to press against him and shut her eyes.

“Look,” he said, his breath on her neck.

She opened her eyes and followed his finger to a second, bigger island in the Bosporus. This island also had a tower, but it wasn’t a lighthouse. It jutted from a fortress that braved the waves like a stone battleship.

“The Serpent’s Tower,” he said.

“For the asp that killed the princess?” she said.

“So the story goes, though you won’t find any asps there. Only assassins.”

She turned in his arms and looked into his eyes. He tilted his head, and the wind blew his hair sideways across his face.

“The Order of the Asphodel?” she said.

“Yes.”

She smoothed his hair from his face, but she still couldn’t decipher his expression.

“What are you thinking?” she said.

He shrugged and tightened his jaw. She wanted to trace his cheekbones with her fingertip, but she held herself back.

“The Serpent’s Tower is where it ends,” she said.

“No.” He closed the distance between them. “Where it begins.”

She looked down and swallowed hard. If only she could believe him.

“Ardis,” he said, his voice vibrating through her chest. “Trust me.”

“You don’t have a sterling reputation.”

His green eyes glimmered. “Please.”

“God, Wendel,” she said. “I can’t say no to you. Not with you looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“You look almost innocent. But I know better.”

“You know, I’m not always a liar.” He broke into a grin that reminded her how beautiful he could be. “That would be a paradox.”

She laughed at his audacity, then kissed him so fast she startled him. His hand slid along the nape of her neck and knotted in her hair. His other hand found her hip and crushed her tighter to him. She moaned against his mouth.

They broke apart to breathe, and she gasped.

“Don’t stop talking,” she said, somewhat incoherently. “Your voice is amazing.”

He arched his eyebrows. “Is it now?”

“Much better than you scribbling down notes. Your handwriting is terrible.”

He laughed. “I don’t need that particular talent.”

“You do have plenty.” She looked into his eyes. “Don’t let that go to your head.”

“It’s going somewhere else entirely.”

A blush blazed across her face. “Could I convince you to take a break from revenge?”

He whispered something in her ear, and she almost didn’t hear him over the wind.

“Always.”

She shivered and arched against him. He brushed his lips over her cheek.

“You have me until nightfall,” he said.

Her stomach tightened. “Why nightfall?”

“It would be foolhardy to sail to the Serpent’s Tower by day.”

“You know,” she murmured against his neck, “it would be foolhardy to leave me.”

“I could never leave you, Ardis.” He grew serious. “Would you stay with me?”

She knew what he was asking. Stay with him when he went to the Serpent’s Tower. Stay with him when he fought the assassins, and the Grandmaster, to the death. Her answer ached inside her heart even before she spoke it.

“Yes.”

~

In the lobby of the Pera Palace Hotel, Ardis admired the luxury of Oriental style married to Art Nouveau flourishes. Porters lugged steamer trunks across the parquet floors for well-heeled Orient Express passengers.

Wendel chatted with the concierge at the desk, then returned a minute later.

“Fantastic!” He smiled. “I’m so close to happily bankrupt right now, it’s amazing.”

Ardis gawked at him. “You spent all your inheritance?”

He held up his hand. “A pitiful fraction of my inheritance. Remember? And I wasn’t planning on taking a cent to my grave.”

“Don’t talk about dying,” she said coolly. “I liked your idea to loot the Order better.”

“Ah,” he said, grinning, “so you remembered the plan.”

Ardis resisted the temptation to swat him. Instead she pried the key to their room out of his hand and started walking. She saw a luxurious tearoom, and an even more luxurious restaurant, but she passed them both.

She wanted to see their room the most.

Ardis glanced at the key in her hand. Room 202. She bounded upstairs, her muscles tight with unspent energy. Wendel followed at a more leisurely pace, or at least he made the climb look effortless with his long legs.

“Why did we bypass the tearoom?” he said. “And the delicious Turkish Delight?”

Wendel’s poker face would have been perfect without the wicked glint in his eyes.

“Sure,” Ardis deadpanned. “Sounds good. You wouldn’t want to miss teatime.”

He tilted his head, clearly thinking of a retort.

“I’ll just be in bed,” she said. “Naked.”

His eyes darkened, and he stepped toward her as if magnetized. “Oh?”

She smiled with a flick of her eyebrows. “I might get a little bored, of course, so I might have to… entertain myself.”

He growled a sigh and backed her against the door, trapping her between his arms.

“Am I invited?” he said.

Ardis ducked under his arm and twisted the key in the lock. She shoved open the door, and he stumbled forward into the room.

She found a switch on the wall and flicked it on.

“Electric lights,” she said. “How modern. Maybe I can read in—”

Wendel tackled her and kissed her hard. They tumbled onto the bed. He made a hoarse satisfied sound in the back of his throat, and she shivered in anticipation. The weight of his body over hers, the heat of his skin, the masculine smell of him. It was almost too much. She shoved him away, her heart racing.

“The door,” she panted.

He lunged and slammed the door, then grimaced like he hadn’t meant to be so loud. She climbed to her feet, the back of her knees pressed into the mattress. When he returned to the bed, she shook her head and smiled.

“Lie down,” she said.

Wendel smirked and looked like he was considering disobedience. He tried to kiss her, but she shoved him onto the bed and climbed onto him. Straddling him like that, she could feel exactly how excited he was.

He looked up at her with dark, dark eyes, his lips parted, expectant.

“Still feel like teatime?” she said.

He rocked his hips so she gasped. “Still feel like reading?”

She grinned. “I don’t have any books.”

He narrowed his eyes and tried to sit, but she shoved down his shoulders. She leaned back and peeled off her jacket and shirt. The instant she was topless, his hands cupped her breasts and caressed them most distractingly.

“You can’t escape now,” she murmured.

“Escape?” He feigned innocence, but his hands squeezed. “Why?”

She laughed. “Don’t make me tie you down.”

His eyes chilled. “No,” he said.

She remembered, then, how he had been chained in the coffin factory. Doubtless he had been punished many more times than that.

“Wendel,” she said, “I forgot. I’m sorry.”

He shrugged as best as he could, lying beneath her on the bed.

She wanted to melt the ice in his eyes. She bent over him and kissed him, softly, her hair curtaining his face. He stayed tense, then relaxed into the kiss. He ran his hands along the curve of her back and sighed against her lips.

“Ardis,” he said. “I wish I…”

She drew back to look at him, and he closed his eyes. Maybe he couldn’t look at her.

“I wish I weren’t so broken,” he whispered.

His words cut her deep, a pain so sharp it was almost sweet. She lay beside him on the bed and rested her head on his chest. Wendel held very still, and Ardis thought he must be trying hard not to feel. His ribs heaved in a sigh.

“We’re all broken,” she said, “one way or another.”

He was silent for a moment. “How did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Leave America. Leave it all behind.”

She played with his hair. “Honestly? I’m not sure I did. I can’t stop missing my mother. Sometimes I want nothing more than to go home, to San Francisco, before I was Ardis. But then I remember that isn’t home anymore.”

He closed his hand on hers to stop her fidgeting. “Before you were Ardis?”

“Ardis isn’t my birth name,” she said. “I was Yu Lan. It means Magnolia.”

“Yu Lan,” he repeated.

Her old name sounded odd. She didn’t think she could be that girl again.

“Call me Ardis,” she said.

“Ardis.” He paused. “Are you happy?”

“You make me happy,” she said, without hesitation.

He lifted himself on his elbows, then met her in a kiss. She stole the heat from his skin.

“I can do better,” he murmured.

She shivered at the rasp in his voice. “Then you better survive.”

He laughed, and it was almost a believable laugh.

“Oh, ye of little faith,” he said.

Wendel lowered his head and traced Ardis’s neck with kisses while she unbuttoned his shirt. She fumbled with the last buttonhole until he simply yanked the shirt over his head. The button pinged off the window.

She laughed. “Be careful. You’re bankrupt.”

“Almost,” he said. “And don’t you love me shirtless?”

She swallowed another laugh. “Could you be any cockier?”

“Easily.”

He slid off the bed, unbuckled his belt, and stripped completely naked. A wholly wicked smirk curved his mouth.

“Is this cocky enough for you?” he said, and he waved at himself.

Laughing, she clapped her hand over her eyes. “That’s it. You killed the romance.”

He didn’t seem to care. He hooked his fingers into her trousers, and she tilted her hips upward to help him undress her. She shivered in the cool air. He found a preventive in his coat, and her pulse rushed in her ears.

When he climbed over her on the bed, he kissed her neck, but went no further.

“Ardis,” he whispered in her ear. “I’m all yours.”

She sighed at the aching sweetness of his words. He slipped inside, slowly, agonizingly, until she dug her fingernails into his hips and dragged him down. He gasped and flung back his head. She wrapped her legs around him, forcing him deeper, and he growled low in his throat. His fingers clenched the sheets.

“I want you to ride me,” he said.

She grinned at the lust in his eyes. “Me, too.”

He hooked his arm under her shoulder and rolled them both. He landed flat on his back, her knees on either side of his hips. She looked down at him, greedy for the sight of his long dark eyelashes and kiss-swollen lips.

“Gorgeous,” she said.

Wendel laughed. “Gorgeous?”

“Take the compliment.”

She licked her lips, watching him, then sank lower and took him deeper. He sucked in his breath, his eyes smoky with desire. She wanted to hear his pleasure. Smiling mercilessly, she moved up and down, torturing him.

“Ardis,” he said, his voice gravelly in the best way. “Touch yourself.”

“Why?” she teased. “Would you like that?”

“Very much so.”

She did as he said. He let out a shuddering sigh. He couldn’t resist thrusting, and she encouraged him with a moan.

“Harder,” she said.

Sweat glittering on his skin, he set a relentless rhythm. It brought her close faster than ever before. When he slowed, she ground against him with frustration. It was too much—it wasn’t enough. She shook her head.

“Wendel!”

He thrust again, harder, and she tightened the muscles in her thighs. Pleasure built and built until it resembled pain. He angled himself to lick the sweat between her breasts. She teetered on the edge of ecstasy.

Then she fell.

She clung to him and bit his shoulder to stifle her scream. He held her as she shuddered. Gasping, she curled against him and squeezed her eyes shut. She realized she felt raw and fragile, baring herself to a man like this. Not just skin to skin, not just letting his body entwine with hers, but letting him into her heart.

“Ardis?” he said.

Inexplicably, her eyes prickled with tears. She gritted her teeth. No. She wouldn’t cry over him when she hadn’t lost him yet.

“Did I hurt you?” he said softly.

Not yet.

“No.” She cleared her throat. “I needed to breathe.”

He smoothed her tangled hair from her face. Then he slipped out from underneath and lowered her head to the pillow.

“Am I that breathtaking?” he said, his smirk at odds with the concern in his eyes.

He had to understand. Of course he did. He had lived his life in the shadow of the Order of the Asphodel. Even now, he didn’t believe he could escape. He could only steal fragments of a life that wasn’t his.

And lies hurt so much less than the truth.

“Breathtaking?” She managed to laugh. “Put your money where your mouth is.”

“My mouth, you say?”

Wendel almost hid behind his smile. When he bent over her, she closed her eyes and tried to let herself live in the moment. She wasn’t very good at it, she realized, but he knew what to do. His lips closed around her breast. He licked her nipple, teased her with his teeth, and she sighed and knotted her hands in his hair.

“Wendel,” she said.

She wanted to say, “I love you,” but fear choked her throat. She wasn’t sure she could admit to loving a man she couldn’t save.

He looked into her eyes as he gave himself to her. And it was almost enough.

~

Nightfall. Wendel didn’t leave, as he had promised, but stayed at the Pera Palace.

They lingered over dinner in the hotel restaurant. A delicious dinner, no doubt, though it tasted bland in Ardis’s mouth. She sipped water to wet her parched throat. Wendel divided his food into ever smaller pieces.

“I wasn’t joking,” Ardis said, “about running to Switzerland.”

Wendel shrugged and nudged a pea around his plate.

“Or France,” she said. “We could seek asylum there. Enemy of my enemy, you know.”

“Not France.” He flattened the pea beneath his knife. “I hate French.”

“How do you feel about English?”

He ate the pea. “Indifferent.”

“Then we can go to England. If we survive. When we survive.”

“This might be my last supper,” he said, with a fleeting smile.

She swallowed hard. “Wendel.”

“Maybe they will make a painting out of it,” he said. “The Last Supper of the Necromancer sounds a bit ludicrous, don’t you think? A statue might be more appropriate. Though I doubt anyone will give a damn.”

“This isn’t funny,” she said, and she glared at him.

He stared out the window. He was quiet for a long time. The clink of silverware on china scratched at her nerves.

“Say something,” she said. “Please. Don’t be silent after—”

“I love you.” He looked into her eyes, his cheeks flushed.

She forgot to breathe for a moment. Shakily, she wiped her mouth on her napkin.

Finally, she said, “You could have said that earlier.”

“I tried.”

His eyes looked intense, but there was a softness to the way he held his mouth.

“You took it back,” she said.

“And then I took that back.”

She glared at him for waiting until the last moment to say this. She had almost forgotten how frustrating the necromancer could be.

Wendel flagged down the waiter. “Check, please?”

Ardis’s stomach somersaulted, and she wished she hadn’t eaten a thing. Was this really happening? Was she really so powerless?

“You don’t have to do this,” she said.

He didn’t even answer. He paid for their dinner, with what might have been his last coins, then stood and pulled out her chair for her.

She gripped his arm. “Wendel.”

He met her eyes. “You don’t have to come with me.”

He wanted this to be goodbye?

“No,” she said. “Hell no.”

He pried her fingers from his arm. “Then let’s go.”

Her throat tightened. She had to stop him somehow. She didn’t know if the Grandmaster even wanted his prize necromancer alive at this point, which meant that Wendel was far too confident about his chances.

Unless the dead look in his eyes meant he was beyond caring.

Wendel walked from the restaurant, and she followed at his heels. She was afraid that if she fell behind, he wouldn’t wait for her to catch up. Together they strode through the twisting nocturnal streets of Constantinople.

“Where are we going?” she said.

“The Galata Bridge,” he said.

“Why?”

“To find a boat.”

The waters of the Bosporus glittered like a thousand silver coins beneath the moonrise. The spire of the Maiden’s Tower soared against the opposite bank. Not too far away, far too close, the Serpent’s Tower loomed.

Ardis felt sick. She tasted acid creeping from her stomach.

Fisherman lined the Galata Bridge, casting their lures into the rippling of reflected lights. Wendel surveyed them, then shouted in Turkish. One of the fishermen stepped forward. Wendel dropped coins into the man’s hand. Gold coins, she noted, which seemed like a steep price to ferry them across to the Serpent’s Tower.

“His boat is ours,” Wendel said.

Her eyes widened. “You bought the boat?”

“So we won’t be stranded there.”

She nodded. Thank heavens he thought there was a return trip.

The fisherman trotted down the Galata Bridge to the bank. A sleek little skiff bobbed in the water. Ardis lowered herself into the skiff and clasped her hands between her knees, her knees pressed together tight. Wendel climbed into the back, shoved off from the bank, and started rowing toward the Serpent’s Tower.

Ardis cleared her throat. “Let me talk to the Grandmaster. Before you—”

“No,” Wendel said.

“No?”

“He isn’t the kind of man who talks.”

She glowered at the water. “I’m his daughter. He won’t hurt me.”

“You don’t know him.”

“I only had one chance to talk to him. Let me talk to him again. Please.”

Wendel’s sigh stirred her hair. “If you insist.”

“Thank you.”

“If only so you will understand the inevitability of the situation.”

She shook her head. “There has to be a future where nobody dies.”

Wendel was silent. Waves slapped against the sides of the boat.

“Ardis,” he said, “somebody always has to die.”

She clenched her fists and stared at the Serpent’s Tower as they approached. Lights glinted through the narrow windows of the fortress. Scrubby pine trees clung to the rocky island, the only cover besides boulders.

Almost there.

The bottom of the boat scraped along the gravel beach. Wendel jumped out and steadied the boat for Ardis to disembark. She helped him drag the skiff onto the beach, and they hid it under the branches of thorn bushes.

The moonlight shone on Wendel’s pale face and highlighted the hard set of his jaw.

“At the very top of the tower,” he said, “we should find the Grandmaster.”

“And then?” she said.

The muscles in his neck tightened. “I don’t expect you to watch your father die.”

His cold confidence shook her. She backed away from him and bowed her head. Think. There had to be a way out.

“I’m here to help you,” she said, which wasn’t a lie.

Never mind that she had no idea how. Never mind that she felt a rising tide of panic.

“Ardis.”

Wendel stepped closer and slipped his hand behind her neck. He dragged her into a kiss. Icy fire swirled over her skin and curled around her bones. It knocked the breath right out of her. When he withdrew, she gasped.

His necromancy?

She panted for air. “What—?”

“Stay with me,” he said, “no matter what happens.”

“I will.”

“Take my hand.”

She twisted her fingers with his, the strange sensation still tingling in her ribcage.

Wendel drew his black dagger, and Amarant’s shadows cloaked them both. Silently, they strode toward the Serpent’s Tower.

“All the doors will be locked,” he muttered.

She nodded. “Obviously.”

“But he will be our key.”

Wendel pointed to a man patrolling the fortress perimeter. The guard’s gray cloak fell away to reveal the scimitar at his belt.

“Stay here,” Wendel said.

Ardis nodded and dropped behind a boulder as the shadows faded from her skin.

Wendel ran ahead, all but invisible, and she lost sight of him. The guard staggered, then straightened and continued his circuit around the tower. She squinted in the moonlight. Blood darkened the back of his cloak.

Ardis couldn’t help but grimly admire the necromancer’s finesse.

The dead man lingered at the foot of the fortress. He stopped by an arched door and rapped against the wood. Straining to hear, Ardis caught some muttered Turkish on the breeze. It might have been the dead man.

A thin beam of light sliced the darkness as the door opened.

The dead man sidestepped. A shadow whisked past him. A strangled gasp, then silence. Ardis froze behind the boulder, her heartbeat hammering, and fingered the hilt of Chun Yi. Footsteps crunched the gravel.

She whirled into a crouch, her sword already half-drawn.

“Ardis.” It was Wendel. “Give me your hand.”

Grimacing, she sheathed Chun Yi and held out her hand. His fingers gripped hers and smeared the slick heat of blood. Amarant’s shadows clouded her vision, nearly suffocating, and she struggled to breathe steadily.

“The door is clear,” he said.

“I can’t stay in the shadows forever,” she said. “I need my sword.”

“Wait.”

He loped to the door, his breath quick, and she followed in his footsteps. They ducked into a small, bare room carved from stone. Kerosene lamplight flickered in the empty eyes of the two dead men waiting for them there.

Wendel clenched her hand so hard, she almost didn’t realize he was shaking. Badly.

“Let go,” she whispered. “You’re cutting off the circulation.”

He glanced into her eyes. “Sorry.”

When he dropped her hand, she drew her sword. Flames blazed down Chun Yi.

“Where are we?” she said.

“The western wing of the fortress.” He jerked his chin toward a door on their right. “We head through that door, go down a corridor, and hit the bottom of the tower itself. Six flights of stairs to the top. Are you ready?”

“How many assassins?” she said.

“I don’t know.”

“Great.” She blew out her breath. “Let’s find out.”

Ardis stepped forward, but he stopped her with a hand across her chest.

“Ladies last,” he said, “in these circumstances.”

The necromancer snapped his fingers, and his dead men flanked the door.

“Locked?” Wendel said.

“Yes,” a dead man said, and Ardis startled at the sound of his hollow voice.

Wendel curled his lip. “Do you have the key?”

“Yes.”

“Then unlock it. Kill anyone you find.” He glanced at Ardis. “Keep her safe.”

Undead bodyguards? She wasn’t sure she liked this idea.

The talkative dead man fumbled with a key. At least they wouldn’t have to worry about rigor mortis for another three or four hours. The thought crawled from a dark corner of Ardis’s brain, and she blinked it away.

The dead man unlocked the door and marched through. His comrade followed.

“Ardis,” Wendel said calmly, almost conversationally, “I will likely need to kill several dozen assassins. I need you to help me.”

She nodded. “Of course. But let’s not jump out of the frying pan.”

He stared at her.

“Into the fire?” she said. “Never mind. I want a plan, I mean.”

He held out his hands as if weighing their options.

“We kill anyone who tries to stop us,” he said. “Does that work?”

“Damn you, Wendel,” she growled.

He flinched, his eyes distant for a second. “My minions have company.”

“How…?”

“I can feel it. Better help them out before they get beheaded.”

Wendel disappeared into the shadows.

Ardis stepped through the doorway and into a fight. An assassin hacked at the neck of a dead man, his teeth bared, while the other dead man lunged with a clumsy sword blow. The assassin blocked him with his shield, whirled, and found himself face-to-face with Ardis. He bashed aside the minion and attacked.

She sidestepped his scimitar and thrust Chun Yi into his chest.

He staggered, his eyes wide with shock, and she wrenched her sword free. She flicked her wrist, and blood splattered the wall. The assassin collapsed on the stones. Blood pooled beneath his body as he gurgled a sigh.

Ardis’s fingers tightened around Chun Yi. Flames whispered about the blade’s thirst.

“This feels too easy,” she said.

Wendel stepped from the shadows. “I know.”

He crouched by the assassin, touched his forehead, and raised him from the dead.

“You think this is a trap?” she said.

“I don’t care,” he said.

They ran down the corridor and reached the bottom of a spiral staircase. Footsteps thundered on the stones behind them.

“Reinforcements,” she said.

“Stop them,” Wendel told his minions.

The undead men raised their scimitars and shambled down the corridor.

Wendel didn’t wait for the fight. He hit the stairs running. Ardis lowered her head and lunged after him. The clash of steel on steel echoed off the stone behind them. Hopefully Wendel’s minions would buy them time.

Six flights to the top. Six stories of winding around and around until she was disoriented.

Footsteps chased them upstairs. Breathing hard, Ardis stopped and whirled around. Assassins. Two of them, armed with scimitars and shields. She balled her hands into fists. She had no room to draw her sword.

“Wendel!” she shouted. “Watch out!”

An assassin advanced, his shield raised. She kicked him square in the chest.

The assassin staggered backward. She pressed her advantage and kicked him in the face. Her heel hit his nose. His head snapped back as he flew down the stairs. The assassin standing below tumbled down with him.

They fell at awkward angles, though they didn’t look dead. Not good enough for Wendel.

He squeezed past Ardis and swooped on the fallen assassins. He sliced open their throats with his dagger and waited for them to bleed out. Hands splattered with red, the necromancer touched a cheek, then a wrist.

The undead men staggered upright, swaying, and waited for his command.

“Nobody gets past you alive,” Wendel said. “And try not to lose your heads.”

Ardis shuddered at the icy disdain in his voice. Outside, beyond the windows, the wind carried the wingbeats and cawing of crows.

Wendel met her gaze. His pale eyes blazed with conviction and certainty of the end.

“Close,” he said. “So close.”

He started running again. She chased him higher and higher. At the top of the tower, they stopped outside a door and shared a glance.

“After you,” Wendel whispered.

Ardis nodded. Shadows crawled over Wendel’s skin as he disappeared into darkness.

She grabbed the iron handle and tugged open the door. Candles flickered in lanterns. Plush Turkish rugs yielded beneath her boots. Across the room, a magnificent mahogany desk dominated the space beneath the windows.

He sat there.

Thorsten Magnusson. The Grandmaster.

Thorsten lifted his head at her arrival. His eyes glinted behind the hard mask of his face.

“Ardis,” he said. “Why are you here?”

“I want you to let Wendel go,” she said.

Thorsten’s soft laugh raised goosebumps on her skin.

“What makes you think I should?” he said. “He slaughtered so many of my good men. Such a waste. I didn’t even bother with assassins tonight. I hired some mercenaries as fodder to keep up appearances. No offense, Ardis.”

Her stomach soured. Those men they had killed didn’t deserve to die.

“Fodder?” she said. “You disgust me.”

The Grandmaster lowered his gaze. His pen scratched across the paper in front of him.

“Thorsten,” Ardis said. “I’m only asking you this one thing. This is all I want from you. Then I’ll be out of your life.”

He frowned at the paper and continued writing.

“Out of my life?” he said.

Ardis swallowed hard. She knew Wendel was listening.

“This ends now,” she said. “Let him go.”

Thorsten dotted a sentence with a period, then glanced into her eyes.

“A rogue necromancer is a liability,” he said.

“Please,” she said.

“Please? Pathetic.” He tapped the paper. “I need to get back to business.”

“What could possibly be more important than this?”

“This letter is of a time sensitive nature.”

She challenged Thorsten with her stare. “A letter to who?”

“Whom.”

Ardis ground her teeth. He enjoyed toying with her, didn’t he?

Wendel spoke from the shadows. “The Russians.”

The Grandmaster didn’t flinch. “Been reading over my shoulder, Wendel?”

“No.”

Wendel stepped into the light, shadows crawling from his skin, and uncloaked himself. He held a crumpled piece of paper.

“You really should burn your earlier drafts,” he said.

Thorsten shrugged and wrote another line. “I didn’t think you would waste Amarant’s magic to rummage through my trash.” He tilted his head and looked sideways at him, his eyes sharp. “What do you want?”

Wendel spoke through clenched teeth. “You know what I want.”

“Careful,” Thorsten said. “Your temper makes you sloppy. I expect an attempt at stealth, and some amount of pride in your work.”

The necromancer’s eyes blazed with barely caged emotion.

“Ardis.” Wendel turned to her. “This letter—Thorsten is betraying the archmages. Telling the Russians about Project Lazarus.”

“Why?” Ardis said.

Thorsten lay down his pen with deliberation. “Because they paid me.”

Her mouth went bone dry. “This is just another job to you?”

“You should understand.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Wendel retreat into the darkness. She prayed he wouldn’t do anything reckless. He crept from shadow to shadow, trapped by the pools of candlelight. She decided to stall for time.

“If Russia knows,” she said, “what Austria-Hungary has been hiding…”

“Honestly?” Thorsten steepled his fingers. “War is good for business.”

She stared at him. “I won’t let you do this.”

“How?” he said calmly.

“I can turn you in to the archmages.”

Thorsten’s eyes narrowed to slits, and then he smiled.

“Ardis,” he said. “I know you’re angry. But that’s no reason to behave irrationally.”

Ardis marched to the desk and snatched the paper. Thorsten caught her by the wrist and clenched her bones in an iron grip.

“Stop,” he said, his words deadly quiet. “Ruin this one, and I will have to start again.”

Shadows flickered behind the Grandmaster.

“Don’t touch her,” Wendel said.

Thorsten tightened his grip on Ardis’s wrist. She winced at the pain.

“Or what?” Thorsten said. “You’re going to kill me? Isn’t that threat getting old?”

Ardis spotted a silver paper knife. She pretended to lean against the desk, and inched her left hand across the mahogany.

Wendel stepped into the light. “Let her go.”

Thorsten glanced away. Ardis grabbed the paper knife and stabbed Thorsten’s forearm. He jerked back. She wrenched free from his grip and retreated several paces, not stupid enough to stay within his reach.

Thorsten yanked the paper knife from his arm and wiped the blood on his sleeve.

“That was a mistake,” he said.

Ardis drew Chun Yi and steeled her nerves.

Thorsten flipped the paper knife, then stabbed at Ardis. She dodged, and he stabbed again. The paper knife scraped down the length of her blade. He shoved her sword out of his way. But Ardis knew this disarming move. When he reached for her sword’s pommel with his free hand, she caught his wrist and twisted it aside.

She didn’t counterattack, too wary of his skill, and retreated instead.

Wendel circled them like a wraith in the shadows. He edged nearer to the Grandmaster. The black dagger glinted in the candlelight. Thorsten whirled and slashed at Wendel, forcing him back, then returned his attention to Ardis.

Her ribs heaved as she breathed hard and fought her fears.

She could do this. She could fight the Grandmaster and win.

Ardis raised Chun Yi in a defensive stance. Thorsten lowered himself into a crouch, and she waited for his attack. He lunged. She sidestepped and swung at his ribs. He was fast, but not fast enough. Chun Yi raked his ribs and blazed at the taste of blood. Little more than a scratch, but enough to giddy her with hope.

Thorsten touched his wound and stared at his red fingers.

“Good,” he said. “You show promise.”

His attempt at fathering did nothing but infuriate Ardis.

“Go to hell,” she said.

“Ardis,” Wendel said, “allow me to help you send him there.”

Thorsten waited for the necromancer to stab at his neck. He blocked barehanded by hitting Wendel’s wrist, then swung his fist at his jaw. Wendel dodged, barely, and Thorsten followed with a brutal elbow to the face.

Blood trickled from Wendel’s nose and stained his teeth red when he laughed.

“Make it quick,” Wendel said. “I expect some amount of pride in your work.”

Ardis clenched her sword and circled Thorsten. Chun Yi blazed white with blood magic. Sharper. Stronger. Faster.

She would pay for her victory with blood.

Ardis swung at Thorsten. He retreated, and she swung again to keep him on the defensive. She cut across his collarbone. Chun Yi burned even brighter, and she heard its thirst like a deafening heartbeat in her ears.

Thorsten narrowed his eyes. He rushed Ardis, blocked her sword with his knife, and hooked his foot behind hers. She staggered back, unbalanced, and clung to Chun Yi as she fell. Thorsten kicked her savagely in the ribs. Winded, Ardis curled on the floor and sucked in air. Her eyes watered from the pain.

Thorsten wrenched Chun Yi from her hand. She screamed in frustration.

Wendel hurled a chair at a window. Shattered glass sprayed into the night, and wind whirled inside the tower. Candles sputtered out in all the lanterns. Darkness flooded the room, brightened only by Chun Yi’s burning.

Thorsten stood in the center of the room. He held the sword like a firebrand.

“Why didn’t you think of that sooner?” Thorsten said. “Losing your touch?”

Wendel laughed from the shadows. “Losing yours?”

Ardis crawled to her feet and clutched her aching ribs. Through the broken window, the sound of crows swelled. She saw them against the moonlit clouds. Black birds swirled around the tower like ink circling a drain.

“I want my dagger back,” Thorsten said.

Wisely, Wendel kept quiet.

The Grandmaster slid his foot forward. “It isn’t worth as much to me as you, Wendel, but it will have to be my consolation prize.”

Movement. Black on black.

Wendel stabbed Thorsten in the back—or he tried to, but the Grandmaster dodged and took the dagger in his right shoulder.

Wendel wrenched out the dagger and retreated.

Thorsten retaliated swiftly and brutally. With his right shoulder wounded, he switched Chun Yi to his left hand and launched into a devastating swing. Wendel blocked with his dagger, but the force of the blow knocked him stumbling back. The necromancer bared his teeth and pivoted away to vanish in the darkness.

Bleeding from his shoulder, his arm, and his chest, Thorsten still looked calm.

“I don’t want to kill you,” he said.

Wendel’s whisper was barely audible. “Liar.”

“A necessary evil. You always were.”

Ardis backed into a lantern. She grabbed it by the handle and felt its heft. Brass.

Thorsten was so intent on Wendel that he didn’t see her swing the lantern through the air. She hit Thorsten in the head with the sickening gong of metal against skull. He staggered forward and drove the sword into the carpet to keep himself from falling. She hit him again, harder, and he sprawled on the floor.

Ardis threw aside the lantern and took back her sword.

Shakily, Thorsten climbed to his knees. She held him with the point of her sword threatening the hollow of his throat. He lifted his chin and met her eyes with stunned admiration. Like he had never been defeated.

“Ardis,” Thorsten said.

“Don’t say my name,” Ardis said. “You have no right to say my name.”

Chun Yi nicked his throat. A drop of blood rolled down the blade and sizzled into steam. Only a flick of her wrist. All it would take for her to cut open his throat and let him bleed out. Her sword burned blue with feverish thirst.

Let him bleed out. Let him die.

Wendel walked from the shadows and stared at the Grandmaster. When Ardis saw the twisted longing in his eyes, she felt an answering echo in her sword. She wondered if mercy and victory were mutually incompatible.

Wendel tilted his black dagger. Ardis caught his arm.

“We already won,” she said.

His knuckles whitened. “Not until he’s dead.”

“No,” she said, making her choice. “We bring him to the archmages alive.”

The muscles in Wendel’s arm tightened under her hand, but Ardis held him tighter with the strength of desperation. If she let go now, it would already be too late. There would never be a hope of saving the necromancer.

“Wendel,” she said fiercely. “You don’t have to be like him.”

All the tension faded from Wendel’s face. He turned from Thorsten and met her gaze. Hope and despair battled in his eyes.

“If it’s not too late,” he said, “I can try.”

The moment lasted a small eternity.

Then it ended.

Thorsten surged to his feet. Wendel blocked with his dagger and cut Thorsten’s arm to the bone. Wendel yanked out the blade and slashed at Thorsten, who feinted left, lunged right, and torqued Wendel’s wrist.

They struggled for control of the dagger. The Grandmaster won.

Thorsten stabbed the blade into the necromancer’s heart. Wendel sucked in a breath and staggered back, his lips parted, his hands finding the dagger still in his chest. He wrenched it out and stared at the bloody blade.

Wendel coughed. “What—?”

He didn’t seem to think he was dying.

Ardis couldn’t find the air to scream. She stood paralyzed.

Gently, Thorsten took the black dagger from Wendel’s fingers, then grabbed the lapels of his coat to keep him from falling.

Thorsten waited for the necromancer to look him in the eye.

“Goodbye, Wendel.”

Ardis’s paralysis shattered. “Wendel!”

Wendel looked into her eyes, his own so vivid with the clarity of pain that she didn’t think she would ever forget them.

He tried to speak. She thought he said, “Ardis.”

Thorsten dragged him to the broken window and threw him into the night.

Ardis ran to the window and clung to the edge, the shattered glass cutting into her hands, the wind flinging her hair into her eyes.

She watched Wendel fall.

Six stories down, where he landed on the rocks below.

A wave curled onto the island and washed over Wendel. When it retreated, he was gone. Dragged into the dark water.

Ardis turned to face the Grandmaster. He stood with his arms outstretched.

“Will you try to kill me now?” he said.

Ardis’s heartbeat sounded distant in her ears. Her skin felt like it belonged to someone else. When she tried to sheath her sword, she missed the scabbard once, twice, trembling from the quake inside her bones.

Finally, the hilt of the sword clicked against the scabbard.

“No,” she said.

Ardis ran downstairs, her feet flying, almost weightless. As she spiraled down the Serpent’s Tower, she stumbled over the bodies of the assassins they had killed, the undead men the necromancer had commanded. They lay like discarded dolls. Outside the windows, she heard the incessant cacophony of crows.

The crows. They would find Wendel.

Ardis fled from the Serpent’s Tower. No assassins stood in her way.

She ran faster, gasping for breath, and zigzagged along the island until she found a murder of crows perched at the edge of the water. Their hoarse cawing seesawed through the dank air. Crows gathered on the ground in a mass of black. They scattered into flight as she approached, and revealed a man on the rocks.

Wendel.

He laid facedown, one arm flung forward. She knelt beside him and grabbed his arm, grimacing at his sleeve soaked in blood. When she rolled him over, he stared past her at the sky, his eyes pale in the moonlight.

He did not blink.

“Wendel?”

Her voice sounded harsh in her own ears. She wiped her bloody hand on her knee.

“No,” she said. “You can’t. You—you’re a necromancer. You don’t die.”

Wendel’s eyes reflected stars, and she could almost pretend he was ignoring her.

“When a necromancer dies,” she said, “does he die like a normal man?”

“God,” he said, “I hope so.”

His wish had been fulfilled.

She would never hear his voice again.

Ardis could barely find the strength to breathe. She couldn’t look at him any longer, but she was terrified to look away. As if he might vanish, as if she might have never met him, as if she might have never fallen for him.

“Wendel,” she whispered. “I love you.”

She hadn’t said it until tonight, the last night, the only night it didn’t matter.

Ardis bent over Wendel, her tears falling onto his face, and kissed him.

His lips were cold against her own, but she imagined she could still feel the shivering electricity of magic beneath his skin.

No.

She wasn’t imagining.

Ardis felt his neck for a pulse. Wendel had absolutely no heartbeat.

But if he was dead, then why did she feel the icy fire of necromancy under her fingertips? Why was it growing stronger with her heartbeat? Ardis shuddered at the intensity of the magic. The sensation hummed through her bones and stole her ability to think. Her fingers curled involuntarily around Wendel’s neck.

A heartbeat thumped against her fingertips.

Wendel coughed, and seawater spilled from his mouth. The shock of it jolted Ardis into action. She grabbed his shoulder and rolled him onto his side. He coughed and coughed, his hands splayed on the rocks, until he sucked in a rattling breath. Then he coughed some more, even though his lungs had to be empty.

“Wendel?” she said.

She was afraid to touch the necromancer again.

Wendel turned his head. His face still looked as pale as death, but his green eyes glittered.

“Ardis,” he rasped. “I’m back.”

She crouched beside him, but still didn’t touch him. “Are you—alive?”

Wendel squinted. “Apparently.”

“What happened?”

He shook his head and crawled to his hands and knees. He stood, then staggered and nearly fell. She caught his arm.

Wendel certainly felt alive. Cold and wet, but alive.

“We need to run,” he said, “before the Grandmaster realizes I’m not dead.”

Ardis frowned and glanced at the Serpent’s Tower.

“Oh, God,” she said. “You’re right.”

Wendel nodded. His teeth had started chattering. He leaned heavily on her as they walked, his legs stiff, his arms shaking.

“How are you alive?” Ardis said.

Wendel glanced into her eyes. “Necromancy.”

She swallowed down bile. “Shouldn’t that make you undead?”

“No.”

Ardis spotted the skiff where they had left it, hidden under the branches of thorn bushes. She left Wendel leaning against a boulder and hurried to uncover the boat. Thorns scratched her hands, but she barely felt the pain. The shadow of the Serpent’s Tower still reached this far, and it was making her sick with fear.

“Almost free,” she said, to convince herself more than anyone.

Ardis dragged the skiff to the water. She helped Wendel lower himself in the skiff, then climbed in after him and shoved off. As she rowed from the island, a giddying tide of hope washed over her. She rowed farther and farther from the Serpent’s Tower, until her arms burned, then let the skiff drift in the waters of the Bosporus.

“Ardis,” Wendel said.

She stood upright, her arms stretched for balance, and turned so she sat facing him.

“Thank you,” Wendel said, “for saving me. Again.”

She smiled, her eyes blurring. “Let’s not make it a habit.”

He returned her smile, then reached across the boat and clasped her hands. His skin didn’t feel quite so icy, but he was still shivering.

“You know,” he said, “I’m amazed that gamble worked.”

She cupped his hands to warm them. “What gamble?”

“Lending you my necromancy.”

“You—what?”

Then she remembered the beach, before they had climbed the Serpent’s Tower.

“Oh!” she said. “When you kissed me?”

He bowed his head. “Half of me thought I must be weakening myself for nothing, but half of me hoped that the stories were true.”

Her heartbeat skipped with excitement. “What stories?”

“When you asked me what happens to necromancers when they die, that afternoon on the train, I may have lied.”

Wendel managed something close to a bastardly smirk.

Her jaw dropped. “You knew this all along?”

“Far from it,” he said. “But I read stories about necromancers, over the centuries, who cheated death. An Egyptian here, a Russian there. Nearly all the necromancers died and stayed dead, though, because they never understood the secret.”

“The secret?” Ardis said.

Wendel averted his eyes, and a little of the color returned to his cheeks.

“Someone,” he said softly, “had to love them enough to bring them back.”

Ardis stared at him. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to kiss him or smack him.

“How did you know…?” she said.

Wendel looked at her with the saddest smile she had ever seen.

“I figured that if you didn’t,” he said, “it wasn’t worth coming back.”

Ardis did kiss him, never mind the cold and the wet. And it was the best kiss she could remember, in spite of it all. Because of it all.

When they withdrew, she saw happiness shining in his eyes.

“Where now?” Wendel said. “Switzerland?”

“Maybe,” Ardis said.

“Somewhere as far away from assassins and archmages as possible.”

She squared her shoulders. “Let’s not be here when the war starts.”

He paused. “You don’t want to try and stop him?”

“The Grandmaster?”

“Yes.”

She swallowed hard. “I’m done trying to be a hero. I want my life back.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

Ardis climbed to her feet, turned around, and glanced back at Wendel.

“Who said you ever were the hero?” she said wryly.

Wendel laughed. “Then that’s the end of my heroism. So much for redemption.”

Ardis kept rowing into the dark and unknown night. Remarkably, for the first time in years, she felt hope perched inside her heart.

“This isn’t the end,” she said. “This is the beginning.”

Believe me, Shadows of Asphodel wouldn’t be nearly as awesome without the support of my beta readers, friends, family, and Kickstarter backers. In alphabetical order, particular people who deserve all the cupcakes in the world:

Asa Hurst, my long-suffering husband, for cooking endless dinners and answering endless questions.

Chelsea Campbell, author and partner in crime, for hours of scheming over coffee.

Lydia Budak, my mom, for reading and encouraging every Ugly Duckling draft of mine.

Regina Barber DeGraaff, for brainstorming story ideas when we were supposed to be studying Chinese and Calculus.

Talya Garman, for sending emails full of exclamation marks and Supernatural GIFs.

Special thanks to these Kickstarter backers, who generously allowed me to steal their names in exchange for glory:

Carol Swindaman

Dean Vigoren

Maili Weissman

Karen Kincy

Karen Kincy (Redmond, Washington) can be found lurking in her writing cave, though sunshine will lure her outside. When not writing, she stays busy gardening, tinkering with aquariums, or running just one more mile. Karen has a BA in Linguistics and Literature from The Evergreen State College.

Find Karen online at:

www.karenkincy.com
www.facebook.com/KarenKincyAuthor
www.twitter.com/karenkincy

(YOUNG ADULT PARANORMAL)

OTHER

BLOODBORN

FOXFIRE

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Nineteen

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Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Acknowledgements

Author Bio

More by Karen Kincy

Table of Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Acknowledgements

Author Bio

More by Karen Kincy