by Karen Kincy
“Laudanum,” he said. “I had forgotten.”
She bit her lip, afraid to ask what he remembered.
“Ardis.” Wendel offered the straight razor to her. “I trust you with a blade.”
“You want me to shave you?”
“Please.”
Wendel dragged a chair into the bathroom. He sat and dabbed the cut on his cheekbone with a towel. Ardis blew out her breath and took the straight razor. The infinitesimal edge of the blade looked sharper than her sword.
“Are you sure?” Ardis said.
Wendel met her gaze. In this light, his eyes looked darker, like jade. He let her angle his head and bring the razor to his face.
“I trust you,” he said.
Ardis touched the razor to Wendel’s skin. It slid down his cheek with only the slightest resistance and subtle rasp of steel cutting stubble. She shaved his cheek and started on the other. He remained quiet and still.
“Look up,” Ardis said.
Wendel tilted his head. Ardis pressed her thumb to his lower lip to tauten his skin, then shaved beneath his mouth. Her thumb lingered for a second. She shaved his chin and brought the straight razor to his neck.
“Don’t move,” Ardis said.
Wendel raised his eyebrows. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Ardis touched his throat, his heartbeat throbbing under her fingertips. It felt wrong to hold steel to his neck, where a single cut could kill. But this was a straight razor, not a sword, and a bathroom, not a battlefield.
Her hand steady, she slid the blade over his throat in short strokes.
When she finished, Wendel bent over the sink to wash his face, then dipped the badger brush into the bowl of cream.
“Once more,” Wendel said.
Still holding the straight razor, Ardis stared at him.
“Again?” she said.
“Against the grain,” he said, “for a smoother shave. I always do.”
“You look shaved enough to me.” Ardis set the straight razor on the counter. “We could always test this theory.”
Wendel squinted. “How—?”
Ardis silenced him with a kiss. An instant later, Wendel slipped his hand behind her neck. His other hand cradled the hollow of her back. She leaned against him, his clothes rough against her naked skin, and breathed in his scent.
Ardis smiled. “You do smell like lavender.”
Wendel growled low in his throat.
“I would rather be dirty,” he said.
His look was anything but gentlemanly. His kiss was anything but gentle.
He brought his lips to hers and backed her against the wall. His hands gripped her hips and held her there, as if the weight of his body wasn’t enough. The hint of stubble on his jaw rasped her cheek. She sucked in a shaky breath, her breasts trapped against his chest, and ran her hands over the breadth of his shoulders.
“I want you in bed,” Wendel said.
He brushed his lips down her neck, the tip of his tongue tasting her skin, then dipped lower and licked her nipple.
Ardis inhaled sharply. “Wendel.”
He leaned back and met her gaze. Lust smoldered in his eyes.
“There’s a slight problem,” she said. “We have no—”
“Preventives?” he said.
Wendel lifted his jacket from the floor. He retrieved a tin of preventives from the pocket and balanced it in his hand.
“I’m a fortuneteller,” he said.
Ardis wrinkled her nose. “Why?”
“I predicted the future,” he said, struggling not to grin.
She laughed. “The future might end badly if you act that arrogant.”
“So far, so good.”
Wendel tried to push her against the wall, but Ardis ducked under his arm and escaped. She ran from the bathroom and dove under the covers of the bed. Breathless, trying not to laugh, she tucked the quilt down tight.
“Good night,” Ardis said.
Wendel stalked into the bedroom with pantomimed stealth. He dropped to a crouch and crawled along the wall in the shadows. After a second of silence, he pounced onto the bed and pinned her arms to the mattress.
Ardis laughed, and Wendel pretended to glare at her.
“No laughing,” he said.
She couldn’t stop smiling at him. “Is this serious?”
“Very.”
Wendel held himself over her and kissed her on the mouth. Softly, this time, but with an undercurrent of urgency. Tension tightened his muscles. He released one of her wrists and touched his fingertips to her cheek.
“I am serious,” Wendel said, “when I say that I love your laugh.”
His words touched her heart so deeply they hurt.
“I love your smile,” he said.
Should she tell him she loved him? Could she?
“I love your body.”
Wendel’s whisper was almost lost as he kissed her neck. Ardis didn’t know what to say, but she knew what she wanted to feel. She closed her eyes and let him explore her skin with his lips. When his fingers loosened on her wrist, she unbuckled his belt and undid his fly. She stroked his hardness with her hand.
He let out a rough little groan. “I love it when you touch me.”
“Help a girl out,” Ardis said. “Take off your clothes.”
Standing on the bed, Wendel stripped naked and tossed his clothes onto the floor. As he dropped to his knees, Ardis met him halfway. They tumbled onto the tangle of sheets together. She kissed his forehead, his cheeks, his lips. He leaned over the mattress to find the preventive, then lowered her onto a pillow.
Ardis relaxed beneath Wendel. He entered her gently. When she grabbed his buttocks, he thrust deeper. She wanted to make him sweat. She held his face in her hands and kissed him, then bit his lip so that he gasped.
“Harder,” Ardis said.
Wendel clutched her to himself and obeyed. He stayed like that for a second, their bodies the closest they could be, then withdrew. A moan of protest escaped Ardis. He returned to her quicker than before. They found a driving rhythm together. Tension wound tighter and tighter inside her, but still didn’t break.
“Wait,” Ardis said.
Wendel halted, breathing hard, reluctance clear on his face.
“It isn’t enough,” she said. “I—”
“Allow me.”
He stood by the edge of the bed and dragged her down to him. He held her there, his fingernails biting into her buttocks. When he thrust at this angle, deeper still, she gasped at the increased pleasure. She clutched the sheets in her fists, closed her eyes, and let herself surrender to him. He brought her to the brink.
“Look at me,” Wendel said, his voice rough with desire.
Ardis did as he said, panting, her skin feverish. He never looked away as he thrust into her, and the fierce adoration in his eyes was enough to nudge her over the edge. She cried out and clung to the bed. He didn’t stop until he echoed her pleasure with his own. Shuddering, he held her almost crushingly close.
They shared a moment of wordless bliss. Wendel touched his forehead to hers.
“I love you,” he said.
Three words. So small, yet so heavy.
Ardis closed her eyes to hide the inexplicable prickling of tears. She tried to speak, but his mouth on hers left her breathless.
~
Late that night, Ardis blinked herself awake. She stared wide-eyed into the darkness, wondering what had disturbed her sleep.
“No,” Wendel said. “Not again.”
Ardis froze. Her heartbeat hammered in her ears.
“I won’t do this for you,” he said.
She lifted herself on her elbow and stared at him. He was talking in his sleep. His hair clung to his sweaty forehead.
Her throat tightened until it hurt. “Wendel,” she whispered.
“No,” he said. “No, please, no.”
Ardis dragged in a steadying breath and slipped out of bed. She was afraid to touch Wendel. The last time
she had woken him from a nightmare, he almost stabbed her with a dagger before he came to his senses.
But she couldn’t let him suffer like this.
Ardis reached for Wendel’s shoulder and shoved him with her fingertips. He flinched but didn’t wake. His mind had trapped him in a labyrinth of his own memories. She retreated from him, clutching a sheet to herself.
Her fingers shaking, Ardis fumbled with a match and lit the old gaslamp by the bed. The hiss of gas sounded loud in the silence. When the glare touched Wendel’s face, he jerked awake and lurched out of bed. His legs tangled in the sheets. He fell to his knees, scrambled against the wall, and clawed his way to a crouch.
“Wendel!” Ardis said.
“Stay away from me,” Wendel rasped, his eyes glittering.
Fear clamped like a fist around her stomach. She backed away from him.
“It’s me, Wendel,” she said. “It’s Ardis.”
Inky shadows darkened his face. “Ardis?”
“Yes,” she said, her mouth as dry as sand. “I’m here.”
“Are they coming?” he said.
“Who?”
“Them.”
“I don’t know.”
Wendel slid down the wall and hit the floor. His tucked his legs against his chest and touched his forehead to his knees.
“Ardis,” he said. “God, Ardis, I—” His voice broke.
She tasted sourness on her tongue. She still didn’t move toward him.
“You were having a nightmare,” she said.
Wendel rubbed his hands over his face and clutched fistfuls of hair.
“The assassins,” he said.
He said no more, but he didn’t need to.
“Wendel,” Ardis said.
Silence lengthened the distance between them.
“Did I hurt you?” Wendel whispered.
“No,” Ardis said.
Wendel staggered to his feet and stepped past her on his way to the bathroom. He knelt by the tub and twisted on the tap. He ducked his head underneath, water pouring over his face and splattering onto the floor.
Ardis stood in the doorway, still clutching the sheet to herself, and stared at him.
“Are you okay?” she said.
Wendel shut off the water and stared at the drain, his hands white-knuckled on the porcelain. His nakedness bared the scars crisscrossing his back—souvenirs from his twelve years with the Order of the Asphodel.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice quiet and hoarse.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Ardis said.
“I can’t sleep like this.” Wendel’s shoulders tightened. “I can’t live like this.”
Ardis blinked fast to fight tears. “The alternative to living isn’t an option.”
Wendel kept his head bowed. Water plinked from the tap and echoed in the silence.
“I don’t know what to do,” he said.
“Well,” Ardis said, “we could start with a walk.”
Wendel twisted to look over his shoulder. His eyes looked bloodshot.
“Why the hell would I do that?” he said.
She didn’t flinch under his stare. “As far as I know, that’s how this life thing works. You keep moving, one step at a time.”
He let out a bleak laugh. “Unless we freeze to death. It’s frigid out there, Ardis.”
His hint of sarcasm softened the prickling of her anxiety.
“Here.” Ardis tossed him a towel. “Dry off and get dressed.”
Wendel grimaced, but he tousled his hair with the towel and grabbed his clothes from the floor. By the time he finished buttoning his shirt, he almost looked like himself again, if not for the shadows haunting his eyes.
“Ready?” Ardis said.
Wendel nodded and followed her out the door. The stairs of Hotel Viktoria creaked underfoot as they descended. They stepped into the winter night together. Snowflakes whirled like white moths under the streetlamps.
Ardis shivered and hugged herself. “Damn it,” she muttered. “It is frigid.”
“And I’m vindicated,” Wendel deadpanned.
Ardis turned in place and peered down the streets. She wasn’t sure where they should go, so she chose their future at random.
“This way,” she said.
She twisted her fingers with his. He stared at her as if holding hands wasn’t something he did. But his grip tightened, and they started walking together. Their boots squeaked in the snow. Their breath clouded the cold.
“I dreamed about Budapest,” Wendel said.
“Oh?” Ardis said, not sure what else to say.
“I was there to kill a man.” He kept his eyes on the street. “A rich man. He lived in a mansion, with guards. And I remember his children—he had three little boys. Too little to truly understand what was happening.”
Ardis stared at him. “You remember? It was a memory?”
“I never forget my work.”
She shivered at the cold detachment in his voice.
“Thank you for waking me before…” Wendel glanced sideways at Ardis. “My dreams always end the same way.”
She squeezed his hand. “You always dream of falling?”
“I do,” he said.
“I wish you never had to fall.”
Wendel looked away, but not before she saw his eyes glittering. He stopped at the street corner and scuffed his boot in the snow.
“Can you forgive me?” he said.
Ardis dropped his hand. “For what?”
“Everything.”
She studied the tension in his jaw. The vulnerability in his mouth.
“I don’t do indulgences,” she said. “I’m not the Pope.”
He arched his eyebrows. “And I’m not Catholic.” His voice softened to a velvety murmur. “I’m asking for your forgiveness.”
“I’m still angry at you for Constantinople.”
His eyebrows descended. “You are?”
“You fought Thorsten when you knew you would lose.”
Wendel retreated. “Do you think I wanted to die?” He sounded both hurt and scornful.
“Honestly?” Ardis said. “I wasn’t sure.”
“Christ.”
Wendel looked away, his jaw clenched, his hands fisted at his sides.
“I wanted to win,” he said. “If I won—I thought that I would be free.”
Anger smoldered in his eyes, and Ardis touched his arm to calm him.
“But you are free,” she said.
He stared at the snow. “Is this what freedom feels like?”
“Yes,” she said. “Congratulations. It’s not paradise, but at least you can run away with me to Switzerland some day.”
He smiled sadly. “Will I still have nightmares in Switzerland?”
Ardis hesitated, and his smile faded.
“No,” she said. “You will be too busy dreaming about chocolate and cheese and meadows high in the mountains.”
Wendel’s smile returned, more wicked than before.
“Or dreaming about you naked in bed,” he said.
“Speaking of bed,” she said. “We should go back. We need to be at the Hall of the Archmages at seven o’clock tomorrow.”
Wendel’s sigh drifted away as fog. “Killing time until Switzerland.”
~
Morning dawned over Vienna with sunshine in a hazy violet sky.
The taxicab braked to a halt outside the Hall of the Archmages, a grand dame of a building with a stately marble façade. Wendel hopped out of the automobile and offered Ardis a hand. She thanked him with a nod.
Together, they entered the Hall of the Archmages. Their footsteps echoed under a dome that glittered with a mosaic of the stars and the moon. The guards at the entrance stared at them, and Ardis wondered if her boots were too grimy for the marble floor. Though the guards seemed warier of Wendel, the necromancer.
The door to Konstantin’s office stood ajar. Ardis rapped on the doorframe.
“Come in!” Konstantin said.
She nudged open the door and discovered the archmage standing by his desk, shuffling through papers and squinting at them.
Konstantin glanced at them. “You’re here. We have to hurry.”
“Are we late?” Wendel said.
Ardis spotted a clock on the wall. “It’s ten until seven.”
“Yes,” Konstantin said, “but Margareta has scheduled a debriefing on the Wanderfalke, and Himmel is still in the hospital.”
“In the hospital?” Ardis said. “Is he all right?”
Konstantin cleared his throat and ruffled through some papers.
“I’m afraid not,” he said.
Ardis grimaced and glanced at Wendel, who looked more concerned for the captain than he would ever admit out loud.
“We can visit him later,” Konstantin said.
Konstantin tucked a folder of papers under his arm and bustled from his office. He led them down a hallway adorned with portraits of archmages long dead, then shoved through a pair of wooden doors that groaned on their hinges.
A battle-scarred oak table dominated a long meeting room. Margareta leaned in a throne of a chair. Her steely gray hair glinted in the sunlight pouring through the windows. Tesla tilted his head politely as he listened to her talk. Around a dozen crewmen from both the Wanderfalke and the Jupiter sat farther down the table.
“Archmage Margareta,” Konstantin said.
She waved imperiously at them. “Please, sit.”
Three seats remained by Tesla. Konstantin lingered behind him, then dragged out a chair. Ardis and Wendel followed suit.
“Archmage Konstantin,” Margareta said. “Please share your report.”
Konstantin flipped open his folder. “On the afternoon of December 25th, the Wanderfalke was attacked by a clockwork dragon we believe to be an invention of the Russians. The dragon’s arrival was preceded by a scouting party of clockwork wasps.” He slid forward a detailed mechanical diagram. “This is a sketch of a clockwork wasp that I deconstructed in my laboratory last night. The other wasp was destroyed.”
“Destroyed is an understatement,” Wendel muttered.
Ardis nudged him with her elbow, sure his sarcasm was unwelcome here.
Margareta leaned forward and inspected the diagram. “Any theories on the maker?”
“Fabergé,” Konstantin said. “Judging by the intricate enamel.”
“Was the wasp dangerous?” Margareta said.