Storms of Lazarus (Shadows of Asphodel, Book 2)

by Karen Kincy

  “I take it you like them?” Wendel said dryly.

  “Is it that obvious?” Ardis said. “And keep talking.”

  Wendel sighed and leaned back in his chair. Steam wafted from the roast duck on his plate, but he neglected his knife and fork.

  “Do you remember Maus?” Wendel said. “The cat?”

  Wolfram frowned and chewed a mouthful of fish. “No.”

  “He died, and that’s how I first discovered my necromancy.”

  Wolfram leaned away. “You revived Maus?”

  Wendel’s eyes glimmered a cool green. “I never intended to do that. I only wished Maus wasn’t dead, and then he wasn’t.”

  Wolfram said nothing, but he wouldn’t look away from his brother’s face.

  “I mistakenly brought him to Mother and Father,” Wendel said.

  “What did they do?”

  “Nothing. Not that night. But a man came for me a month later. At the time, I didn’t know he was an assassin.”

  Wolfram held his knife and fork suspended in midair. “They hired a hit man?”

  Wendel laughed entirely without humor. “No, Wolfie, the assassin brought me to Constantinople. Where I was trained.”

  Wolfram studiously sliced his haddock into smaller and smaller pieces. Silence overshadowed the table. Ardis finished her last meatball and pushed a potato around her plate until she couldn’t bear it, and she ate it.

  “Are you an assassin?” Wolfram asked, as if questioning his preference in tea.

  Wendel dipped his head. “One of the very best.”

  Ardis glanced at Wendel. His face betrayed none of the pain she knew he had endured, none of the scars still marking his skin.

  “Not by choice,” Ardis said. “You tried to escape the Order.”

  “I did escape them.” Wendel sipped his water. “With your help.”

  “How many—” Wolfram coughed. “How many men have you killed?”

  “Honestly? I can’t remember.”

  Wolfram’s nostrils flared. “And your necromancy?”

  “What about it?”

  “How many men have you brought back?”

  “Similar quantities.”

  Wolfram dabbed his mouth with his napkin. He stared at the food left on his plate and didn’t look his brother in the eye.

  “Should I be horrified by you?” he said.

  Wendel sawed at his duck with more vehemence than necessary.

  “Wolfie,” he said, “I have done horrifying things.”

  “You sound as if you don’t care.”

  Wendel shrugged and ate a forkful of duck.

  Ardis pushed away her empty plate. “Of course Wendel cares. He doesn’t like to talk about what happened to him.”

  Wolfram’s face tightened. “I meant no offense.”

  “I’m not offended.” Wendel cut another slice of duck. “My mere presence offends most.”

  “Why?”

  Wendel stared at his brother. “People don’t consider raising corpses a parlor trick.”

  Wolfram frowned. “Someone has to touch the dead. Morticians and gravediggers do. And doctors, they learn from cadavers.”

  Wendel shook his head. “Constantinople wasn’t medical school.”

  Wolfram let out an impatient breath, picked up his glass, and set it down again.

  “I don’t understand,” he said.

  Wendel tapped his fingernail on his glass. “Clearly.”

  “Why did Mother and Father send you away? They could have helped you. They—”

  “Helped?” Wendel’s eyes flashed. “I’m hardly an invalid. Spare me the asylum.”

  Ardis crumpled her napkin and tossed it on the table.

  “Pardon me,” she said. “I need to… powder my nose.”

  She strode toward the ladies’ room. Best to give them time alone.

  After the toilet, Ardis lingered by the mirror. She did look feral, with a blush in her cheeks and rebellious hair escaping from her braid. She turned on the faucet, cupped water in her hands, and splashed it into her face.

  The door whisked open. Natalya strode in and raised her eyebrows.

  “Bruised, darling?” she said.

  Ardis shrugged. “That dragon tossed me around a bit.”

  “I would say more than a bit.”

  Natalya met her gaze in the mirror. “Come join me for drinks in the bar.”

  Ardis hesitated. “Sure. Thanks.”

  “I’ll see you out there in a minute.”

  Ardis strolled from the ladies’ room. She glanced at Wendel and Wolfram, who still seemed to be absorbed in conversation. The lighting was dim inside the bar, and a mirror gleamed dully behind the bartender.

  “A drink, madam?” the bartender said.

  Ardis touched her belly for a fleeting moment. She had been lectured on the evils of alcohol, and how it could hurt an unborn baby, by her mother. At the time, Ardis had rolled her eyes and said it would never happen.

  “The soda water,” she said. “Thank you.”

  Natalya sidled up to the bar next. “Get me a vodka on the rocks.”

  The bartender slid their drinks across to them. Natalya downed her shot while Ardis sipped her fizzy soda water.

  “Do you always drink alone?” Natalya said. “Where’s that necromancer of yours?”

  “Occupied,” Ardis said.

  She didn’t want to give Natalya any ammunition.

  Natalya toyed with her shot glass. “You did a fine job today.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Ardis squared her shoulders. “I only wish I could have done more. The dragon destroyed our zeppelin.”

  “I heard,” Natalya said. “Honey, you have ambition. I like that.”

  Ardis blushed. “Thank you.”

  “What made you leave America?”

  Ardis felt her mouth go dry, and she sipped her drink. “Why did you leave Russia?”

  “You first.”

  “A man wouldn’t listen when I said no.”

  Ardis omitted the part about running him through with a sword, and the fact that she was outlawed in America as a result.

  Natalya caught the bartender’s eye and raised her finger for another shot.

  “I ran away from a man,” she said. “My father wanted me to marry this disgusting old relic pickled in vodka.”

  Ardis grimaced. “That sounds miserable.”

  Her mother had never pressured her to marry—though she was busy running a brothel.

  “I shouted with my father for months,” Natalya said. “Back then, I had only been on the marriage market for a year. I finally agreed on the condition they would send me to a finishing school first. The one with the fencing academy.” She grinned. “Once I learned how to master a blade, I never looked back.”

  She must have come from a rich family. Ardis never had formal lessons in fighting.

  “When was this?” Ardis said.

  “Darling,” Natalya said, “a lady never reveals her age.”

  Ardis smirked. “Before the Hex?”

  “Definitely.” Natalya knocked back her second shot. “I worked the fencing circuit for awhile. Then I had a stint as an aviatrix.”

  “Really?” Ardis said.

  Natalya smiled. “A little red biplane. Did stunts until it almost killed me. Then the Hex came along, and I decided to die another way.”

  No wonder Natalya was the commander of the automaton pilots.

  Ardis raised her glass. “A toast to your colorful career.”

  “Is that soda water?” Natalya laughed.

  Heat stole over Ardis’s face. “Maybe.”

  “Bartender, get this girl some vodka.”

  Ardis held up her hand. “I shouldn’t.”

  “Why, sweetheart?”

  Ardis chewed on the inside of her cheek. Time to think of a cover story.

  “Doctor’s orders,” she lied. “Said not to drink. My liver got a bit bruised.”

  “God damn,” Natalya said. “You must have hit the
ground harder than I thought.”

  “No broken bones,” Ardis said.

  “Good.” Natalya clapped her on the shoulder. “I need my pilots in fighting form.”

  Natalya had a strong arm, and her hand hit a bruise. Ardis managed to look stoic.

  “Why are all the pilots women, anyway?” Ardis said.

  Natalya grinned. “We’re some of the toughest bitches around.”

  Ardis laughed, then winced at her aching ribs.

  “There’s a height limit on the cockpit,” Natalya said. “Women are smaller. At least, that’s what I heard from the archmages.”

  “You ever worry about fighting for the archmages?”

  “I have no loyalty to Russia.” Natalya snorted. “And anyone who thinks I’m a turncoat can take a bayonet to their backside.”

  Ardis arched her eyebrows at this rather vivid imagery.

  “I’m not doubting you,” she said. “But it’s strange not to fight for home.”

  “Lucky for you, America isn’t in this war.”

  “Yet.”

  Natalya toyed with her shot glass. “You learned how to fight in America?”

  “Yes and no.” Ardis stared at her knuckles. “When I was a girl, we didn’t live in a nice part of town. When I got myself into trouble, I learned how to get myself back out of trouble. With my fists or my sword.”

  “You brought your sword to street fights?”

  “I wish.” Ardis laughed. “I didn’t learn how to swing a sword until I went across the pond. Worked with a swordswoman for a year. I did all the carrying and cooking and cleaning, and she did all the teaching.”

  Natalya pursed her mouth. “Where is she now?”

  “Dead.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Ardis shrugged. “She died fighting.”

  “Somebody always wants to kill somebody,” Natalya said, slurring a little. “And they can hire us if they want better killing.”

  A slow grin spread on Ardis’s face. “I’ll toast to that.”

  “With your paltry soda water?” Natalya scoffed.

  “Take it or leave it.”

  Someone tapped Ardis on the shoulder. She turned and found Wendel there.

  “Were you derailed on your return to dinner?” Wendel said.

  “I already ate dinner,” Ardis said.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” Wendel cocked his head. “Wolfram and I are returning to the castle. You are welcome to join us.”

  Ardis glanced into his eyes. His face looked smoother. Calmer.

  “Don’t mind me, darling,” Natalya said. “Enjoy your evening.”

  Ardis smiled. “Try not to drink too much vodka. Konstantin might ask for more field testing first thing in the morning.”

  Natalya groaned and pretended to knock her forehead on the bar.

  “Heaven help us,” she said.

  “See you in the morning,” Ardis said cheerfully.

  Wendel raised his eyebrows, but he didn’t comment as they walked through the restaurant to the doors. Outside, Ardis breathed in the crisp night air. A glittering of stars sprinkled the sky. Wolfram waited by a taxi.

  “Why the castle?” Ardis said.

  Wolfram reached for her door, but Wendel beat him to it and smirked. Wolfram laughed. The brothers seemed to be on better terms.

  “I left something,” Wendel said, “and Wolfram tells me I can have it back.”

  Ardis climbed into the taxi. “Can I guess?”

  “Go ahead,” Wendel said.

  The brothers climbed into the taxi, and it rumbled over the cobblestone streets of Königsberg. Ardis wondered what Wendel missed from home. Besides his family, though he would never admit to being so sentimental.

  “Is it valuable?” Ardis said.

  “Yes,” Wendel said.

  “Of course it is.”

  Wendel poked her in the ribs, which tickled.

  She bit her lip. “Is it a crown?”

  Wolfram and Wendel both laughed.

  “You think I’m so greedy?” Wendel said.

  “Well, yes,” Ardis said. “Is it a painting?”

  Wolfram smirked. “Have you developed an appreciation for art, Wendel?”

  “Only nudes,” Wendel said.

  Ardis slid her finger down the window. “Is it a fainting couch?”

  Wolfram laughed. He looked delighted by his brother’s grimace.

  “Your guesses are increasingly horrible,” Wendel said.

  “Give me a hint,” Ardis said.

  Wendel, sandwiched between her and Wolfram, did his best to look pensive.

  “It once led to Juliana calling me talentless,” he said.

  “Oh?” Ardis teased. “And here I thought necromancy was your only talent.”

  Wendel narrowed his eyes, smirking.

  At the castle, Wolfram didn’t linger inside the entrance hall. They followed him to a room wallpapered in emerald damask. A grand piano dominated the space, as big and slick as a black whale. It seemed to be a music room, though Ardis had never been to a home grand enough to afford such an indulgence.

  Wendel looked around the room, then detoured to a walnut cabinet.

  “Still?” he said.

  “Yes,” Wolfram said.

  Wendel tried to open the cabinet, but the locked doors rattled on their hinges.

  “The key,” Wolfram said, and he handed him a small brass one.

  Wendel unlocked the cabinet and found a pear-shaped case. He unlatched the case and freed a violin from its velvet coffin. The violin’s wood gleamed a rich chestnut, and he caressed its curves with soft wonder in his eyes.

  “Has it been tuned?” Wendel said.

  Wolfram wiggled his hand. “Mother does, on occasion, though she claims she can’t bring herself to play it anymore.”

  Wendel grunted more than a little derisively. He tucked the violin under his chin and dragged the bow over its strings.

  A terrible screech split the air. Ardis winced.

  “Juliana was right,” Wolfram said. “It does sound like a tortured cat.”

  Wendel scowled. “I would never torture a cat. The bow simply needs more rosin.”

  Wendel put down the violin, as gently as if it were a baby, and found a little metal tin. Inside the tin was an amber cake of rosin. He rubbed it over the hairs of the bow, his lips pursed with devoted concentration.

  “Allow me to prove you wrong,” Wendel said.

  He touched his bow to the strings, then narrowed his eyes.

  “Did anyone hear that?” he said.

  “Hear what?” Ardis said.

  Wendel opened his mouth, closed it again, and shook his head.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  Wendel tugged the bow across the violin and played a single clear note. He fingered the strings as he climbed through one scale, then another, and another. With every repetition, his playing softened and sweetened.

  Wendel lowered the violin and laughed.

  “I tried to play in Constantinople,” he said. “I even bought a questionable violin from a merchant in the bazaar. Only to have the violin taken away from me by the assassins, once they realized that would punish me.”

  “That’s a shame,” Wolfram said.

  Wendel looked down and blushed. “I have forgotten so much.”

  Wolfram went to the walnut cabinet and found a battered book of sheet music. Wendel flipped through the old pages, his eyebrows angled in a frown, then flattened the book on a table. He lifted the violin to his chin.

  “Bach’s Partita Number Two,” Wendel said.

  Ardis held her breath. Wendel began to play, the notes hesitant, not always harmonious. He frowned at the paper, then closed his eyes. After a minute, the tension in his shoulders melted. The melody shimmered like quicksilver. Soaring and falling, a swallow in the wind, a storm unfurling across the sky. Wendel’s face tightened with bliss as he lost himself in the music. Lightning shivered down Ardis’s spine.

  Clapping echoed fro
m the other end of the room. Startled, Wendel lowered the violin.

  A lady in red lingered by the door. Ornate beadwork glittered across her crimson gown, her black hair twisted in a sleek bun. The lady’s eyes reminded Ardis of her own, and Ardis recognized her when she smiled.

  “Lady Maili!” Ardis said.

  “Please,” Maili said, “keep playing. I didn’t intend to interrupt.”

  Wendel fidgeted with his bow. “I’m very much out of practice.”

  “Such modesty,” Maili said. “And I’m glad to see you both after that tragedy in Vienna. Ardis, are you entirely all right?”

  Ardis hugged herself and shuddered at the memory of the inferno.

  “I am now,” she said. “What brings you to Königsberg?”

  “I’m visiting with my husband, Lord Max Weissman, on our way to London.”

  Wolfram smiled. “Maili and Max are quite the world travelers.”

  Wendel fussed over a string, then placed his violin in its case. He clasped his hands behind his back and bowed his head.

  “I will spare your ears any further torment,” he said.

  “If I didn’t know you better,” Ardis said, “I would call you shy.”

  Wolfram smirked at Wendel. “Are you?”

  Lady Maili settled in a gilded chair and smoothed her gown over her legs.

  “Please,” she said, “play for us.”

  Wendel arched an eyebrow and glanced at Ardis, as if he needed her approval.

  “You play beautifully,” Ardis said. “What else can I say to flatter you?”

  Wendel turned down the corners of his mouth as if trying hard not to smile.

  “Let me think,” he said.

  She looked him in the eye. “Play.”

  Wendel cleared his throat and took back his violin.

  A rumble crawled across the sky. Thunder. At least, it sounded like thunder until it was accompanied by the shriek of metal on stone. Wendel ran to the window and yanked aside the curtains. His hand gripped the cloth.

  “Christ,” he said. “Time for an intermission.”

  Ardis sprang to her feet and ducked under Wendel’s arm. She pressed her hand against the cold glass and peered outside.

  The clockwork dragon clung to the highest tower of the castle. It curled its tail around the stones and flared its wings. The dragon clawed at the roof, its talons scattering tiles and splintering the wood beneath.

  Wendel swore under his breath. “It’s going to tear down the castle.”