by Karen Kincy
“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 wh
at 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—”