Specters of Nemesis: (Shadows of Asphodel, Book 3)

by Karen Kincy

  Ignoring the devilish glint in his eyes, she walked past him. She traveled light, never bringing more than a few changes of clothes, but she wished she had brought at least one traditional Chinese dress for her mother.

  Trousers and shirt wouldn’t impress Jin Hua. Why dress like a boy?

  Ardis twisted her mouth, anticipating the scrutiny, and picked her nicest clothes. The ones without any bloodstains, anyway. Once upon a time, she even had an evening dress, but she lost it when Wendel set a ballroom on fire.

  Steam gusted from the bathroom as the door swept open. Wendel walked out stark naked, rivulets of water trickling over his chest, dripping down the lean muscles in his stomach–she forced herself to look him in the eye.

  Her cheeks blazed. “Did you run out of towels?”

  “No.”

  She clutched her towel close, which made her feel prudish. “Then dry yourself off.”

  “How do you say it? Fresh as a daisy?” He couldn’t help smirking.

  “You won’t be if I murder you and dump you in a ditch,” she muttered.

  “Ardis.” His eyebrows angled in a pained look. “How violent of you. Remember, we have to be on our best behavior today.”

  “Are you capable of best behavior?”

  When he grinned, it was damn near dazzling. “Anything for you.”

  She turned her back on him and grabbed her clothes. He was watching her; she could almost feel his stare on her skin.

  Why couldn’t the Wendel from the future be ugly? Not so evil and tempting?

  “Are you wearing that?” The nearness of his voice startled her.

  What was wrong with this shirt? It wasn’t even ragged. “Yes.” She growled the word.

  “Why not this?”

  Topless, she clutched her shirt to hide herself and turned around. Wendel dangled a scrap of red silk between his fingers.

  “What’s that?” She stared at him. “A handkerchief?”

  He laughed, then frowned like he hadn’t meant to. “I bought you a dress.”

  “Where?” She snatched it from his fingers. “The red-light district?”

  “Of course not! I don’t even know where the red-light district is in New York.”

  “Sure you don’t.”

  Ardis held out the dress. Dragons in golden brocade writhed over red silk, though the dress wasn’t a traditional Chinese style. More of an Oriental fantasy that an American lady might wear to an avant-garde dinner party.

  “I assume you won’t go out sans undergarments,” Wendel said.

  Her cheeks burned. “You wish.”

  He feigned an innocent expression as he took a corset from the shopping bag. She snatched it from him and retreated to the bathroom. Frowning, she hooked the clasps in the front, then struggled with the laces.

  “Need help?” Wendel leaned in the doorway, his arms crossed.

  “Yes.”

  When he hooked his fingers in the laces, shivers of pleasure darted down her spine. If she leaned back, she would feel the hard length of his body. He tied off the laces before he dropped the dress over her head. Silk slithered down her skin like a cool whisper. Her breasts ached, her nipples tight against the corset boning.

  “There,” he said, in a husky little murmur. “Beautiful.”

  Fog faded from the mirror, leaving her reflection misted in the glass. She forced out a laugh. “I look like a discount whore.”

  Wendel’s eyebrows angled in a frown. “Pardon me?”

  She waved at herself. “I don’t do seductive.”

  “I beg to differ.”

  Shaking her head, she wiped the rest of the mist from the mirror. “This is ridiculous. What do you want me to do? Sleep with J. P. Morgan, Jr.?”

  He twisted his face in a grimace. “What a repulsive idea.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Ardis, when I saw the dress, I could only think about you wearing it for me.” He bent to kiss the nape of her neck.

  She shuddered, then clenched her hands into fists. “We have a job to do.”

  “Not yet.” He kissed her again, below her earlobe.

  “No.”

  He stepped back, giving her space, though she ached with frustration. His eyes simmered with barely tempered lust. Damn it, she wanted to drag Wendel to bed, but he wasn’t Wendel. Not the one she knew. Not anymore.

  She moved away from him and focused on getting dressed.

  “I can take matters into my own hands,” Wendel said.

  When she turned around, she forgot how to blink for a moment. He met her gaze as he stroked himself in his fist. She thought about looking away, but couldn’t think of a reason why. His lips parted, his breath turning ragged. The muscles in his thighs tightened as he tilted his head back, his eyes shadowed by dark lashes.

  He was beautiful like this, giving her the honesty of his naked body and desires.

  “Wendel,” she said, her voice raw.

  He arched his eyebrows. “Would you like to watch?” He kept touching himself.

  She swallowed hard. “No,” she lied.

  He let out his breath in a harsh sigh. “You’re not much of a liar.”

  Resisting the urge to argue, she sidestepped around him and left the bathroom. She wanted to turn around, but she couldn’t. Admitting her feelings to him, relinquishing control, would be admitting he had power over her.

  The bathroom door clicked shut.

  Don’t think about him. Think about anything but him. God, like that would work. She didn’t know how much more of this she could survive.

  Four

  The Hall of Extinct Monsters bristled with bones.

  Ardis shivered, too much of her skin bared by the silk dress, and held Wendel’s arm. Around them, guests in suits and cocktail dresses mingled among the skeletons. Laughter echoed under the high ceiling. Ostensibly, everyone attending the brunch came to discuss the latest scientific advancements, but she overheard talk of patents, acquisitions, and Wall Street. The Arcanaeum was merely a backdrop to business.

  Wendel walked along an ancient sea creature, trailing his fingers along the tail vertebrae, until a security guard cleared his throat.

  “Do you feel anything?” Ardis said.

  He shook his head. “Plaster casts.”

  “Oh.” She couldn’t keep the disappointment from her voice. When she had first met Wendel, his necromancy had disgusted her and fascinated her in equal parts; now she found a strange beauty in the birthright of his magic.

  Not that he would consider it a birthright. More of a curse.

  “Those are real.” Wendel pointed at the bones of a saber-tooth tiger. He waited for the security guard to look the other way, then touched one of the fangs, as long as a dagger. A crease appeared between his eyebrows. “Strange…”

  “What is it?”

  “Not even a memory.” He closed his eyes. “Just the shadow of a dream.”

  “A dream?”

  His face tightened. “The taste of blood in my mouth.”

  “Christ.”

  Shaking his head, he retreated from the skeleton. He wiped his hands on his trousers, though she didn’t see any bone dust on his fingers. “When I touch the dead, on occasion, I experience their memories.”

  She shivered, the hairs on her arms prickling. “I didn’t know that.”

  “It isn’t under my control. And the minds of animals aren’t intelligible to me.”

  “But you can feel what they feel?”

  “Vaguely.” He waved at the tiger. “That’s no more than an overgrown cat.”

  Was he thinking of Maus? He had discovered his necromancy when he was a boy, the day his kitten was kicked to death by a horse. When he petted Maus one last time, his parents saw the reanimated cat, disinherited him, and sent him to Constantinople.

  Judging by the shadows in his eyes, Wendel never forgot anything that hurt him.

  “Enough of bones and
memories,” he said, as if he had read her mind.

  “I’m sorry for asking.”

  He smirked. “Do I bore you with all this talk of death?”

  “No.” She frowned. “I worry about you.”

  His smirk faltered. “Don’t.”

  The edge in his voice stung. She wondered if she had insulted him somehow. She wondered if she didn’t understand him at all.

  He looked around the Hall of Extinct Monsters. “Let’s begin.”

  “Who do we talk to first?” she said.

  “Tesla.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I see him by the buffet.”

  Wendel offered his arm. The gesture was that of a gentleman, but his eyes looked like ice. He hadn’t been this cold and distant since she first met him, but perhaps the necromancer hadn’t been entirely honest with his emotions.

  She wished knowing the future Wendel didn’t make her question the past.

  “Shall we?” he said.

  Reluctantly, she hooked her hand over his arm; he escorted her to the buffet. Nikola Tesla–a tall, elegant man–inspected hors d’oeuvres as if they were inventions. His dark hair and mustache had been styled with precision.

  “Mr. Tesla,” Wendel said.

  Tesla nodded in greeting, with a tentative smile. “Mr. Von Preussen and Miss Black. I didn’t expect to see the two of you again so soon.”

  “Neither did we,” Ardis said.

  Tesla glanced at the ruby glinting on her finger. “Are congratulations in order?”

  “Yes.” Smiling, she fidgeted with the ring. “It still doesn’t feel real.”

  “I’m sure it will soon enough.” Wendel hooked his arm around her waist. “We hope to marry this spring.”

  “Not a shotgun wedding.” Ardis laughed nervously at her own lie.

  Tesla’s eyebrows shot skyward. “Best wishes.”

  “Speaking of weaponry,” Wendel said, “what do you know about electrified crossbows?”

  “Very little, I’m afraid.” Tesla picked up an hors d’oeuvre, though he didn’t eat the tiny sandwich. “Why do you ask?”

  “We found blueprints for a competitor’s design.”

  “A competitor?” With a pensive frown, Tesla nibbled the sandwich. “I have no interest in archery. Too medieval for my tastes.”

  Wendel arched an eyebrow. “Ancient Rome is more your cup of tea?”

  “If you are referring to the USS Jupiter, the name wasn’t my idea.”

  “No need to be modest. Take credit for hurling lightning at a clockwork dragon.”

  Tesla whipped a napkin from the table and brushed crumbs from his mustache. “If you please, Mr. Von Preussen, tell me your point.”

  “We thought you might be able to help us.”

  Ardis heard frustration in Wendel’s voice, so she interrupted. “Mr. Tesla, we found the blueprints for the crossbow, the Thunderbolt, on a ship bound for Russia. They must plan to equip the Tsar’s soldiers.”

  Tesla furrowed his brow. “An ocean away.”

  She shook her head. “We all know America is on the brink of entering the war, but will it join for or against Russia?”

  “It’s impossible to know.”

  “Exactly. These electrified crossbows could end up in the hands of our enemies. Imagine an army outfitted with Thunderbolts. Airships would become obsolete.” She pantomimed an explosion with her hands.

  Tesla’s shoulders stiffened. “I will take your advice into consideration.”

  “Not advice,” Wendel said, “but a warning.”

  “If you will excuse me…” Tesla slipped into the crowd.

  Ardis frowned. “That did us no good.”

  “Not yet.” Wendel’s face looked unreadable, but his eyes glittered like those of a raven, keen with curiosity and cleverness.

  “What are you plotting?” she said.

  He shrugged. “Tell me if you see J. P. Morgan, Jr. He’s our next target.”

  “Target? We aren’t assassinating people, Wendel.”

  The corner of his mouth quirked. “Unfortunately.”

  She sighed. When he offered his arm, she took it with a stern glance. Together, they mingled among the guests. The party spilled from the Hall of Extinct Monsters into another room of the Arcanaeum. Ardis peered into one of the glass cases, inspecting the fossilized leaf within, but Wendel nudged her onward.

  “Where is the rich bastard?” he muttered.

  “Who?”

  “J. P. Morgan, Jr.”

  “Why is he a bastard?” When Wendel didn’t reply, she added, “Jealous of his fortune?”

  He sneered. “No one needs that much money.”

  “Careful. You’re on the slippery slope to hypocrisy.”

  He bent his sneer into a smile. “Pardon me. I’m still penniless.”

  “Excuse me.” An old man approached. He had a grandfatherly look, as he leaned on a silver-headed cane. “Are you Wendel von Preussen?”

  Every muscle in Wendel’s arm tensed under her hand. “Guilty,” he said.

  “Might I have a word?”

  “I’m sorry, but I haven’t the slightest clue who you are, and I’m not sure anyone who knows my name is worth knowing.”

  The old man let out a dry chuckle. “I’m Jack Beaumont.”

  It took Ardis a moment to place the name. When Wendel was shot at the docks, Beaumont might have been the last witness.

  The emotion bled from Wendel’s face. “What do you want?”

  “I understand you’re working for Nemesis,” Beaumont said. “Can we talk?”

  Ardis glanced at Wendel, her pulse leaping in her neck. “Why not?” This was a public place, with a lot of witnesses.

  Beaumont escorted them through a door, into a dimly lit hall. Rather than skeletons of extinct beasts, this room housed sarcophagi and artifacts from Egypt. The centerpiece, a shriveled mummy, stood in a glass case, linen bandages yellowed by age.

  “Talk,” Wendel said. “That’s what you wanted.”

  Beaumont cocked his head. “I make you nervous, don’t I?”

  “Hardly.” Wendel tugged at his cuffs. “But I don’t care to waste time.”

  “I don’t believe in miracles, and yet I saw you shot with my own eyes.”

  Wendel froze, not a single muscle in motion, and stared at Beaumont like a hawk stares at a mouse. “See an optometrist.”

  “Pardon?”

  “You must need glasses.”

  Beaumont smiled. “Clever,” he said. “I’ve done my homework, Wendel. You used to be a prince, didn’t you? Disinherited at the tender age of eleven? And for such a fascinating reason. One doesn’t often meet a necromancer.”

  Ardis gripped Wendel’s arm, ready to drag him from the room. “We should go.”

  “You’re an assassin now,” Beaumont said, “and a damn fine one at that.”

  “Thank you,” Wendel said, his face a blank mask of boredom.

  “You’re thinking about killing me, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you do it?” Beaumont’s eyes twinkled like this amused him. “Walk away from a gunshot without a scratch?”

  “Wendel,” Ardis murmured, warning him not to say too much.

  “Maybe I’m dead.” He lifted his shoulders. “Maybe I don’t care to tell you.” He turned to walk from the room.

  Beaumont cleared his throat. “Will you work for me?”

  Wendel stared at him before curling his lip. “Why?”

  “Better benefits.”

  “Do you think I’m so disloyal?”

  “Yes.”

  “You might be right, but I won’t do it.”

  A sigh escaped Beaumont. “I thought I’d ask.” He waved his hand. “Boys.”

  When the door creaked open, Ardis whirled around. Two men entered the room, each armed with a switchblade. One had the muscles of an ox; the other had tattoos inked across hi
s sinewy body. Wendel moved between the men and Ardis, protecting her, and reached into his jacket. The black dagger glinted in the dim light.

  Damn it, could they get through one day without bloodshed?

  “Make it quick,” Beaumont said, with a little flick of his fingers.

  Wendel sneered. “I will.”

  Beaumont retreated from the room. The door swung shut behind him with a thud.

  His henchmen attacked. Wendel blocked the first and dodged the second, then slammed the pommel of his dagger against the mummy case. Cracks spiderwebbed across the glass; he hit it again, harder, and it shattered.

  Grimacing, he lunged to touch the mummy.

  His fingertips grazed the old-leather skin of the mummy’s face. One moment, the mummy was a shriveled corpse that had been dead for thousands of years. The next, it wriggled against its bandages like a bug wrapped by a spider. Both henchmen faltered. Wendel didn’t hesitate–he lunged at the man built like an ox, stabbing him in the bicep, and the switchblade clattered on the floor.

  Behind them, mummy loosened its bandages enough to stagger from the case.

  Wendel yanked Amarant free, blood flying from the blade, and sliced his wounded enemy across the throat. The man fell to his knees, choking and gurgling, before collapsing on the floor. This left the tattooed man. Wendel circled him, patient, until his opponent stabbed at his gut. Wendel dodged the switchblade, ducked another blow, and sidestepped right. Shadows rushed from the black dagger and cloaked his skin in darkness.

  No more than a specter, Wendel vanished into the gloom.

  Breathing hard, the tattooed man turned his attention to Ardis. She clenched her hands, fingernails digging into her palms.

  He wanted to take her hostage. That’s what she would do.

  Her heartbeat hammered inside her corset. She slid her slipper backward along the floor, then crouched for a shard of glass, careful not to cut her fingers. The tattooed man’s hand tightened on the switchblade. He let out a bark of a laugh, like he couldn’t believe who he was fighting, before he rushed into an attack.

  The switchblade flashed as he thrust it at her shoulder. She dropped to her knees; the blade found air instead of flesh. Sweat slicked her hands, but her grip never faltered. She arced her arm and gashed his stomach with the glass.

  Moaning, he clutched his guts. “Bitch!” He swung the switchblade at her face.