by Karen Kincy
She wanted to fire only one shot.
“You aren’t alone,” Thorsten said. “I can see it in your eyes.”
Wendel I lifted his shovel. “Afraid?”
“Fear means nothing to me.”
Ardis dragged Wendel II even closer, borrowing strength from his grip, borrowing secrecy from the shadows of his dagger.
“I was afraid of you when I first met you,” Wendel I said.
Thorsten glanced into the grave between them. “How pathetic you were. Tears streaming down your face. Wouldn’t stop sniveling for days.”
“Not until you hit me.”
A dead leaf rustled under her foot–she halted, Wendel II clenching her hand.
Thorsten flipped a dagger from his sleeve. “You deserved everything.”
She clicked the safety and braced the pistol in both hands, but she was still trembling too much. Breathe. She had to breathe.
Wendel I curled his lip. “You deserve to die.”
He leapt over the grave, shovel held high, and swung the dirt-encrusted blade. Thorsten dropped to his knees. Missing, Wendel stumbled into a run, carried by his own momentum. Thorsten lunged to his feet in pursuit.
This wasn’t part of the plan.
Wendel II wouldn’t let go of her hand, her bones aching under his grip. She pried his fingers away and let the shadows fade.
No more fucking subtlety.
“Thorsten!” she shouted.
He whirled in her direction. She sighted down the barrel, slid her finger to the trigger–
“Ardis,” he said, “you–”
She fired.
The bullet hit Thorsten between the eyes. He dropped to the dirt.
His body, a discarded puppet.
Ears ringing, she lowered the pistol. It took her two tries to holster it with her trembling hands. Thorsten stared heavenward, shock frozen on his face, though he would be seeing hell soon. Blood trickled from his skull.
The shroud of shadows fell from Wendel II. Revealed, he stared down at his nemesis. Wendel I gripped the shovel and stood beside him. Neither of the necromancers looked at Thorsten with belief in their eyes.
“He’s dead?” Wendel II said.
Her heartbeat still hammered. “Didn’t you feel him die?”
“Yes,” Wendel I rasped, “but…”
Wendel II crouched by Thorsten, his fingers near his neck, not yet touching. He looked at him with such strange longing.
“No.” Ardis spoke in a rush. “Don’t bring him back.”
She had killed her father–the man who fathered her–and she didn’t want to face him after death. Inexplicable guilt twisted her stomach.
Though Wendel I looked at her, his doppelgänger spoke. “I need to know the truth.”
Wendel II touched Thorsten’s neck with a perverse imitation of tenderness. His face twisted as the muscles in his arm tightened.
Thorsten blinked, an echo of life, but stayed on the ground.
“Why did you do it?” Wendel said.
Thorsten spoke without feeling. “Because you had what I wanted.”
“Why did you hate me?”
“Because you never obeyed me.”
“Why–”
“Stop.” Ardis caught him by the wrist. “That’s enough.”
Wendel II wouldn’t let go, his fingers where Thorsten’s pulse used to be. He kept staring at the dead man, his face blank, his eyes hollow. She feared this would break him, that none of these truths would negate his nightmares.
“His memories,” Wendel I whispered.
Wendel II was seeing himself through the Grandmaster’s eyes.
“Wendel!” Ardis dragged him away. “You don’t need to do this. Please.”
He released Thorsten and wiped his hand on the wet grass, over and over again. Only then did she see his cheeks shining in the moonlight. Roughly, he wiped his face on his sleeve. Wendel I touched his twin on the shoulder.
“Help me.” Ardis held out the shovel. “Bury him.”
Wendel II pushed himself to his feet, refusing to look, and strode down a row of graves.
“Wait,” she said, but Wendel I stepped in her way.
“Let him go.”
~
Together, Ardis and Wendel buried Thorsten Magnusson. She kicked the last bit of dirt over his unmarked grave.
“I still don’t see your doppelgänger,” she said.
Wendel I wiped the sweat from under his eyes, streaking grime across his cheeks.
“He will come back,” he said. “Trust me.”
“This was why he traveled through time. There’s nothing left for him.”
“Nothing?” He narrowed his eyes, then tossed aside the shovel. “We can look for him.”
They found Wendel II under an oak tree, his knees against his chest, staring at the moon. He unfolded his legs and stood.
“It’s done?” he said.
Wendel I nodded. “We buried him.”
“Thank you.” Wendel II smoothed his hair under his hand, his head bowed. He wouldn’t look at either one of them.
“Are you all right?” Ardis said.
“Well enough.” Finally, he met her gaze. “I’m leaving for Constantinople.”
After the shock of it hit her, it sickened her to realize she had been expecting him to go. She struggled to catch her breath.
“This is goodbye?” she said.
He held her gaze, his eyes fierce, though it was a fragile sharpness like broken glass.
“Not forever,” he said.
Blinking fast, she flung her arms around him, her face against his chest. His heart thumped under her ear. For a moment, he stood motionless. Then he slid his hands along her back and tightened the embrace.
Still here. Still hers.
“I love you,” he whispered.
“Don’t leave.”
“I can’t stay. You know that.”
She didn’t trust her voice enough to reply. Unspoken words ached in her throat. When he stepped back, she crossed her arms.
“What will you do in Constantinople?” Wendel I said.
“The Grandmaster is gone,” Wendel II said. “Another Thorsten shouldn’t take his place. There are assassins too young to be alone.” He blinked as if shaking away memories.
Wendel I cleared his throat. “Have you forgotten the bounty on your head?”
“A bounty that will go unpaid. I can… liberate Thorsten’s finances.”
“Perfect.”
“Regardless, I will see you again.”
“Every time you look in the mirror.”
Wendel II laughed, a glimmer of light returning to his eyes, before he turned his back on them and disappeared into the fog.
Somehow, it was easier to let him go in silence.
Twenty-Five
February 1914
Above the mountains and fjords of Norway, her suspicion began.
The Peregrine soared along the coastline, but Ardis bent over a toilet, missing the scenery. Nausea had hit her like a hammer, a month after the zeppelin had cast off from Kiel and left the German Empire over the horizon.
After washing her mouth and face, she left the bathroom and looked for Wendel. She found him in the dining room, sipping coffee with Konstantin. She tried to catch Wendel’s eye. Of course, he wasn’t paying any attention.
“Wendel,” she said. “Walk with me.”
He glanced at her. “After this cup?”
“No.”
When he really looked at her, he put down the cup. “Excuse me.”
Luckily, Konstantin looked oblivious as he nibbled a scone. “Please, Ardis, join us afterward. The coffee will still be hot.”
She nodded, even though the bitter aroma turned her stomach.
“Where did you want to walk?” Wendel said.
The location didn’t matter. She took him by the hand and marched him onto the promenade deck. They
were alone. Outside the earthward-slanted windows, clouds streamed over mountains like dragon’s teeth.
“Wendel.”
“Yes?”
She forced herself to inhale. “I think I’m pregnant.”
His eyebrows shot skyward. “Already?”
She swallowed hard, fighting nerves and nausea. “It’s like before, but worse.”
“Worse?”
“I can’t even look at food without feeling sick and I’m much too tired.”
Wendel dropped into one of the wicker chairs. He kneaded his forehead with his knuckles like it would help him understand.
“Pregnant,” he repeated.
“Maybe. Yes. I don’t know.”
“But that’s so soon, after…”
“I know.” She never had her monthly bleeding after the miscarriage. “When did…”
They shared a glance. Their wedding night.
“Should we tell my doppelgänger?” Wendel said.
“Is he the father?” She wrinkled her nose. “Are you both?”
“Yes and yes?” Wendel couldn’t fight the grin on his face.
“Maybe we should wait. Until we know for sure.”
His grin faded. “I understand.”
Fear of another miscarriage rested in the marrow of her bones, though she didn’t dare say it out loud. Like it might jinx her.
“Ardis.” Wendel stood behind her and kissed her neck. “This can be our secret.”
“Of course.”
“Where do we go from here?”
She leaned against him. “The next stop on our circumnavigation is Iceland.”
“Iceland?” He made a bemused noise. “I’m no stranger to cold weather, though that might be slightly too frigid for a baby.”
“Not Icelandic babies.”
He laughed. “Touché.”
Below them, sunlight glittered like a thousand sequins on the waters off Norway.
“There’s always here.” Her stomach fluttered when she said it.
“Norway? Why?”
She turned in his arms. “Thorsten was Norwegian.”
Unease shadowed Wendel’s face. “Ah.”
“I’m a little curious about my heritage.”
“Are you considering China?”
“I’ve never been.” She laughed. “And you don’t speak any Mandarin.”
“I could learn.”
“Prussia?” she said.
He shrugged. “I have no desire to return to Prussia.”
“You don’t want your family to know about the baby?”
He narrowed his eyes before tilting his head. “Perhaps one day.”
She understood why he might not want to bring a child to meet that family, too soon, after the way they had treated him.
“Switzerland,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
“Chocolates and cheese and cows with bells?”
A smile shadowed his mouth. “Doesn’t that sound like a dream?”
“Better a dream than a nightmare.”
~
October 1914
Switzerland. Even after six months, she felt like a wide-eyed stranger.
Once upon a time, travelers came to the Hotel Silbergarten to ski and see the beautiful village of Chateau-d’Oex. Since the start of the Great War, however, the tourists had been replaced by wounded prisoners of war.
Former enemies sat shoulder to shoulder in the grand restaurant of the Hotel Silbergarten. The Alps glimmered outside the windows, craggy rock crowned by snow, blue in the shadows. Beneath the forgotten chandeliers, waiters served the soldiers leek and potato soup with bread, a far cry from the fine dining of yesteryear.
Ardis sat alone, breadcrumbs on her plate, a stack of letters by her cup of peppermint tea. When she leaned over the table, her belly stopped her from reaching the letter she wanted. She scooted out of the chair and lumbered upright.
A nap sounded tempting–if she could just find a comfortable way to sleep.
She smoothed the letter flat. German, in her handwriting, though they weren’t her words. Unteroffizer Braun had been blinded by poison gas on the battlefield. They hoped he would regain his sight. Until then, Ardis wrote for him.
She checked the spelling of Unteroffizer Braun’s name before addressing an envelope to his family. He had left a wife and baby behind in Prussia. After adding a stamp, she pulled the next letter from the stack. Written in English, for Second Lieutenant Taylor, who worried about his mother in London. The Swiss Red Cross helped prisoners of war regardless of nationality. Ardis did the best she could as translator.
A waitress stopped by her table. “Bonjour. Comment allez-vous?”
“Bonjour.” Ardis wasn’t sure French would ever be her forte. “Ça va.”
The waitress smoothed her apron under her hands. “You should rest,” she said in heavily-accented English. “For the babies.”
Several of them were betting on twins. Ardis sighed. “I will.”
At this point, she just wanted the babies to be done living inside her rent-free. She wondered what they looked like. She had dreamed about taking care of them, but she could never remember their faces when she woke.
She left the hotel to drop both letters in the postbox. Grimacing, she rubbed her back. An ache had worsened over the past few days. The walk from the hotel to the village wasn’t long, but she was tired of being on her feet.
With a sigh, she started her hike down into the valley.
Wild crocuses danced in the wind, their violet petals embroidering the alpine meadow. Bells chimed on nut-brown cows out to pasture. One of them meandered nearer, mooing, and nuzzled her hand as if she had a treat.
A raven drifted from a pine tree. “Grok.”
“Krampus!” When she waved at him, he flew ahead as if racing her downhill.
Wendel had to be home.
A cramp gripped her belly. Not too painful, just unpleasant. She stopped, rubbing her belly until it didn’t feel so tight. This had been happening for weeks. When she kept walking, another cramp gripped her stomach.
She sucked in her breath. That one hurt.
Damn it, she was halfway home. It wasn’t worth climbing all the way back to the nurses just so they could tell her this was another false alarm. Besides, she was hungry yet again. She gritted her teeth and forged onward.
Chateau-d’Oex looked like a fairytale town, with half-timbered buildings and crooked chimneys. Down a cobblestoned street, a linden tree shaded a townhouse. Krampus landed in the boughs and ruffled his feathers, as if pleased he had won.
“Brat,” she said.
She wondered if Wendel was home. And if he was, if he was trying to cook dinner. He still hadn’t mastered the basics, though he hadn’t burned down the kitchen. Yet. Apparently, neither princes nor assassins cooked much.
She let herself into the townhouse. Sniffing, she didn’t smell smoke.
Sure enough, Wendel was in the kitchen, frowning at the label on a can. “Ardis?”
“What is it?”
“What does haricots verts en conserve mean?”
She shrugged. “You speak better French than I do.”
“I’m hardly a polyglot.”
“French, German, English, and Turkish.”
He shrugged with feigned innocence. “Out of necessity.”
“Why did you buy that if you don’t know what haricots verts en conserve means?”
“Rationing.”
“Right.”
He reached for a can opener. “I suppose heating the contents in a pan won’t kill us.”
She lowered herself into a chair at the table. “I’m afraid to ask what you’re cooking.”
“Dinner.” He flashed her a smile before turning to the stove. “They asked me to question three men at the morgue today.”
“You’re killing my appetite,” she said.
“Sorry.” He didn’t sound like he meant it. “The
police suspected foul play, but it turned out two of the deaths were accidents.”
Wendel had been helping detectives in the city of Montreux, an hour away by train. Ardis suspected he wanted to become an inspector himself. Though he would never admit it out loud, she could hear pride in his voice.
“Do you want to know how they died?” he said.
“Not really.” Her belly tightened; she held her breath until the sensation passed.
“Ardis?” He was staring at her intently.
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
She waved away his comment. “It’s nothing out of the ordinary.”
He arched an eyebrow. “One of these days will be.”
“Hopefully soon. I’m tired of being enormous. Are the cradles ready?”
“They have been for months.”
Ardis stared into the fireplace, watching the flames crackling and spitting sparks. Her sword hung above the mantle, where it belonged. With luck, she would never need Chun Yi again, but she owed the blade her life.
“We need more wood,” she said.
Wendel glanced back at the stove. “Don’t even think about chopping it yourself.”
She waved away his comment, prepared to say something witty in return, but a cramp gripped her belly. Her breath escaped in a hiss.
Wendel stared at her. “Ardis…”
“I want to take a bath.”
He furrowed his brow but helped her undress and climb into the claw-foot tub. When he twisted the tap, pipes rattled. Blissfully hot water poured into the porcelain and eased her pain. Sighing, she sank lower in the tub.
“Thank God for indoor plumbing,” she said.
Wendel arched his eyebrows. “You complained about the cost.”
“Which was extravagant. But worth it.”
He returned to the kitchen. Across the house, he yelled, “Green beans!”
“What?” She rubbed the soap between her hands.
“Inside the mystery can.”
While she listened to the clink and clang of him bustling in the kitchen, she washed herself and shampooed her hair.
“Dinner’s ready!” Wendel called.
Gripping the sides of the bath, she stood. Her water broke in a gush. “Wendel?”
“Yes?”