Ward Against Disaster (Entangled Teen) (Chronicles of a Reluctant Necromancer)

by Melanie Card

  Now was not the time to contemplate what had almost happened. Ward grabbed Celia’s hand, and she hauled him to his feet.

  She flashed him her I-love-danger smile but this time it didn’t reach her eyes. She wasn’t having fun anymore. “Stop playing with them, Nazarius, and come on.”

  “I’m not playing.” Nazarius seized the last conscious soldier and slammed his head into the wall beside them.

  They raced down the alley. Behind them, soldiers yelled at each other within the maze of narrow passages twisting through the city. Footsteps pounded nearby. Another alley over? In front of them? Sounds bounced around them until Ward wasn’t even sure if they were still running away from the market.

  The alley opened up a bit with a narrow recessed door against the smooth granite wall before them and the passage veering to the right.

  More shouts rang out.

  Ward turned to the right, but at the far end, at the next intersection, a soldier raced past, and then another.

  Nazarius grabbed the handle on the door and rattled the latch. Locked.

  The sounds drew closer. Sheer walls led up to shuttered windows, probably locked like the door. There was no place left to go.

  More men raced across the mouth of the right alley.

  Nazarius rattled the latch again, and Celia shoved his hand away. She pulled a thin strip of metal from the seam of her belt and slid it into a lock. The bolt on the door scritched.

  More shouts to the left, even closer.

  She threw open the door, grabbed Ward’s hand, and tugged him inside. With a yank, she pulled him around the door and shoved him into a crevasse in a wall of barrels. Nazarius leapt after them. He locked the door and slid his back to the wall beside it, his sword ready.

  Celia squeezed in beside Ward, one hand holding her sword up, the other—forgotten—against Ward’s chest. The warmth of her palm burned through his shirt, and his heart raced even more. Her hip pressed against his thigh, the entire length of her body fit tight against his. How could she be so dead and yet feel so alive?

  He dragged his attention to the room. All he could make out in the dim light cutting around the outline of the door and the hint of light from a shuttered window high above were hints of barrels and sacks and clutter packing the room. The piles soared to the ceiling, creating dark mounds.

  Footsteps clattered past the door.

  Celia sucked in a quick breath, the inhalation brushing her chest against his. Her fingers flexed and the muscles of her legs, pressed against his, tensed.

  His heart thudded louder. He was sure she could hear it. He was sure Nazarius could hear it on the other side of the door. Goddess, he’d wanted her close like this since…since the moment he’d first met her. If he dipped his head, just a fraction, he could steal a kiss. Just a little one.

  As if reading his thoughts, Celia glanced at him. Her pale gaze captured his. It always did. She could freeze and melt and consume his heart with a look. Her breath fluttered warm against his cheek, and her lips parted ever so slightly. He’d kissed those lips back in Brawenal City shortly after he’d brought Celia back to life. Her lips had been soft, welcoming. But that was before he’d really known how he felt about her, before he’d really known anything. And now things were so much more complicated.

  Except nothing seemed complicated right at that moment. Not even the soldiers searching for them on the other side of the door. The heat from her body radiated into his, her gaze held him, invited him. Everything about her expression said she felt it, too. A breath hung between their lips. That was all. A fraction closer and he could show her how he felt. Goddess, he wanted to show her. Needed to show her.

  A shout sounded, off in the distance, and more footsteps pounded outside.

  Celia jerked her attention to the door, turning her lips away from him.

  The moment was gone.

  The latch on the door rattled.

  Ward’s heart pounded, and Celia tensed against him.

  Muffled voices said something, then footsteps pounded away.

  Ward strained to hear the soldiers return. Celia’s breath still caressed his cheek, warm and steady, but her body remained stiff. On the other side of the door, Nazarius shifted and the floorboards groaned with the movement, but he didn’t ease from the wall or let his sword drop.

  Silence pressed against Ward’s senses. Nothing came from outside. Even the distant yells had disappeared.

  Dust motes danced in the beams of light filtering into the storage room and the hint of mold and sweat tickled his nose. The urge to move—put at least some distance between Celia and him before he succumbed to embarrassing himself—made his muscles twitch.

  She remained focused on the door, however, her hand still burning a hole into his chest, setting his nerves on fire.

  Nazarius shifted again. “You know running like that is the stupidest thing anyone could have done.”

  Celia eased out of the crevasse between the barrels, leaving Ward cold. “And you’d rather be locked in the Duke of Dulthyne’s dungeon?”

  “You don’t think they’ll be on the lookout for us?” Nazarius sheathed his sword.

  Celia shrugged. “You don’t have a lot of experience with this, do you?”

  Ward choked on his own saliva and struggled against the fit of coughs threatening to explode. Nazarius had as good of an understanding of the law as Celia did, just from a different perspective. Except, Celia didn’t know that. All she knew was that Nazarius was a skilled swordsman who owed Ward a favor—and even the details on that had been kept vague. It surprised Ward she hadn’t pressed for more information, but then he hadn’t really pressed her for details about her family, particularly about her father, the recently deceased head of Brawenal’s criminal underworld, or anything she’d done as a member of the Assassins’ Guild.

  “I don’t have experience?” Nazarius asked, his voice low.

  “You’re a fine enough swordsman, and great at tracking—”

  “Celia.” Ward coughed.

  “—but with the chaos we walked in on, the Duke of Dulthyne’s soldiers aren’t going to care about us, let alone remember us. Evading them was our best choice.”

  Nazarius stepped close to her, using his greater height and weight as a silent threat—just like he’d done the first time he and Ward had met back in Brawenal City. Too bad Celia wasn’t intimated by anyone or anything. “I wouldn’t want to bet our lives on that, and by fleeing we’ve made ourselves fugitives.”

  Ward lurched toward them and sucked in a ragged breath. “Why don’t we argue about this after we get out of here.”

  Nazarius glared at Celia, who raised a sculpted eyebrow.

  “Our priority is catching Allette. That’s what we agreed on.” Celia slid her gaze to Ward, but he couldn’t read her expression. She seemed concerned, yet angry, about something. “I’m here to help Ward, are you?”

  “You know I am.” But Nazarius didn’t sound happy about it.

  “Good.” She flashed her I’m-in-danger-and-loving-it smile, but it still didn’t reach her eyes. “Then let’s get back to the business of monster hunting.”

  She turned away from Ward, as if she could tell he knew her smile was a lie, and reached for the door latch.

  Nazarius grabbed Ward’s arm and opened his mouth, but snapped it shut. There was an argument coming with the Tracker, although one that couldn’t happen in front of Celia—not without Nazarius giving away who he was. And it seemed, for the moment, he didn’t want to reveal the truth to Celia that he was a Quayestri.

  Celia eased down the latch and opened the door a crack. Ward froze, waiting for the soldiers to rush in, but everything remained quiet.

  She opened the door a little more and peeked out.

  Still nothing.

  Ward blew out the breath he’d been holding. Now they could get back to the business of stopping Allette.

  Celia stepped into the intersection. “First order of business, a place to hole up and regroup.
”

  “At least we’re agreed on something,” Nazarius said.

  Ward squeezed his rucksack, drawing a flash of pain in his hands where the pony’s reins had cut them. “Which way?” There were two options and both were as likely to lead back to Dulthyne’s soldiers.

  “That way heads away from the market.” Nazarius pointed left. “From what I know of the city, the cheaper inns are on the lower levels.”

  “Well, that fits my budget.” Celia sheathed her sword and turned to the alley Nazarius had indicated as a soldier stepped into the mouth at the other end. The soldier stopped midstep and his eye flashed wide.

  “Shit,” Celia hissed.

  The soldier yelled and bolted toward them. More men swarmed into the alley behind him.

  “Oh yeah, they’ve forgotten us,” Nazarius said.

  Ward jerked to the other alley, but more soldiers were racing toward them from that way as well. They were trapped.

  Celia and Nazarius drew their weapons and lengthened their stances. Ward drew his dagger.

  “Six in front,” Nazarius said.

  “A dozen to the right.” Celia shifted closer to Ward. “Open up the front.”

  “What, you don’t like the odds?” Nazarius asked.

  Celia’s gaze darted to Ward. He couldn’t read her expression. There was something so strange about it.

  “Why waste the energy fighting them all,” she said.

  Nazarius snorted. “And I thought you were fun.”

  Goddess above, they were flirting, again! “Now is not the time,” Ward growled.

  The first soldier lunged at Celia. She parried and countered, sliding her sword under his guard and into his chest.

  He gasped, sagged to his knees, and blood bubbled over his lips. She’d hit a lung, an injury Ward wouldn’t be able to heal even with his illicit knowledge of surgery.

  Two more men rushed at Celia while a third swung at Nazarius. A fourth pushed past the Tracker and barreled toward Ward. Blood crusted his temple and caked his jaw, a jaw dusted with dark stubble.

  It was the man who’d almost killed Ward earlier.

  The soldier raced in and swept his sword at Ward’s torso. Ward stumbled back. The blade swooshed past.

  Another soldier, a burly man with a crooked nose, shouldered past Celia. She jabbed at him, but he parried and another man stepped in, yanking her attention away.

  The burly soldier lunged, his blade leveled at Ward’s heart.

  Ward twisted. He jabbed at the man with his dagger, but he didn’t have the reach. The other soldier leapt in and grabbed Ward’s arm. He yanked Ward around and slammed him into the wall beside the door.

  Air burst from his lungs. Someone yanked Ward back and rammed him into the wall again. His head cracked against the granite. Pain shot across his forehead and he couldn’t think straight, couldn’t focus.

  Hands seized him again and wrenched him around. A heavy, muscled arm wrapped around his throat and a dagger point pressed against his ribs.

  He clawed at the arm, unable to draw a full breath. Pain radiated across his face and burned in his chest.

  “Drop it,” the soldier holding him yelled. “Or he dies, slowly.”

  Four

  Celia struggled against the urge to fight. Nazarius froze beside her as well, his weapon held ready. The soldiers had Ward and, Goddess be damned, there was nothing she could do. If she were back in Brawenal City, she’d escape. She’d know where they’d take him. He’d be fine in prison for the duration it would take her to arrange his freedom, but she knew nothing about Dulthyne.

  But if she escaped now—which she very well could—she might not be able to find him in time. Why couldn’t the fool necromancer have just used magic?

  Except she knew why. Allette had tricked him and by doing so convinced him he had no natural power—power Celia had seen twice and knew without a doubt existed. It broke her heart knowing Ward didn’t realize the truth about himself. Killing that bitch, Allette, wasn’t going to be nearly satisfying enough.

  The soldier on Ward, a big man with dark stubble dusting his jaw, didn’t move. His arm wrapped around Ward’s neck and his dagger dug into Ward’s ribs. Not deep enough to draw blood, but enough to make the threat clear.

  Ward’s gaze remained locked on her, as if he waited for some sign to resume fighting. But the moment he flinched, the soldier would impale him—and she didn’t want any more lessons on how to be a physician. Stitching up his arm had been fine, but a blade to the gut damaged more than just muscle. If done right, it was a long, painful way to die.

  There were other ways out of this situation once they were locked up and the soldiers were gone.

  She stared at him, praying he’d understand.

  He knew she could fight her way out of this. The soldiers didn’t have bad martial skills, but she was better. One wrong move, though—no, any move on anyone’s part—and Ward would die.

  She wasn’t going to think about that. He was smart. He’d understand what her surrender meant.

  She dropped her sword on the ground and kicked it toward the closest soldier. Ward watched it with narrowing eyes as it skittered across the bricks.

  “And your bags, too,” a soldier with a sergeant’s sigil above Dulthyne’s crest on his tabard said.

  Celia unslung her rucksack and dropped it at her feet. Nazarius dropped his sword, long dagger, and bag beside hers.

  Ward swallowed, his fingers wrapped around his rucksack’s strap. This had to be harder for him than surrendering. His life was in that bag—his book on surgery and his surgical implements—or at least the life he was supposed to have had was in that bag. That life was just as illegal as her old life as an assassin had been, but was much nobler.

  Please understand. Don’t do anything stupid. She could get his surgical knives and book back. She’d get his life back. She promised. Even if it killed her, again.

  “Come on, hand it over,” the sergeant said.

  The soldier holding Ward forced him to his knees and yanked the rucksack off over his head. Two soldiers pushed Nazarius toward him, while the man on Celia motioned with his sword for her to join them.

  The sergeant sneered. “The duke warned you.”

  “About what? We just arrived in Dulthyne,” Nazarius said.

  The soldier closest to Celia snickered. “That’s what they all say.”

  “Tell it to the duke.” The sergeant turned, and the soldier on Ward shoved him beside Nazarius.

  There. A moment, no longer than a heartbeat, where she had an advantage.

  Ward’s eyes widened. He’d seen it.

  Her muscles tensed and she clenched her jaw against the instinct to move. It would be easy. A quarter turn toward the closest soldier. He’d step in, take one hand off his blade, and reach for her. She could grab his wrist. With a twist, he’d be on his back, stunned. His sword would be within reach. She could have the weapon in time to block the next closest soldier’s strike.

  Except the moment she did that, Ward was dead. Whatever she did ended with her free, and Ward dead.

  It always came back to that. Something twinged in her chest. It wasn’t pain. The soldiers had barely touched her. But the thought of Ward dying—

  That something twinged again.

  She gave a slight shake of her head. Ward’s brows drew together. Even Nazarius pursed his lips.

  She was never going to live this down. She was a damned stupid assassin.

  The memory of Ward convulsing, dying from poison five days ago flashed through her memory, and that thing in her chest flared, stealing her breath.

  She shoved the memory aside and let the soldiers march Nazarius, Ward, and her out of the alley. Things were so complicated. They’d been complicated the moment Ward had woken her from the dead in her father’s house back in Brawenal City.

  At least until then she’d known who…and what…she was. Now she had no idea. She could only say for certain what she wasn’t—which was alive or a vesper
itti like Allette—and her feelings for Ward were a complete mess.

  The soldiers led them down a short alley to a road barely wide enough for a cart. It, too, could have been an alley in Brawenal City, save that there were more doors and windows dotting the granite walls. The buildings crowded together here even more than in Brawenal.

  Before her, Ward stumbled. The soldiers tensed, but he righted himself and didn’t attempt to flee.

  How was she going to explain why she hadn’t fought? It was ridiculous to say she’d let them get arrested because she couldn’t bear the thought of Ward being hurt. The man got hurt at every possible moment. He’d survived the craziest things. He’d survived a four-story fall, being poisoned, not to mention numerous battles all with his few martial abilities. He had more lives than a cat. What made her think this situation would be different?

  But it wasn’t the situation, it was her.

  She’d lost her mind. That was it.

  That had to be it.

  Allette had been right about one thing—whatever Ward had cast to bring Celia back from the dead had to be influencing her emotions. Nothing else could explain her irrational behavior. It was the only explanation for wanting to kiss him back in that storage room when she should have been listening for soldiers. Not to mention thinking he was willing to break all the laws he believed in to kiss her back.

  It had only been her desire, induced by the magic connecting them.

  Yep.

  Absolutely.

  Once Ward and she—and, all right, Nazarius, too—had escaped from prison, they’d have a talk—just Ward and her. Not Nazarius, too.

  Except how did a person bring up the topic of magically induced affection? Well, Ward, you know that spell you cast on me. It makes me want you, makes me want—

  Goddess, it made her want things she’d never wanted before and shouldn’t want now because she was dead.

  Damn it, she was tougher than this. She couldn’t go to him discussing her feelings. How awkward would that be? No, first she needed proof of what she was and what the effects of the spell were. That was the original plan. It had always been the plan.