The Necromancer's Bride

by Kat Ross

  Anne paid little attention to mortal politics. “The Berlin Conference?”

  “It took place five years ago. The European powers met to carve up Africa and agreed to cede King Leopold the so-called Congo Free State as his personal domain. Rumors of atrocities are already leaking out of the country. Children having their hands amputated because their fathers failed to meet rubber quotas. Mass killings. Torture.”

  “I had no idea.” Anne was horrified.

  “Most people don’t. Leopold presents himself as a white benefactor taming the ‘African savages’. Meanwhile, he’s robbing the country blind and murdering thousands in the process.” Gabriel exhaled. “Killing Bekker won’t solve the larger problem, but it won’t hurt. He holds vast investments in the Congo.”

  Anne had hated Jorin Bekker in a more abstract way before Gabriel told her all of this. Now she shared his intense loathing. “If there’s any way I can help, I hope you’ll ask.”

  “I will.” They entered the flat. “Let’s hope for some good news.”

  Chapter 11

  Edwig and Erasmus Collignon were brothers, both with fair hair and blue eyes. They wore flat caps and rough-woven shirts with the sleeves rolled up, revealing powerful forearms. Edwig had a moustache and Erasmus didn’t, which was the easiest way to tell them apart since they were close in age, mid-thirties, Anne guessed, and the spitting image of each other.

  Introductions were made all around, and she was relieved that they didn’t seem put out to have a woman present.

  “We can’t stay long,” Erasmus said with a businesslike air. “As you requested, I sent two men to take a look at the estate in the Ardennes. It’s five miles south of a village called Belval. Their report was not promising. The house is heavily guarded, with multiple layers of defenses.” He glanced around at the group. “Is this all you have? No offense, but it’s not enough to storm the place.”

  “I know,” Gabriel said mildly. “But you wouldn’t be here unless you had something else for me, yes?”

  Edwig leaned forward. “We might. Bekker rarely appears in public, and never without a cadre of bodyguards. But in five days’ time, he’ll be attending a party at a museum he’s a benefactor of.”

  “Can you get at least two of us inside?”

  The brothers shared a look. “I think it’s possible,” Erasmus said. “We know someone who’s been hired to serve the guests. He’s sympathetic and willing to help, if it doesn’t get him into trouble. Bekker is not well-liked among working men.”

  “What are the security arrangements?”

  Edwig sighed. “That’s the biggest difficulty. The king will be there as well, so you can expect a large contingent of gendarmes in addition to Bekker’s own men. The event is being held in the main gallery. Getting to him will be exceedingly difficult.”

  “We need misdirection,” Julian said. “Something to make him leave, but not out the front. If we cull him from the herd of guests, we can come at him sideways.”

  “I agree,” Gabriel said. “But anything out of the ordinary will put his guard up.”

  They brainstormed ideas for a while. Gabriel shot each one down, meticulously finding the flaws. Then Jean-Michel’s soft voice cut through the conversation. “What if it’s something so big and brazen, it actually puts him at ease?”

  Gabriel stared at the soldier-poet. “Such as?”

  “What if there is an assassination attempt?” Jean-Michel smiled. “But not against Bekker.”

  Gabriel was quiet for a long moment. “Against Leopold,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  Another minute passed. “That might actually work,” Gabriel muttered.

  Erasmus frowned. “Getting close to the king is just as hard as getting close to Bekker.”

  “We don’t have to get close.” Gabriel glanced at the two recruits. “These two are both skilled marksmen.”

  “How skilled?”

  Miguel Salvado grinned. “I can hit a target from eighteen hundred yards.”

  There was dead silence. Then Edwig laughed and shook his head. “No one could make that shot.”

  “I’ve seen him do it,” Jean-Michel said. “More than once.”

  “What type of rifle?”

  “Springfield breach-loader,” Miguel replied. He looked amused. “The 1884 model.”

  “The sight only goes to fourteen hundred.”

  Miguel shrugged.

  “And you?” Erasmus turned to Jean-Michel.

  “I’m solid for twelve hundred yards. After that it’s mostly luck.”

  “That’s still damn far,” he muttered.

  “There might be points across the plaza for a sniper’s nest,” Edwig said. “We’ll look into it.” He paused. “Do you plan to actually kill Leopold? I have no objection, I’m merely wondering.”

  “If we took him outside, then yes,” Miguel said. “No problem.”

  Gabriel shook his head. “He has to be inside, with the party underway.”

  “Then I assume we’ll be on a rooftop, shooting through the windows. If the angle is greater than fifteen degrees, the bullet’s trajectory will yaw when it hits the glass.” Miguel gave a cocky smile. “I’ll do my best, but no guarantees.”

  “Let’s walk through it,” Gabriel said. “Once the shots are fired, the first priority will be getting the king out safely.”

  Edwig nodded. “The gendarme will use a side exit. The guests will be taken a different route.”

  “Bekker will go his own way,” Jacob Bell said. “I guarantee it. He’ll want his own security around him.”

  “He might Travel,” Anne put in.

  “He might,” Gabriel agreed. “But he’ll have to go someplace quiet where no one sees him. Do you have a floor plan?”

  “I can get one,” Erasmus said.

  “Do that. I’ll need to study it.”

  The brothers stayed for an hour longer, then left to catch a train to Brussels. Now that he had a plan brewing, Gabriel was in high spirits. While he hashed out details with the others, Anne went out with Jacob to buy supper at the market. The pair of them attracted stares as they walked together down the street. Jacob seemed resigned, but Anne felt the stirring of anger.

  “I hate Europe sometimes,” she said. “I hate mortals.” She glanced at him. “Not you.”

  Jacob gave her a thin smile. “I don’t take their bigotry personally. The slave trade was never about skin color. Just money and power. The rest is window dressing.”

  Anne shook her head. “Look at these people. They’re poor. Yet they never question the claptrap they’re fed by their so-called betters.”

  “Some do.”

  “Not enough.” Anne glanced at him. “My brother’s bonded comes from a place called Al Miraj. It was a desert land in north Africa, long gone from the maps. She lives in London now.”

  “Vivienne Cumberland.”

  “You’ve heard of her?”

  He smiled faintly. “Oh, yes.”

  “She married a viscount so society has to be polite, but they still gossip behind her back.”

  “Does she care?”

  Anne snorted. “God, no. I think she enjoys it.”

  That night, Anne crept through the dark hall and knocked on the door of Gabriel’s room. He was lying on the bed reading Les Fleurs du mal.

  “Baudelaire was a pig, it’s true,” he said, as she came inside and closed the door. “He had contempt for humanity as a whole. But listen to this passage.”

  I love to watch the fine mist of the night come on,

  The windows and the stars illumined, one by one,

  The rivers of dark smoke pour upward lazily,

  And the moon rise and turn them silver. I shall see

  The springs, the summers, and the autumns slowly pass;

  And when old Winter puts his blank face to the glass,

  I shall close all my shutters, pull the curtains tight,

  And build me stately palaces by candlelight.

  “It’s
lovely,” Anne admitted.

  “When this is done, I want to return to the Chateau de Saint-Évreux, bring it back to life,” Gabriel said, laying the book aside. “Hire carpenters and masons. Chase the moths from the closets.” He smiled. “And then we’ll close the shutters and pull the curtains tight.”

  She was stunned. “You would go back after what happened?”

  “I would make new memories,” he said firmly. “Will you come with me?”

  “Of course.” Anne smiled. “Perhaps I’ll turn the tower into a proper library.” She brought the cedarwood box out from behind her back. “Take the cross, won’t you? I don’t know what to do with it. And frankly, I’m terrified of losing it.”

  Gabriel stared at it for a long moment. Then he held out a hand. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

  “Don’t thank me. It belongs to you.”

  He lifted the cross from its velvet lining. The wood was nearly black and had the dull gleam of stone. Cyrus said it was old. Very, very old. Gabriel brushed a thumb across the rose carved in the center, then reverently returned it to the box.

  “Where did the cross come from?”

  “Alexandria, I think.” Gabriel rose from the bed and pulled her into an embrace, burying his face in her hair with a deep sigh. “It doesn’t matter now. Just a few more days. Then we’ll be free.”

  So little time. What if that was all they would ever have?

  She hooked a foot behind his knee so he tumbled onto the bed. Gabriel laughed as she pounced on him. Anne straddled his hips, her hair tumbling forward.

  He lay still, hands loosely clasped around her waist, his gaze roaming over her chemise. One strap slid down over her shoulder and Gabriel stared at it with a frozen expression.

  Anne lowered her mouth, brushing his lips until he made a guttural sound of longing. Then he stiffened and turned his face away.

  “Anne,” he murmured.

  A terrible suspicion arose in her. “What, Gabriel?”

  “I want you as my wife.”

  “And by want you, you mean….”

  He gave her a helpless look. “I want to wait.”

  “Oh, my God.” Irritation flooded her, though it was tempered with fondness. “You planned this, didn’t you?”

  His lips curled in that half smile she remembered all too well. “I didn’t.”

  “You’re still punishing me,” she said accusingly.

  He stroked her cheek, his eyes warm. “You, never. But it means something.” His voice roughened. “I want you to be mine, Anne. Forever. No secrets, no … violent partings. We’ve waited this long. What’s one more day?”

  “What’s one more day?” she muttered. “Here’s a counter proposal. Let’s get married right now. Julian used to be a priest, didn’t he? I’ll make him do it. I don’t care if he hates me.”

  Gabriel laughed. “He’s asleep.”

  She sat up and adjusted the errant strap of her chemise. “I have no compunctions about waking him up—”

  Gabriel seized her around the waist and wrestled her back down. His breath warmed her cheek as he pinned her arms to the bed. “Poor little beast.”

  She glared up at him. “I thought you’d learned mercy!”

  Gabriel’s shoulders shook with silent amusement. “I lied.” His lips brushed her cheekbone, feather light. “But I promise to be worth the wait.” She squirmed as his mouth traced a path of fire down the tender skin of her neck. “Hmmm, yes, you’ll discover how truly merciless I can be.” A gentle flick of the tongue. “Tomorrow.”

  And with that, Gabriel rolled over and pretended to go to sleep. Anne knew he hadn’t, she could tell from his restless breathing. But she’d be damned if she slept alone tonight. If she had to suffer, he would as well.

  So Anne gave him her back, ignoring the heat radiating from his body mere inches away, and passed the long hours plotting her own revenge.

  In exquisite, excruciating detail.

  Chapter 12

  Auvers-sur-Oise was a picturesque town in the countryside twenty miles north of Paris. Cows grazed in green fields dotted with old stone farmhouses and neat rows of cypress trees. Julian had recommended a local inn called the Auberge Ravoux, which sat opposite the town hall and was walking distance from the train station. To Gabriel’s chagrin, it turned out to be bursting at the seams with Dutch and American painters.

  “They come from Paris to paint the scenery,” Monsieur Ravoux explained with an apologetic shrug. “But I can give you the attic room. Only four francs for the night.”

  Anne had no objection. They carried their bags to the top floor and looked over the tiny space, which had a single bed, table and built-in cupboard.

  “It’s like a ship’s berth,” she said.

  Gabriel reclined on the narrow bed and watched as she brushed her hair out and pinned it up.

  “We’re getting married tonight.” Anne glanced down at her stout boots, scuffed from hard use.

  “Yes.”

  The languid warmth in that single word sent a tingle up her spine.

  “All I have is black.”

  “I like you in black.” Gabriel’s lips twitched. “Besides, it’s traditional for a necromancer’s bride.”

  “Of course, silly me.” She stuck the last pin in her hair. “Isn’t there supposed to be a great ebony coach pulled by hellish steeds snorting fire to carry us to the altar?”

  “Yes, but I know you prefer your feet.” He rose and offered her his arm. The cedarwood box was tucked under the other. “You look beautiful, Anne.”

  The skies had clouded over and a spattering of rain began to fall as they strolled down the main street and followed the road east to the outskirts of town. The Church of Notre Dame de l’Assomption sat on a promontory overlooking the Oise bridge. It was far more magnificent than she’d expected, with a soaring nave and ribbed vaults in the gothic style. Rain washed down the tall arched windows as they entered the deserted chapel. Gabriel strode to the altar and knelt, bowing his head, as Anne walked down the central aisle.

  Votive candles flickered in niches along the walls. Despite her own lack of faith, Anne could feel the weight of history in the bones of this place. It had to predate the brutal Hundred Years War, yet she saw no signs of damage. During the day, the church would be filled with sunlight, but now it was thick with lengthening shadows.

  She heard footsteps and a priest appeared from one of the side chambers. He had thick grey hair and wore a black cassock. Gabriel stood. “Père Darracq?” he asked.

  “I am,” the priest responded in French. “How can I help you?”

  “My name is Gabriel D’Ange.”

  “Ah.” He nodded. “I thought you might be.” He glanced at Anne. “And this is…?”

  “My betrothed, Anne Lawrence.”

  Père Darracq regarded Gabriel for a long moment with sharp blue eyes. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking. Then he nodded to himself. “Come,” he said.

  They followed him through a heavy door into a small windowless chamber off the north transept. A reliquary sat in the center of the room, the lid engraved with Latin words. Gabriel eased the lid back with a scrape of stone against stone. He reached into the recess and withdrew a long linen bundle, the cloth half-rotted away.

  “We have guarded the blade for centuries,” Père Darracq said quietly. “I know of your Order. I believe it belonged to you once. So I return it to you freely, although I cannot say I fully understand … what you are, Monsieur D’Ange.”

  “It will be used in the service of God,” Gabriel said quietly. He unwrapped the sword with great care and drew it halfway from the sheath. The blade gleamed, the edge bright and spotless. “Have you cared for it?” he asked with a slight frown.

  “No. I never opened the casket.”

  Gabriel slid the sword back into the scabbard. Then he put the cedarwood box inside the casket and replaced the stone lid. “I would leave you with another relic, equally precious. Care for it as you did the sword.”


  Père Darracq gave a solemn nod. “What is it, if I might ask?”

  “A rose cross blessed by the Virgin Mother herself.”

  The priest’s eyes widened a fraction. “I will guard it with my life and everlasting soul,” he said hoarsely.

  “Thank you.” Gabriel paused. “I have one last indulgence to ask. Will you marry us?”

  Père Darracq blinked in surprise. “Tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  He frowned. “We need a witness.”

  “God is my witness.”

  “But the law requires—”

  “Men’s laws don’t matter to me.”

  Gabriel’s voice was mild, but Père Darracq swallowed. “Of course. It will be done, Monsieur D’Ange.”

  They returned to the nave, the priest locking the heavy door behind them with a large iron key he kept on a chain around his neck. Anne suppressed a smile as lightning flashed through the great round window, followed by a deep peal of thunder in the hills. Suddenly, she didn’t mind getting married in a church. Not when it was all so deliciously gothic.

  “Do you have a ring?” the priest asked.

  Gabriel patted his pocket. He caught Anne’s eye and grinned like a schoolboy.

  “Stand next to each other, just there.” Père Darracq cleared his throat. “I will speak the vows and then you repeat them,” he told Gabriel.

  Rain beat down, shadows danced, lightning forked again, and Anne reached for Gabriel’s hand, twining her fingers with his.

  Moi, Gabriel D’Ange, je te prend, Anne Lawrence,

  pour être mon épouse,

  pour avoir et tenir de ce jour vers l'avant,

  pour meilleur ou pour le pire,

  pour la prospérité et la pauvreté,

  dans la maladie et dans la santé,