Shadows of Asphodel (3 page)

“The dagger—is by—the tree.” The soldier lifted his arm and pointed toward a pine tree. His gaze never left the necromancer’s eyes.

“Thank you,” Wendel said.

He let go of the soldier, and the man collapsed back into the snow. Dead again. Ardis couldn’t help staring at the scythe.

“That was the man who wounded you?” she said, slightly queasy.

“Yes,” Wendel said.

He had a disgusted, disdainful look, one she had seen before on the faces of cats. He scooped up a handful of snow and scrubbed his fingers clean. Ardis doubted you could ever forget touching a dead man, but she suspected she knew why he was washing his hands so religiously in the river.

“Was that necessary?” she said.

“Yes,” he said, clearly no longer a man of many words.

Wendel climbed to his feet and strode toward the pine tree identified by the undead soldier. He pawed at the snow, then held a blade high—a black dagger with ornate silver engravings of flowers on the hilt.

“Very necessary,” he murmured.

He tilted the dagger so it caught the sun. Ripples swirled through the black metal, the mark of Damascus steel, an art lost centuries ago.

“This is Amarant,” Wendel said. “Do you know what that means?”

“No,” Ardis said.

“Undying.”

She heard satisfaction in his voice, and she was afraid to ask what foul curse imbued his dagger. Ever since the Hex, hundreds of enchanted blades had materialized on the European black market. The archmages of Vienna had anticipated this, though not the breadth of cruel creativity—a thousand and one ways to die.

Ardis’s hand found Chun Yi again. At least her blade was honest metal.

“It’s late,” Ardis said. “We’re catching the next train out of here.”

Wendel slid his thumb along the flat of Amarant as if polishing away a fleck of blood.

Ardis was tired of waiting, and still nauseated from his little show of necromancy. She began to walk to camp. She didn’t care if she left the necromancer behind on the battlefield. Silence pressed on her ears, broken only by the slow hushing of her breath. The snowfall thickened around her as the wind quickened.

A crow cawed in a nearby pine, and Ardis flinched. Fatigue always frayed her nerves.

Footsteps crunched the snow, running fast, catching up. “Ardis.”

Hearing her name in his voice felt odd. Like she should have never given her name to a necromancer. But that wasn’t how magic worked, not really. That was just fairytales and nursery rhymes. So why was she still off balance?

“What train?” Wendel said.

“The train in Petroseni,” she said. “It leaves in about an hour.”

He moved alongside her, struggling to breathe steadily. “We’re walking there?”

“No,” she said.

Ardis nodded in the direction of camp, shadowed by the zeppelins of the medics.

“We’re flying.”

~

Wendel leaned against the wall of the zeppelin’s utilitarian cargo hold, his eyes closed, as diesel engines powered the airship skyward. Ardis studied him more closely, now that he wasn’t looking. He wore a borrowed shirt and black long coat that were slightly too big for him. The sleeves of the coat partly covered his clenched fingers.

“You!” A man whistled at her, like she was a dog. “Can you hear me?”

It was the medic who had cured Wendel on the battlefield.

Ardis narrowed her eyes. “What?”

“Make sure he gets plenty of fluids,” he said. “He may need another blood transfusion.”

She glared at the medic. “I’m a mercenary, not a nurse.”

“I’ll do it,” Wendel said, without opening his eyes. “I’ll get the blood and the whatnot.”

The medic took a step back, startled, but recovered quickly. “And apply a fresh bandage to the wound in a few hours.”

Wendel opened his eyes a sliver. “Yes, sir.”

The medic didn’t seem to detect any sarcasm in his voice, so he nodded and walked away.

Ardis glanced at Wendel. She wanted to ask how he was feeling, but she didn’t want to sound like she cared, not like
that
.

“I’m fine,” he said to her, and he looked into her eyes. “I’m not going to die.”

She didn’t blink. “Don’t. That would be counterproductive.”

Wendel’s smile was startlingly swift and genuine. He was even more handsome when he smiled, not that it surprised her.

“You Americans,” he said. “Always so tactful.”

Ardis was aware of her fast heartbeat, but she didn’t look away. “Always.”

Wendel’s smile faded, and she was sad to see it go. Why did someone as bad as a necromancer have to look so good?

“How long of a flight is this going to be?” he said.

“About thirty minutes,” she said, “in this weather. Do you hate flying?”

He shrugged. “I’m indifferent to flying.” He tilted his head. “Is thirty minutes long enough for me to hear your long and boring genealogy?”

Ardis wrinkled her nose. “Why do you want to know?”

“You intrigue me.”

She would have sworn he was trying to charm her, but he wasn’t smiling anymore. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

Ardis fidgeted against the cold steel of the zeppelin, then folded her legs under herself.

“You first,” she said.

Wendel let his head fall back against the wall. “I come from a long line of Prussian nobility, but I still managed to inherit bad blood.”

Prussian. Well, that explained the flawless German.

“It’s inherited? The necromancy?”

He shrugged. “Apparently a great-great-great grandfather of mine had the talent, but he didn’t live for long. We rarely do.”

Ardis was afraid to ask why.

“You said nobility,” she said. “What family?”

Wendel’s jaw tightened, and he narrowed his eyes. “They aren’t my family now. They disinherited me years ago.”

“For being what you are?”

He arched his eyebrows, and she felt stupid for even asking. “Yes.”

She wondered if he sounded so bitter because he had been the heir to a great fortune. Prussian nobles were all rich, even younger sons.

“And you?” His voice sounded lighter now, almost bantering. “Your family?”

A knot tightened in her stomach. “My mother came from China.”

“And your father?”

She shrugged. “I never met him. He wasn’t Chinese. Obviously.”

Wendel nodded and glanced at her hair. She felt her cheeks warm, and she wished she didn’t look foreign wherever she went.

“I assume your sword also came from China,” he said.

“Yes,” she said. “It’s called a
jian
.”

Ardis drew Chun Yi halfway and let the light glint off the battered old blade, highlighting the two characters engraved just below the crossguard. She couldn’t read Chinese, but she knew they must be name of the sword.

“These are the characters for Chun Yi,” she said. “Pure Justice.”

Wendel raised one eyebrow with an impeccably sardonic look.

“And how exactly,” he said, “did Pure Justice happen to fall into your hands?”

“Family heirloom,” she said, which wasn’t entirely a lie.

“Heirloom?” His eyes glinted. “Shouldn’t that sword be hanging over a mantelpiece?”

Might as well tell him the truth. It might even intimidate the necromancer.

“It was,” she said. “Until I killed a man with it.”

He laughed, then grimaced. “Don’t make me laugh.”

Wendel’s hand hovered over his ribs. Ardis could see how much it hurt him just to breathe. His lips looked vaguely blue.

“I’m not joking,” she said. “I didn’t think I could kill anyone until he was dead.”

That caught his attention.

“Did he deserve to die?” he said.

She stared fiercely at him. “He wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

He narrowed his eyes, then closed them and shivered.

“Are you cold?” she said.

His eyes stayed shut. “It’s winter. We’re all cold.”

“Cold from the blood loss.” She balled her hands into fists and slid closer to him. “I could get a medic for you now.”

Wendel opened his eyes. “Ardis,” he said quietly. “The medics have done enough.”

“But he was right. You need a new bandage, and—”

“Later.”

Ardis started to stand. “Let me—”

The necromancer caught her by the wrist, and his icy fingers shocked her. The fact that he was
touching
her shocked her even more.

“No,” he whispered. “They will only ask more questions.”

Ardis stared at his hand on her skin, felt the pressure of his grasp on her wrist bones, and her heart drummed in her chest.

“They don’t know who you are,” she said.

His stare was intense, his eyes vivid with determination.

“It isn’t too hard,” he said, “for them to find out.”

Ardis swallowed hard and glanced around the zeppelin. Nobody seemed to notice them, or the way Wendel’s touch was making her feel. She had to pretend it didn’t bother her. His hands were strong and slightly calloused. She could imagine they belonged to a normal man, but she had seen what he had done with them.

“Fine,” she said.

Wendel let go of her, and her skin tingled where his fingers had been. She wanted to rub her hand, but she didn’t want him to see.

“If it bothers you,” he said in a low voice, “my hands are clean.”

Ardis forced herself to meet his eyes. “You know what bothers me.”

Before he could reply, she climbed to her feet and left him leaning against the wall. She busied herself by scanning out the window, though she was only pretending to pay attention to how close they were to their destination.

It didn’t matter how many miles away they were. The necromancer was with her now.

By the time the zeppelin landed in Petroseni, the sky had darkened to plum purple. Ardis’s boots clomped on the landing ramp as she exited the zeppelin and looked around the Transylvanian town. Half-timbered medieval townhouses clustered around the cobblestoned town square. The most modern building here was a train station of soot-blackened red brick, where plumes of smoke muddled the clouds.

“Ready?” Ardis asked Wendel.

The necromancer nodded. He still looked pale, but at least he was steady on his feet. He hadn’t spoken since he had touched her.

“We should be able to catch the eight o’clock train,” she said, “if we hurry.”

He nodded again.

She strode through the town at a brisk pace. He kept up with her, but she noticed he was still breathing much too shallowly.

He
had
coughed up blood earlier. That was never good.

The eight o’clock train idled on the track. Its sleek chrome sides gleamed in the last of the evening light, and the sharp aroma of diesel punctuated the air. Ardis found the ticket booth, nodded at the elderly man inside, and fetched her wallet.

“How much for two sleeper tickets to Vienna?” she said.

“Coach or first class, ma’am?” the ticket-seller said.

“Coach.”

But then Wendel was at her side, a bundle of koronas in his hand. “First class.”

The ticket-seller raised his bushy white eyebrows. “Are the two of you together?”

“Yes.” Wendel peeled off a few bills. “A hundred and fifty koronas should cover it?”

“Certainly, sir.”

Ardis looked sideways at Wendel. She never travelled first class, since it drew too much attention. None of the other passengers ever looked at her like she belonged there, with her American accent and her Chinese eyes.

Wendel took the tickets, then walked to the first class cars on the train.

“Coming?” he called back to Ardis.

She hurried to his side as he handed the tickets to the conductor, who glanced between them with obvious curiosity on his face.

“Your cabin is number seven,” the conductor said, “down the hallway on the right.”

Cabin? Singular?

Wendel offered his arm to help Ardis up, playing the part of gentleman, but she shook her head and climbed on without him.

First class was indeed luxurious, with wood paneling on the walls and elaborate cut-glass shades on the lamps. Ardis found their cabin and slid open the door. Two bench seats in paisley velveteen faced each other. She fiddled with one until it folded out into a berth. At least they would be sleeping opposite each other.

If
she could even manage to fall asleep tonight.

Her jaw taut, she folded the berth back into a seat once more and glared at it. Then she sank onto the seat and rubbed her face as if she could erase her fatigue. Her dirty boots looked out of place on the plush carpet.

Wendel stood in the doorway of the cabin. His face was unreadable.

“Nice little stunt back there,” she said.

“Stunt?” he said.

“If you want to lie low, first class isn’t the way to do it.”

“I always travel first class.”

She narrowed her eyes. “How lucky of you.”

“If I suddenly travelled coach,” he said, “it would look suspicious.”

“Suspicious to who?”

Wendel walked into the cabin, and slid the door shut behind himself. He sidestepped past her and drew the curtains on the window. He was standing awfully close to her. It made her want to leave the room, but she kept a poker face. Wincing, he sat on the seat opposite her and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.