Shadows of Asphodel (18 page)

“Konstantin told you all this?” Ardis said.

He snorted. “The archmage talks too much. You ask him one question, and he prattles on for thirty minutes about his precious technomancy. I have no clue why he even trusts me, although of course he needs my expertise.”

Ardis suspected Konstantin was just naïve enough to be impressed by Wendel.

“What kind of military tech?” she said.

“You should see it.” His eyes gleamed. “It’s fascinating. Have you heard of automatons?”

“I saw them at an exposition, once.”

“Imagine a man inside of an automaton,” he said. “Or a solider in a suit of armor that gives him superhuman strength. Thanks to some really clever magic, the man inside the machine can operate the metal arms and legs.”

“Let me guess,” she said, “the really clever magic is your doing?”

“Exactly.” He spread his hands. “Though I can’t take all the credit.”

“How humble of you.”

He tipped his head. “Konstantin was the one who thought of copying my necromancy so a soldier could control the automaton. When I revive the dead, I can control them from a distance. I only need to touch them once. Together, the archmage and I mimicked that particular aspect of my magic. A feeble imitation, but enough.”

Ardis sat up straighter. “And they must want Diesel for the mechanical work.”

“Precisely,” he said.

“But Diesel wouldn’t want to help the Germans, which is why they had to
encourage
him to join the team for Project Lazarus.”

Wendel arched an eyebrow. “Yet another insight,” he said dryly.

“Oh, please.” She picked up her knife and fork. “Tell that to Margareta. She told me to take three weeks of leave.”

He frowned. “For what?”

“For getting angry and running my mouth. I’m the only one who knows what happened to Diesel. Me and that blonde bitch, Natalya.”

“Blonde bitch?”

“The mercenary who abducted him. God, she looked ridiculous in that waitress uniform.”

Wendel squinted. “She was there the whole time?”

“She must have been.” Ardis waved at the side of her head. “The bitch pistol-whipped me. My memory is foggy.”

“She knocked you out?”

“It wasn’t that bad of a concussion,” she said.

He cocked his head, the daylight slanting through his eyes, then reached across the table as if he meant to caress her face.

“Here?” he said.

She nodded. “But I—”

He laid his hand on the side of her head, lightly, but it was enough to set off a ripple of dull pain. She jerked away from him.

“That hurts,” she said.

Wendel winced in sympathy, but didn’t bother to apologize. Ardis lowered her face and pressed her fingertips to her temples.

“Damn it,” she muttered, “if my headache comes back…”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

His words were gentle, so she tried not to glower at him. “Last night wasn’t the time for confessions,” she said, “don’t you think?”

He coughed. “Fair point.”

Ardis blinked a few times and picked up her fork, thankful she still had an appetite. Wendel reached across the table again, and she flinched, but this time he only rested his hand over hers and squeezed her fingers.

“You should rest,” he said. “If it still hurts—”

“I’m fine,” she said.

He smiled skeptically. “You aren’t a nurse, remember?”

“And you aren’t a doctor.”

“I
could
be.” He smirked. “I would, of course, order you straight to bed.”

“Wendel!”

She yanked her hand away and tried very hard not to laugh. He leaned back and smugly sliced his toast. When she looked at him, she found it hard to catch her breath, and felt emotions like a flight of birds through her chest.

“Wendel,” she said, before she lost her courage.

He glanced at her with questioning eyebrows.

She bowed her head. “I wish—I wish we could have more of this.”

“Poor knights? Let me ask the—”

“No.
This
.”

Wordlessly, she looked into his eyes. She didn’t know how to tell him how happy he made her when he was like this. And how afraid she was that it wouldn’t last, because this was only a glimpse of a Wendel that could have been.

“This,” he repeated.

She couldn’t read his voice, and she swallowed hard.

He glanced out the window and scanned the street. She watched tension return to the way he held his jaw. He tossed his napkin onto the table and drank a slow swig of water, then waved his arm at nothing in particular.

“It’s a lovely day,” he said. “Walk with me.”

She nodded and finished the last bite of her toast. He paid for their breakfast, and they left the Café Amsel together.

Wind tugged at Ardis’s jacket and tossed Wendel’s hair behind him in ribbons of black. With the sun lurking behind clouds, his skin looked white, his eyes almost as gray as the sky. He hesitated outside of the café, then met her eyes.

“Have you seen the cathedral?” he said.

Before she could reply, he hooked his fingers between hers and tugged her onward. He held her hand a little tighter than needed.

“I have,” she said, “but we can go there again.”

His smile was fleeting, and she wondered why.

They walked down the Ringstrasse, an old road built on the memory of an even older wall that once circled the heart of Vienna. At the center of the city, the great Gothic tower of St. Stephen’s soared heavenward. The cathedral’s roof gleamed richly with a mosaic of twin black eagles—one for Vienna, one for Austria.

Ardis remembered the eagle on Wendel’s neck, and she felt a flicker of anticipation in her stomach. Tonight, she would get him to talk.

The bells of St. Stephen’s began to ring. The heavenly clamor chimed over Vienna.

“The Angelus.” Wendel quickened his pace. “It must be noon already.”

“The Angelus?”

He shrugged. “A Catholic devotion. They ring the Angelus bell three times a day.”

“I didn’t think you were Catholic.”

“I’m not,” he said. “Though I do love cathedrals.”

They arrived on the steps of St. Stephen’s, dwarfed by its Gothic immensity, and Wendel held one of the iron-barred doors open. They stepped into the hush within. Incense and beeswax candles scented the air.

“Necromancers and cathedrals?” Ardis murmured. “You hardly seem holy.”

Wendel leaned close enough that his breath stirred her hair.

“I love cathedrals,” he whispered, “because they often have catacombs beneath them. Don’t act startled, but someone has been following us.”

Ardis tensed, her hand itching for Chun Yi. “Who?”

“Keep walking,” he said, “toward the high altar.”

As they strolled through the rows of pews, he murmured in her ear.

“An assassin from the Order of the Asphodel.” A muscle in his jaw twitched, but he smiled sardonically. “The bastard hasn’t found the balls to come after me yet, though I suppose he
did
see what happened to the others.”

She tried to talk without moving her mouth. “Others?”

“Six of them.” He shrugged. “So far.”

“You killed them all?”

“Not all at once,” he said, modestly.

Wendel turned toward the cathedral’s north tower. Ardis followed him, the muscles in her back tensing as if she expected a knife between her shoulder blades. Would the assassin dare attack in the sanctuary of a cathedral?

“Are we safe here?” she said.

He looked sideways at her. “Safe? Don’t worry, the assassins want me alive. I’m infinitely more valuable to them that way.”

She grimaced. “But I’m not infinitely valuable.”

He touched his lips to her earlobe, earning them a glare from a passing priest.

“You are to me,” he said softly. “Stay close. Once we reach the catacombs, the assassin won’t be able to resist attacking.” He held out his hands and shrugged. “I have to admit, it’s so much easier when they come to me.”

Ardis shivered, and not only because they had reached the entrance to the crypt.

Together they descended the stairs, each granite step worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. The glow from the candlelight and cathedral’s windows dimmed as they walked into the lantern-lit darkness. The crypt twisted underground like a macabre rabbit’s warren. She had never been down here before, but had heard rumors of royal innards kept in sarcophagi, and more common bones tossed in the catacombs.

“The catacombs are down this passageway,” Wendel said.

His voice sounded rougher than usual, taut with what could be expectation. He sucked in some air and let out a shuddering breath.

“I can feel them,” he muttered. “Thousands. Tens of thousands.”

Ardis gave him a questioning glance.

He shut his eyes. “The dead.”

The tiny hairs on Ardis’s arms stood at attention. She didn’t even see the catacombs yet, but clearly that didn’t stop the necromancer from feeling the bones through solid stone and earth. When she touched Wendel’s wrist, the electricity of his magic crawled onto her skin. She flinched away and rubbed her fingers together.

“Is there another way out of the catacombs?” she said. “Or is it a dead end?”

“A dead end?” he said, and he laughed.

“I’m serious.”

“There are two ways out. The way we came in, and stairs to the outside of the cathedral.”

She nudged his elbow to get him walking again. She didn’t want them to be the ones who never left the catacombs alive.

They strode down the shadowy tunnel, past mildew-slicked stone walls that glistened in the flickering lamplight. It felt like the weight of the entire cathedral aboveground flattened the air. She struggled to breathe steadily.

“It’s claustrophobic in here,” Ardis whispered.

Wendel shot a glance her way. “If we are lucky, this will be quick.” He guided her to the left. “Hurry, through here.”

They pushed through an iron-barred door that creaked on rusty hinges. Beyond, there was no light. The door groaned shut behind them and plunged them into utter darkness. A sliver of lamplight slithered under the door. Wendel took Ardis’s hand and tugged her forward, but she dug her heels into the dirt.

“Wait,” she whispered. “Step back!”

Ardis fumbled for Chun Yi and swept the jian from its scabbard. Smoldering rushed through the steel and instantly banished the darkness. And then she could see the bones, hundreds, thousands, stacked inside the catacombs like kindling for a bonfire in hell. Skulls stared back at her with empty eye sockets.

Wendel’s stunned face looked ghostly by the glow of the blade.

“Your sword!” he said. “Where did you—?”

“Same old sword,” she said. “A swordsmith unlocked the enchantment for me.”

He eyed the sword. “What sort of enchantment?”

“Blood magic,” she said, as casually as she could manage.

Wendel inhaled sharply. “Blood magic? Christ.”

“You know a thing or two about it?”

“Enough.”

Wendel reached into his jacket and withdrew his black dagger.

“Take my hand,” he said. “I want to try something.”

Chun Yi crackled in her hand, and Ardis’s stomach somersaulted. Frowning, she intertwined her fingers with Wendel’s. Smoke unfurled from Amarant and spiraled down Wendel’s hand, covering his skin with shadows. When they ran from his hand to hers, fiery pain burned her in the shape of his fingerprints.

Ardis gasped. “Let go!”

She yanked away and leapt back, shaking her hand. Her skin looked unmarked, but it still ached where he had touched her. Shadows dissolved from Wendel as he pocketed Amarant. He reached for her, then stopped himself.

“Did I hurt you?” he said.

“No,” she lied. “I’m fine.”

“I don’t trust your sword.” Wendel grimaced. “Seems evil to me.”

She glowered at him. “Evil? It must be
your
dagger—”

“Quiet!”

They fell silent. Outside the door to the catacombs, they could hear footsteps echoing down the tunnel. It sounded like only one person, though they weren’t even trying to be stealthy. Wendel stole closer to the sound.

“Get rid of it,” he whispered.

“What?”

“Your damn burning sword. Quickly!”

Ardis sheathed Chun Yi and plunged them into darkness again. She edged toward Wendel, her arms outstretched like a blindfolded child playing a game. Sweat trickled down her back in the clammy air, and she tried to breathe. She was afraid she was taking great ragged gulps of air that sounded far too loud.

“I’m here,” he whispered.

He touched her shoulder. She felt her way along his arm and pressed herself close him. His heartbeat thudded against her chest.

She lowered her voice so that it was barely audible. “Your plan?”

He shrugged underneath her touch. “Kill the assassin?”

She shut her eyes, though it didn’t make any difference in this inky black. Why did he always have to be
so
arrogant?

The door creaked open.

Wendel sidestepped away from Ardis, leaving her grasping air, and she heard a hissing that had to be Amarant cloaking him in shadows.

Footsteps.

She thought it was Wendel retreating deeper into the catacombs, but she couldn’t be sure. What did he expect her to do? Stand by and watch? God damn it, she was going to kill him herself if they survived this assassin.

A scraping sound, a whoosh, and then a lantern flickered to life.

Ardis flattened her back against the slimy wall, her fingers tight on Chun Yi’s hilt, and held her breath. The light stung her eyes. On the threshold of the catacombs, she saw the silhouette of a sinewy man with a crossbow. She curled her toes inside her boots. She hated crossbows ever since she took a bolt to the leg.

The crossbowman leaned over the threshold and loosed an earsplitting whistle. He wasn’t alone. If she moved fast, maybe she could disarm or disable him before—

A pungent aroma tickled her nostrils. She sniffed the air.

Naphtha.

Her stomach clenched. You never wanted to smell naphtha in combat. And definitely never underground down in some godforsaken catacombs. When the crossbowman stepped aside, her fears walked into the room.

Pyromechanics.