look lovely,” Spebbington slurred.
“Thank you.” Wendel shut the door and shoved the deadbolt home, while Spebbington pawed at his hips and planted a wet kiss on his mouth. Grimacing, Wendel shoved him toward the bed, where he fell with a stupid grin.
Panting, Spebbington unbuttoned his trousers, his fingers clumsy. “A little help?”
“Allow me to decline.”
“As your sultan, I command you to disrobe.”
“Henry Spebbington.” Wendel sighed. “I’m here to kill you.”
It took him a moment. “Pardon?”
“As a businessman, you understand the situation.” Wendel slipped a knife from his sash. “It’s nothing personal.”
“Wait!” Spebbington scrabbled around the bed, his trousers at his ankles. “Stop!”
Damn it, he couldn’t let him scream. Wendel caught the man against the mattress and, without blinking, stabbed the knife into his throat. Spebbington struggled, his fingers at his neck, breath gurgling from his mouth.
Wendel waited until he felt the man die; the sensation of mist cooling his skin.
The client requested that he interrogate Spebbington. Kill first, ask questions later. What a waste of his necromancy.
Wendel clenched his jaw until his teeth ached. His magic crawled from his bones and skittered over his skin like icy fire. He focused on the corpse, directing his power into the body, reviving the man as his undead minion.
Spebbington opened his eyes. He stared at the necromancer, his master.
Wendel recalled the client’s questions. “What is your current net worth?”
“Four-hundred thousand pounds, sir.”
Damn. No wonder someone wanted him dead. “The value of your estate?”
“Twenty thousand.”
Shadows of memories darted between them. A manor house; a Rolls Royce he bought to impress his late wife; his daughter running down the drive to meet him. Grimacing, Wendel closed his eyes, his concentration shaken.
Cora. His daughter’s name.
“Who—” Wendel struggled to remember the last question. “Who inherits your wealth?”
“My daughter, sir, upon marriage.”
Unwanted emotion hit the necromancer. He fought the feeling; it wasn’t his to own. Spebbington loved Cora. Loved her enough to indulge her wish to travel. God, she was in the worst possible place: Constantinople.
Wendel relinquished control. The empty puppet collapsed on the mattress.
Spebbington stared at the ceiling with empty eyes. Trembling, Wendel wiped the knife on the sheets. Blood soaked the bed.
Necromancy never turned his stomach, not the magic itself, but sharing memories...
Sometimes, they wanted him to hide the body. This wasn’t one of those times. His client wanted a scandal. Spebbington’s corpse would be found in a disreputable club in Constantinople, little better than a whorehouse.
Would his daughter find him? Would she even know when to run?
Meticulously, Wendel poured water into a basin and washed his hands. Once, twice, and he still felt dirty. Red stained the water. He couldn’t shake the feeling of having touched the dead. He never could. Scrubbing his skin raw proved a temporary solution. Abandoning the room, he shoved through the back door of the club.
Time to return to the Serpent’s Tower and report on the job.
But Wendel lingered by the Bosporus, washing his face and his hands in the lukewarm water. He breathed in the stink of fish, but it wasn’t enough to distract him. His eyes unfocused, he stared at the luminous horizon.
God, he couldn’t let this happen.
***
When Wendel dressed as a gentleman, the disguise suited him well. He hailed a cab to the Byzantine Hotel, a grand affair of granite, and tipped the doorman generously. Boots clicking on marble, he advanced on the desk.
The woman behind the desk straightened with a smile. “May I help you, sir?”
Wendel slid a card across. “Albert Darcy-Arlington, Earl of Shaftesbury.” A complete lie, though the earl was a distant cousin.
She clutched the card in both hands. “What an
“Thank you.” Wendel shut the door and shoved the deadbolt home, while Spebbington pawed at his hips and planted a wet kiss on his mouth. Grimacing, Wendel shoved him toward the bed, where he fell with a stupid grin.
Panting, Spebbington unbuttoned his trousers, his fingers clumsy. “A little help?”
“Allow me to decline.”
“As your sultan, I command you to disrobe.”
“Henry Spebbington.” Wendel sighed. “I’m here to kill you.”
It took him a moment. “Pardon?”
“As a businessman, you understand the situation.” Wendel slipped a knife from his sash. “It’s nothing personal.”
“Wait!” Spebbington scrabbled around the bed, his trousers at his ankles. “Stop!”
Damn it, he couldn’t let him scream. Wendel caught the man against the mattress and, without blinking, stabbed the knife into his throat. Spebbington struggled, his fingers at his neck, breath gurgling from his mouth.
Wendel waited until he felt the man die; the sensation of mist cooling his skin.
The client requested that he interrogate Spebbington. Kill first, ask questions later. What a waste of his necromancy.
Wendel clenched his jaw until his teeth ached. His magic crawled from his bones and skittered over his skin like icy fire. He focused on the corpse, directing his power into the body, reviving the man as his undead minion.
Spebbington opened his eyes. He stared at the necromancer, his master.
Wendel recalled the client’s questions. “What is your current net worth?”
“Four-hundred thousand pounds, sir.”
Damn. No wonder someone wanted him dead. “The value of your estate?”
“Twenty thousand.”
Shadows of memories darted between them. A manor house; a Rolls Royce he bought to impress his late wife; his daughter running down the drive to meet him. Grimacing, Wendel closed his eyes, his concentration shaken.
Cora. His daughter’s name.
“Who—” Wendel struggled to remember the last question. “Who inherits your wealth?”
“My daughter, sir, upon marriage.”
Unwanted emotion hit the necromancer. He fought the feeling; it wasn’t his to own. Spebbington loved Cora. Loved her enough to indulge her wish to travel. God, she was in the worst possible place: Constantinople.
Wendel relinquished control. The empty puppet collapsed on the mattress.
Spebbington stared at the ceiling with empty eyes. Trembling, Wendel wiped the knife on the sheets. Blood soaked the bed.
Necromancy never turned his stomach, not the magic itself, but sharing memories...
Sometimes, they wanted him to hide the body. This wasn’t one of those times. His client wanted a scandal. Spebbington’s corpse would be found in a disreputable club in Constantinople, little better than a whorehouse.
Would his daughter find him? Would she even know when to run?
Meticulously, Wendel poured water into a basin and washed his hands. Once, twice, and he still felt dirty. Red stained the water. He couldn’t shake the feeling of having touched the dead. He never could. Scrubbing his skin raw proved a temporary solution. Abandoning the room, he shoved through the back door of the club.
Time to return to the Serpent’s Tower and report on the job.
But Wendel lingered by the Bosporus, washing his face and his hands in the lukewarm water. He breathed in the stink of fish, but it wasn’t enough to distract him. His eyes unfocused, he stared at the luminous horizon.
God, he couldn’t let this happen.
***
When Wendel dressed as a gentleman, the disguise suited him well. He hailed a cab to the Byzantine Hotel, a grand affair of granite, and tipped the doorman generously. Boots clicking on marble, he advanced on the desk.
The woman behind the desk straightened with a smile. “May I help you, sir?”
Wendel slid a card across. “Albert Darcy-Arlington, Earl of Shaftesbury.” A complete lie, though the earl was a distant cousin.
She clutched the card in both hands. “What an
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