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1
Icursed under my breath when I found him, because I was almost too late.
A man knelt in the bloodstained snow, his head bowed, his face hidden by his long black hair. His ragged breaths fogged the air. He clutched his arm with pale fingers, though that did little to slow the crimson soaking his clothes.
He had to be the necromancer.
I had hunted him down at last. In this snow-blanketed forest, there was no one else but the dead.
He looked too elegant for the battlefield, with its mud and broken bodies. With shaking hands, he unbuttoned his black coat of wool and wolverine fur, which was much too fine for a soldier or rebel. It belonged in a wealthy gentleman’s wardrobe. He tossed aside the coat and gripped his arm tighter. Red trickled between his knuckles.
When snow crunched under my boots, every muscle in his body tensed.
He staggered to his feet. “I’m unarmed.”
He had a honey-gravel voice that made his words both smooth and rough, and he spoke German without any trace of an accent.
Where was he from?
“Don’t move,” I commanded, also in German.
His hair still obscured his expression. My fingers tightened around the hilt of Chun Yi, my sword. Its familiar sharkskin was a comfort.
When the wind blew his hair from his face, I forgot everything but him.
Starkly handsome, he had cheekbones so sharp you could cut yourself on them. Dark stubble shadowed his jaw. His lips curved into a smirk, as if he knew exactly why I was staring at him. His stunning eyes glinted a pale, absinthe green.
Looking into his eyes was a mistake.
They were haunted—the eyes of a man who had seen too much, done too much. The emotions in his gaze ran so deep that it was impossible not to drown in them. Worse, he stared at me with what could only be longing.
Tension thickened the air between us. My heartbeat was hammering in my throat.
He kept smirking. “How are you going to kill me?”
“I haven’t decided yet,” I lied. Lying seemed safest.
“I would prefer your dagger. It looks sharp.”
“Sword.”
“Ah. My apologies.”
I narrowed my eyes. How glib he sounded, like we were in a fencing match, and he had merely lost. But this wasn’t a game.
“I know what you are,” I said. “Necromancer.”
He arched his eyebrows, though he didn’t deny it. “Do you knowwhoI am?”
“No,” I admitted.
“My name is Wendel.”
No longer nameless, he was more than justthe necromancernow. I glanced into his eyes before forcing myself to look away.
“Thank you for telling me,” I said, to disguise my unease. “I will make sure it goes on your grave.”
He laughed, despite himself. “You won’t have to wait long.”
