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The gray-haired woman bent over the casket, weeping, and kissed a cross placed on Hieronymus’s chest. His widow? When she walked away from the casket, she was comforted by others. My chest tightened, and I backed out of the procession. No one questioned my behavior. Perhaps they mistook it for grief.
Wendel strode to the casket and bent over the body as if paying his respects.
Hieronymus sat upright.
His widow glanced back, looked into his dead eyes, and collapsed in a faint. Screams and gasps punctuated the silence. I gripped my sword, ready for a fight.
One word echoed in the church. “Necromancer!”
Wendel offered his dagger to the corpse. Hieronymus seized the dagger and grabbed him by the jaw. He shoved Wendel’s head back, yanked open his mouth, and carved an X across his tongue.
It looked like he was crossing out the curse.
Wendel broke away from Hieronymus, doubled over, and spat what looked like black ink onto the carpet. The corpse collapsed in the casket.
Wendel wiped his mouth on his sleeve and raked his hair from his eyes with a shaking hand. After taking back his dagger, he faced the horrified crowd.
To them, he was a sinister man cloaked in black, his pale face devoid of emotion.
“You can bury the body now,” he said, his voice unbelievably hoarse.
A priest darted toward the necromancer and tossed a whole flask of holy water into his face. Wendel curled his lip and dried himself on his cloak, then flipped up his hood and strode down the aisle to the doors.
When the priest tried to follow, I blocked his path. “No.”
Even if he didn’t understand English, he understood my hand on my sword.
Quickly, I exited the church. Wendel waited for me outside. Bending with his hands on his knees, he spat more of what looked like ink.
“This curse tastes horrible,” he rasped.
“Are you bleeding?” I asked.
When he dabbed his tongue with a handkerchief, it was stained black. “I don’t think so. And it definitely doesn’t hurt so damn much.”
The priest ran from the church, brandishing a cross, followed by a mob of mourners.
We shared a glance. “We should go,” I said.
“Before they bring pitchforks.”
I shot him a glare for the wisecrack.
We didn’t stop running until we had reached the banks of the Bosporus, where we slowed to a walk. Our breathing clouded the salty air.
Wendel flung back his head. “Finally!” he shouted.
I grimaced at him. “We should keep quiet. We just desecrated a funeral.”
“Desecrated?” He laughed, and it was only a little rusty. “Did I do anything to the body? Believe me, I thought about it, but even I have morals.”
“You do?” I deadpanned.
He gave me a look. “Ardis. Please.”
Shivers ran down my spine. “I thought I might never hear you say my name again.”
Closing his eyes, he leaned down and rested his forehead against mine. He may have had his voice back, but he didn’t seem to know what to say.
