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Wendel studied my face. “Youdolook as tired as I feel.”
“We were up nearly the whole night.”
“For all the wrong reasons.” He deadpanned it perfectly, a wicked glint in his eyes. “I did entertain the thought of going back to bed.”
10
Was he serious? Or just teasing me?
Curiosity flickered in his eyes. He slid his thumb along the rim of his coffee cup, the muscles in his jaw tightening. Heat rose inside me like a slow boil. Wasn’t I supposed to be the one seducing him? His close proximity turned everything upside down. Flustered, I focused on my newspaper instead of him.
“You read German?” he asked.
My heartbeat calmed down. “Badly,” I admitted.
He walked his fingers across the table and tugged the newspaper to him. “It’s all boring anyway. Just the bickering of cousins who are kings.”
“And you don’t care, being a prince?”
“A prince who never was, and never will be.” He said it flippantly and thumbed through the newspaper. Then he cocked his head. “Perhaps I spoke too soon. Well, Ardis, it looks like politics isn’t so boring after all.”
“What happened?”
He jabbed the headline. “Didn’t you read this?”
“Not before you stole the newspaper from me,” I scoffed.
He cleared his throat. “‘Heir to Austrian Throne Attacked,’” he read. “‘Archduke Franz Ferdinand Survives Stabbing.’”
I straightened in my chair. “Who did it?”
“My money is on the Serbs.” He shrugged. “It looks like the Archduke was hunting in Bosnia with local dignitaries, killing deer in the name of diplomacy. Franz can thank the Hex he’s alive. A Serbian lunatic knifed him in broad daylight, but only wounded his Imperial and Royal Highness’s arm.”
That secret society in Serbia must have sent the assassin. “Was it the Black Hand?”
“Yes.” He glanced into my eyes. “You knew?”
I sipped my coffee. “The Black Hand has been helping the Romanian rebellion, even if the King of Serbia won’t dirty his hands.”
“He isn’t stupid. Serbia hasn’t got the army to fight Austria-Hungary.”
“Neither do the Romanians, but that hasn’t stopped them. Not even the Hex.”
“Sir?” The waiter returned to our table. “May I have a word with you?”
Wendel arched one eyebrow. “Yes?”
The waiter cleared his throat. “I’m afraid your presence in the dining car is making the other passengers uncomfortable. We would like to recommend that you dine alone in your cabin. Complimentary room service.”
At several nearby tables, diners stole glances at the necromancer and whispered among themselves. I suspected that a particularly red-faced family of five had been the ones to make the complaint to the waiter.
Wendel’s eyes hardened, but he tossed his napkin onto the table.
“Excuse me?” I asked. “We aren’t leaving.”
The waiter’s thin mustache twitched. “This dining car is welcoming to guests of all ages. Surely you understand why people with more delicate constitutions—children, the elderly—might be offended by his profession.”
“I don’t understand the welcoming part. Offended, yes.”
