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He said nothing. He had the grim look of a man resigned to kill or be killed.
Finally, I boarded the train alone.
I shared a couchette car with three German women in the white uniforms of nurses. They kept eyeing my sword, though they were very polite. I stashed Chun Yi in the luggage rack, kicked off my boots, and lay down on my berth.
What if I never saw Wendel again? What if one of us died before I returned?
Damn it, I wasn’t going to cry, not in a couchette car with three strangers.
The overnight train clattered from Vienna and ventured into the deepening darkness. I closed my eyes and welcomed the oblivion of sleep.
I dreamed of blood, guns, and smoldering magic.
18
Frankfurt and Brussels passed by in a blur of gray skies as I sprinted through train stations to make my transfers. When I arrived in Antwerp on Monday morning, I hopped from the train and glanced around with bleary eyes.
So, this was the new Antwerp Central Station. I had heard about its impressive arches, ornate stonework, and immense windows that fanned like peacock tails. In America, you didn’t get this kind of fairytale architecture.
I peered at a clock mounted above a gilded molding of Antwerp’s coat of arms.
A quarter past eight.
Damn, I was late. Diesel’s train arrived from Ghent at eight o’clock sharp, and I was supposed to meet him here.
I broke into a run and rushed down the platform. A conductor blew his whistle at me, signaling for me to slow down, but I ignored him. Staggered by the immensity of the entrance hall, I slowed to a jog. I reached into my jacket and took out a photograph of Diesel from the envelope Margareta had given me in Vienna. He wore spectacles over his dark eyes, and had a neatly trimmed white mustache.
Photograph in hand, I hunted for him in the entrance hall.
Diesel sat on a bench with his hands folded in his lap. He wore an understated suit that still looked costly. He had the same calm expression as his likeness in the photograph. When I walked up to him, he glanced into my eyes.
I squared my shoulders. “Dr. Rudolf Diesel?”
“Yes?”
“My name is Ardis. The Archmages of Vienna sent me to accompany you.”
“Of course. Much as I would rather travel alone.”
A subtle accent sharpened his soft voice. He had been born in Paris, then lived in London. He was a wanderer like me.
“Sir?” I asked. “Are you ready?”
Diesel bent to grab his luggage. I took his bag for him.
He cleared his throat and stepped back. “Please, let me. I don’t require a porter as well as a bodyguard.”
“I insist,” I said, though his bag was heavy.
Diesel sighed. “Very well. Shall we?”
He strolled toward the doors. I matched his stride. It was awkward to carry the bag with Chun Yi sheathed at my waist, though I managed not to struggle. He shouldn’t believe I was weak—or worse, extraneous.
“I had hoped for a bite to eat,” Diesel said, “unless the archmages wish otherwise?”
“I go where you go, sir.”
When my stomach rumbled, Diesel’s mustache didn’t quite hide his small smile. As we stepped from Antwerp Central, the early sunlight slanted down into our eyes. He winced and pinched the bridge of his nose.
