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“What?”
He read another headline out loud: “‘Balkan Powder Keg Ready to Blow.’”
I snorted. “Optimistic of them.”
“Austria wants to investigate the Black Hand, but Serbia isn’t cooperating.”
“That’s not good.”
“An understatement. If Russia swoops in like Serbia’s guardian angel?—”
“Or bully of a big brother?—”
“Hex or no Hex,” he continued, “war is inevitable.”
He wasn’t wrong. I didn’t disagree with him in the slightest. The Hex wouldn’t stop the simmering tensions in Europe from boiling over eventually.
He tossed aside the newspaper. “What time is it?”
“Late in the morning?”
He flagged down a waiter. “The time?”
“Half past nine, sir,” said the waiter.
Wendel frowned at his coffee like it had failed him somehow. “Damn, I’m late.”
“For what?”
He shoved his chair from the table. Grimacing, he pinched the bridge of his nose, no doubt still fighting his headache. “I have an appointment.”
“With who?”
His grimace deepened. “Konstantin.”
“What does he want?”
“He wouldn’t say. His attempts at secrecy are more obnoxious than anything else.”
Excitement hopped inside me like a cricket. “Maybe it’s about Diesel.”
“Maybe.”
I crammed the last bit of toast into my mouth and brushed crumbs from my hands. After Wendel paid the bill, I followed him into the street. Wind whirled down the street, scattering rain into our faces.
“I don’t plan to be gone for long,” he said.
“Wendel. It might be about Diesel. I’m coming.”
He muttered what sounded like a German swearword still unfamiliar to me. “Fine.”
“Thanks.”
“Any idea where the Dirty Boar is?”
“The Dirty Boar? That’s a brewpub.”
“A brewpub? Fantastic. Konstantin is an idiot.”
