Ward Against Disaster (Entangled Teen) (Chronicles of a Reluctant Necromancer) Read online

  No, that was the blood lure speaking. He needed to do this with as little blood as possible and whatever gifts the Goddess had given him, no more.

  Jotham swallowed hard. “Anything else?”

  At least he didn’t argue about it. “The spell is best done where the execution took place. I’m assuming Dulthyne has an Executioner’s Square? Can you make sure we have some privacy?” The situation would only get worse if the population saw and misunderstood what Ward was trying to do—as was often the case when it came to necromancy.

  “I’ll see what I can do.” The Seer reached for the door latch. “A word, Nazarius.”

  Nazarius glanced at Ward with an unreadable expression, then turned back to Jotham. “Of course.”

  The Tracker followed Jotham out, and the door closed with a click.

  Celia whirled to face Ward. “A rith? Really?” She didn’t sound as if she believed it.

  Well, what was true and what someone wanted weren’t always the same thing—and in Ward’s case they hardly ever were. “Yes.”

  “And you couldn’t have kept that to yourself? This isn’t some damsel in distress.”

  “And with the Seer thinking we’re Quayestri, there’s no way he’ll let us go after Allette until we’ve dealt with this cult. I’m just expediting the matter.”

  “About that.” Celia’s tone darkened. “About someone being a Quayestri, I mean.”

  Ward grabbed his rucksack from the couch where he’d thrown it and dug past his only change of clothes to the bandages at the bottom. He didn’t want to talk about Nazarius, and he certainly had no idea what he could or couldn’t reveal about the Tracker. At least not without incurring the wrath of the Master of the Assassins’ Guild, who happened to also be the personal Seer of the Prince of Brawenal and who had chosen Nazarius to be his personal Tracker.

  Not that Nazarius knew, either, and Ward had been threatened about revealing the Master’s identities to anyone. Hence, a topic best avoided with everyone. “I know it’s rare for an Inquisitor to have any other kind of magic.”

  “That wasn’t what I meant, but since we’re talking about that—”

  “It’ll be easier to banish the rith if I don’t have to do it in secret. Sneaking into the Executioner’s Square without anyone noticing will be difficult enough.”

  “And you’ve done this before?”

  And now she was doubting his ability.

  Of course, he couldn’t really blame her. What made him think he could banish a rith? “Riths are more common than people think.”

  “Which means you’ve done this before?”

  She was probably crossing her arms or raising an eyebrow right now, but he didn’t look back to see if he was right. She knew him too well. He sighed, his chest aching. “I really should take care of this cut.”

  “You didn’t answer my question, Ward de’Ath.”

  “And yet I’m sure you already know the answer.” He grabbed his rucksack to head to the bedrooms to change. One door stood open, the other closed. He saw Nazarius’s bag through the open door, so he knew Celia’s bag was in the other room. Whose room would he pick? The cot in Nazarius’s room—and presumably in Celia’s as well—was too narrow to share, unless the occupants liked to cuddle.

  Heat swept up his neck and blossomed in his cheeks—and not at the idea of cuddling with Nazarius.

  He had to get Celia out of his mind. Or he had to say something. But either option seemed impossible. “You should probably get cleaned up as well.”

  She blew out an exasperated sigh and eased to his side, close, so close. The heat from her body radiated against his skin, melting away the last of the ice from the rith’s touch, and his chest stung even more.

  “You’re going to need help binding that,” she said.

  “I’ll manage.” His pulse thudded.

  She reached for his shirt buttons.

  Goddess, just one touch. That was all he wanted.

  But one touch wouldn’t be enough, and she didn’t mean it like that.

  Her fingers slid the first button free and his breath caught in his throat.

  Even if, hope beyond hope, she wanted the same thing he did, it was still impossible. And yet that was all he wanted, to forget about everything and everyone.

  “I, ah…” He wanted, Goddess, how he wanted like he’d never wanted before. “I…”

  She reached for the next button, lower, only three away from his pants and—

  He grabbed her hands and stepped back. He couldn’t do this. Besides, this wasn’t actually happening. Whatever he felt between them was one-sided. Nothing more. “I can take care of it myself.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Ward. Take the damned shirt off.” She twisted from his grip and threw open her bedroom door. “Wonder if they’ve actually provided us with wash water yet.”

  Ward averted his gaze before he could be reminded of the narrow bed inside, finished taking off his shirt, and dabbed at the bloody line across his chest. It stung, but the bleeding had mostly stopped, indicating it wasn’t too deep—even if the amount of blood on his shirt suggested otherwise. A quick wash and wrapping it in bandages to keep it clean would do the trick.

  But the cut wasn’t enough of a distraction, and his gaze slid back to Celia, who poured water from a silver jug into a bowl on the narrow dressing table and started unbuttoning her blood splattered shirt.

  More heat washed up his neck and over his face. For a heartbeat, he contemplated watching her change. She didn’t care about modesty—she never had, not since the first day he’d woken her from the dead and she’d stripped out of her nightdress right in front of him. Goddess, to see her pale lithe form again, study her not in the way of a physician with a patient, but as a man with a woman—

  She met his gaze, her fingers on a button below her bust, the fabric hanging open just enough to expose the inside curves of her breasts. There was something in her expression. Something strange. He wanted it to be desire, a match to his own, but he wasn’t sure.

  Why was it so difficult to say how he felt?

  But he knew why. Because if she didn’t feel the same way, their friendship would be ruined. Telling her the truth would change everything, and he couldn’t take it back once it was said.

  She bit her lip, her fingers still poised to undo the button.

  Things between them were already different.

  He swallowed hard but his throat was tight. She hesitated to undress and the message was clear. She didn’t want him to see her naked. She knew how he felt and didn’t feel the same way and understood that maintaining her modesty was a way of being gentle on his feelings.

  Ward turned his back to her. He’d promised her he’d figure out what he’d done to her, so she could figure out how to live her unlife, and he intended to keep that promise. That was all they really had between them. The warm attraction curling through him turned hard and cold at the thought. Things just kept getting in the way: Allette, and now this rith and Jotham’s cult. But really, if he found her answers he feared she’d leave. His chest tightened.

  “It’s not going to wash itself,” she said. “And the water isn’t going to get closer.”

  “Ladies first.”

  “Fine. When were you going to tell me Nazarius was a Quayestri?” she asked, her tone icier than ever.

  From one uncomfortable situation to another.

  Nine

  Nazarius returned to the Quayestri suite, clean shirt in hand requisitioned from Dulthyne’s Quartermaster. The sitting room and both bedrooms were empty, but given that it had been close to an hour since he’d left—the Quartermaster’s office had been difficult to find and the man unhappy about having to outfit a Quayestri—Nazarius assumed Ward and Celia were at the Executioner’s Square preparing to banish the rith.

  Jotham would be with them soon, if he wasn’t there already, with the supplies Ward had requested for the spell. Nazarius could only hope Ward had enough common sense to wait until he’d arrived, since
his earlier conversation with Jotham about their situation hadn’t gone well.

  Jotham had been less than pleased that Nazarius and his apprentices hadn’t been sent to Dulthyne as a result of the Seer’s petition to the Grewdian Council for help, and he’d been even more upset about Ward being a necromancer as well as an Inquisitor.

  Boy, his cousin was sure going to be furious if he caught a glimpse of the criminal’s goddess-eye brand on the back of Ward’s neck. Everything would fall apart, Ward’s plans to stop Allette, as well as the Seer of the House of Bralmoore’s plans. Except Nazarius wasn’t sure what that man’s plans were anymore.

  He’d instructed Nazarius to stay close to Ward. He’d warned them against chasing Allette into Dulthyne—although now that Nazarius thought about it, he hadn’t warned too hard. At the time, Nazarius had assumed the Seer knew Ward would stop at nothing to fix his mistake of setting Allette free and letting her run off with one of her Master’s powerful grimoires. But perhaps there was more to the Seer’s visions about Ward that he hadn’t told Nazarius.

  He snorted and strode to the bedroom with his rucksack. Of course there was more to Severin’s vision. There always was. Seers didn’t share everything and, with a Seer like Severin, Nazarius doubted the man shared even a fraction of what he foresaw.

  Except, Nazarius wasn’t sure what to do. He’d been ordered to steal the grimoire Celia had in her possession—but only when the time was right, and he had no idea when that was—as well as who-knew-what-else. And it was the who-knew-what-else that churned his insides.

  He dragged off his filthy shirt, dipped it in the water in his washbasin, and used it to scrub the worst of the grime from his face, neck, and arms. It would have been nice if there were a way to communicate with the Seer, let him know he needed more instructions, and yet the man was a Seer. He probably already knew Nazarius wanted more guidance, and really, was that what Nazarius actually wanted? If the Seer didn’t show up with new orders, perhaps Nazarius could pretend his life wasn’t controlled by a man who could destroy his life and the lives of everyone he knew just by signing a writ of arrest.

  The Seer had made it clear, in no uncertain terms, it was Nazarius’s job to obey. Even if that meant potentially sacrificing a good man like Ward. If the Seer didn’t make contact, maybe Nazarius could pretend his mission was to keep Ward safe, rather than whatever unspoken task the Seer had for him.

  He tossed the old shirt onto the bed. It hit his rucksack and a note slid from the side of the bag.

  That hadn’t been in there before.

  Damn.

  The Seer must have foreseen the need to leave a note and given instructions to a servant to deliver it. For all Nazarius knew, Severin could have made these arrangements months, maybe even years ago.

  For a moment he considered ignoring it, but that wouldn’t make his duty go away.

  He shrugged into his clean shirt and opened the note: Tomorrow. Sunset. Potted tree by reflection pool when you first left the dungeon. Until then, carry on.

  Well that answered that. Keep lying to Ward about why he was helping him, and yet, keep helping him. This was not why he’d joined the Quayestri, although he wasn’t sure—even if commanded by the Seer—that he’d be able to leave Ward until all this was finished. Nazarius was sworn to obey the Seer and owed Ward for the life of his Quayestri partner, and brother-in-arms. Duty and debt. If a man had anything within his control, it was his honor.

  …

  Night had fallen and Celia twitched with the urge to pace while Ward prepared for his spell on the executioner’s platform. She couldn’t believe he’d revealed next to nothing about Nazarius—which made her fear that he really did know next to nothing about the Tracker—and she couldn’t believe he’d put their ruse in jeopardy by telling the Seer of Dulthyne he was a necromancer.

  But then that’s what Ward did. He got caught up with people he didn’t know—herself included—and no matter how much common sense she tried to teach him or how much experience he gained, he always ignored it the moment something necromantic came up.

  At least she couldn’t deny that dealing with the rith first really was the most practical way to get back to hunting Allette. Celia just hoped Ward had the confidence to banish the thing.

  He glanced up in the middle of painting a human-sized octagon in cow’s blood on the raised granite rectangle at the back of the Executioner’s Square. The dark circles under his eyes and his already thin face made him look exhausted. Except the circles had nothing to do with exhaustion. They were the bruises from the broken nose he’d gotten during the final fight with Allette’s master.

  Goddess. She didn’t know how much longer she could go on, not with the tension crackling between them. For a minute, back in the Quayestri suite, she’d thought he’d start something, that he’d forget what she was, but his good sense had gotten the better of him and he’d flinched away from her.

  And really, she had no idea what had gotten into her.

  Perhaps it was seeing that girl, Talbot’s daughter, ready to undress Ward right there on the patio. Just like how Allette had been interested in him when they’d first met. Although from his reaction it was clear he hadn’t been interested in her advances, and his discomfort had been momentarily amusing. After how badly the flirtation with Allette had gone, it would be lucky if Ward trusted another woman again. And Celia feared that mistrust included her.

  “I thought assassins had patience,” Nazarius said, stepping up beside her.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You could power a flour mill with all your fidgeting.”

  “It’s been a while since I’ve killed someone. Care to help put me at ease, Tracker?” She slid her iciest gaze to him. Ward’s ignorance about the man made it her duty to find out the truth.

  He leaned against the wall beside her, his hands resting on the matching hilts at his hips, his well-muscled arms and chest straining his good-quality linen shirt. With a shrug, he turned his attention back to Ward and the platform. “And here I thought it had something to do with our necromancer overextending himself, as usual.”

  “He’s not your necromancer.”

  “He’s not really yours, either.”

  The truth of his words stung. Ward wasn’t hers, and he never would be. “Why are you here?”

  “Same reason you are. Ward.”

  She doubted that. Quayestri lied to fulfill the agenda of their masters. They lied like everyone else, like members of the Assassins’ Guild. The only difference was they had the law on their side. “I owe Ward a debt I can’t repay. Hurt him and I won’t rest until you and everyone you know is dead.”

  “I didn’t think outright threats were your style.”

  They weren’t, but the more she thought about Ward being hurt, the angrier she became.

  Goddess, she needed to get a hold of herself. She was useless as an assassin if she lost her dispassionate heart. But in truth, she’d lost that the moment Ward had woken her from the dead. It had just taken her until now to figure it out.

  Jotham strode through the center of the three narrow archways at the front of the square, his pale hair mussed as if he’d swept his hands through it repeatedly and hadn’t thought to fix it.

  Nazarius pushed away from the wall. “I owe Ward, too.”

  She wanted to ask him what that meant, but she didn’t want to bring up anything in front of the Seer. It was bad enough the man had mistaken them for Nazarius’s apprentices. Thank the Goddess Ward was at least becoming a better player—once this was done he might even have a career waiting for him in a mummer’s troupe.

  Except that raised the question of defining whatever this was. Was it killing Allette? A little over a week ago it had been about fleeing Brawenal City and escaping bounty hunters trying to kill them. Five days ago, it was surviving long enough to steal Macerio’s spell books so he wouldn’t be so powerful.

  Would it always be like this for them? A part of her hoped it would be, that Ward would al
ways need her, and he’d have no excuse to send her away. But that part was small compared to the panic rising within her at Ward always being in danger.

  She shoved that thought away and strode across the smooth, bricked square to the platform and Ward. He’d finished drawing the octagon with the blood and was on the last goddess-eye on each of the points. It reminded her of the one painted on the bedroom floor of the inn in Brawenal when she’d woken from the dead for the third and, so far, final time.

  A chill trembled over her. Blood magic was dark. But there was nothing dark about Ward, and every time he cast something, he did so with good intentions. Exactly the kind of thing the Goddess’s Dark Son looked for when corrupting a person’s soul. Except Ward was the closest to incorruptible she’d ever met.

  “You set?” she asked.

  “Almost.” He caught Jotham’s attention, and the Seer placed a basket with rock crystal and sprigs of hyssop on the platform. “Crystal for focus and hyssop for purity.”

  “And this will banish it?” the Seer asked.

  Ward smoothed his shirtsleeves. His nervous habit. “It’s a pretty basic spell. It’s just a matter of helping the rith cross the veil.”

  She could see the poisoned doubts Allette had set within Ward eating away at his confidence. “You’ve helped many souls cross over before.”

  He offered her a small smile. “The components and octagon are more than I need.”

  “Then let’s get started,” Nazarius said.

  Ward placed the crystal and hyssop alternating above the goddess-eyes and sat in the center of the octagon. “Just so everyone knows, the rith might resist.”

  Nazarius slid a glance at Celia, but if he was looking for an explanation of what resist meant, she couldn’t tell him.

  With everything she and Ward had come across, she’d say it would be like the myths—strong winds and objects flying around—and if past experience was any indicator, it would be five times worse than expected. Nothing ever seemed to be easy anymore.

  Here was hoping there was a first for everything.