Shadows of Asphodel by Karen Kincy

of a tightness in her throat.
    “When a necromancer dies,” she said, “does he die like a normal man?”
    Wendel’s eyes glittered with a molten emotion she couldn’t name. She found it hard to look at him, but she didn’t dare look away.
    “God,” he said, “I hope so.”
    She still held the bottle of absinthe out to him, and when he took it from her, the very tips of his fingers touched hers. A shiver of electricity skittered down her backbone, as if she could feel the latent necromancy in his skin.
    For some strange reason, she wanted to touch him again.
    Ardis fought the urge, until Wendel looked away and she glimpsed a split second of his face. He was struggling to hide his fear, and this made him look more vulnerable than she had ever seen him before. Deliberately, her muscles tense, she sat in the chair opposite him and touched the back of his hand.
    Wendel’s stare snapped to her fingers. “What are you doing?”
    “Trying to touch you,” she said.
    He looked into her eyes, and his own were inscrutable. “Don’t.”
    Ardis stared at him for a second longer, then curled her fingers into a fist. She leaned back in her chair and folded her arms.
    “I figured it might be practical,” she said, “if I can touch you without feeling disgusted.”
    This was of course a lie. She hadn’t thought twice about touching him during the battle. But he had utterly ruined the moment.
    He sneered at her. “Lovely.”
    She drained her glass of absinthe in one swig, to fortify her nerves, and climbed to her feet. Her legs felt a little wobbly, and she wasn’t sure if it was because of the alcohol or something else entirely.
    “Not everyone hates you,” she said, “until you give them good reason.”
    Wendel’s eyebrows shot skyward, but he raised his glass as if toasting her.
    “Hate?” he said. “Already? Bravo.”
    “Don’t mock me,” she said. “You know what I meant.”
    Before he could respond with more sarcasm, she walked out of the lounge car and didn’t look back. She made it to the cabin, slid the door shut, and locked it for good measure. Lightheaded, she sat on her seat and rested her elbows on her knees. She let her hair fall into her face, raking out the tangles with her fingers.
    What was she thinking? Trying to touch a necromancer. To show him she cared.
    Did she?
    Ardis looked at her reflection in the window. Her face looked pale and tired. So much had happened in the past twenty-four hours, she wasn’t even sure what any of it meant anymore. Her common sense had dried up and blown away like dust.
    There was a rap on the door.
    “Who is it?” she said.
    “Konstantin.”
    She sighed, climbed to her feet, and opened the door.
    It was Wendel.
    “I lied,” he said. “I thought you might unlock the door for the archmage.”
    Ardis found it hard to catch her breath standing so close to him.
    “May I come in?” he said.
    She hesitated. “I—”
    “I suppose I don’t need to. Let me apologize for being unnecessarily rude.” A smile quirked his mouth. “Or necessarily rude.”
    “Did you come here to joke?” Ardis said. “It’s not very funny.”
    “No.” Wendel sobered and stepped toward her. “Damn, let me try again. I’m not used to anyone wanting to… touch me.”
    He held out his hands and stared at his fingers.
    “I understand why I disgust you,” he said. “I’m a necromancer. I’m untouchable.”
    “Obviously.”
    Ardis knew it was easier to reply sarcastically, but she grimaced. She didn’t want to sound too much like he did, like nothing mattered. Although this time, when she searched his face, there was a sincerity in his eyes.
    Wendel lowered his voice. “But I keep my hands clean.”
    “Clean?” she said. “What makes you think I’m any less dirty? I have slept in the snow, and in the rain, and in the mud. I’m a mercenary, Wendel. You know my hands have had blood from who knows how many men on them. But what bothers me is the way you touch the dead