Ward Against Death Read Online Free PDF Page B

the veil for most of a day.”
    She made a half-hearted kick at the first man’s shoulder. “And you can’t wake them.”
    Ward stifled a snort. He could wake them. He was Edward de’Ath the Fourth, eighth-generation necromancer of the de’Ath family. If there was one necromantic spell he could do well, it was a wake. Ignoring his racing heart and the ache in his arms and legs, he pushed back his shirtsleeves, brushing the bandage around his wrist. Pain flared around the wound, reminding him he’d just performed a difficult spell and used his own blood for it. Trying a wake so soon after the Jam de’U wasn’t such a good idea.
    “I didn’t think so,” she said.
    “Of course I can. But just think about it for a moment.”
    She knelt beside the first man, as if Ward hadn’t spoken, and removed things from his belt.
    “The one you killed with the dagger—I doubt he has vocal cords left.” He crossed his arms, then uncrossed them and leaned against the wall, trying to appear nonchalant. His heart raced from the effort of the spell and the fight. “So there’d be no point in waking him, and the other man—”
    “Are you going to search him?” Celia pointed to the second man. She unclasped the cloak pin of the first man and rolled him over.
    “No, I’m not going to—aren’t you listening to me?”
    “No vocal cords.”
    “Good.”
    “You should at least get his cloak.” She tugged the cloak free from her man and wrapped it about her shoulders. “And you really should get rid of that jacket.”
    “I’ll have you know this jacket—”
    “Was a gift from your father, or grandfather, or mother, or great aunt, or something.”
    He closed his mouth. Yes, it was a gift. From his father. But that wasn’t what he was going to say. The buttons from his favorite physician’s jacket had paid to bring her back to life. It had rented the room and bought the ale and other spell components.
    He ripped off the last two buttons and shoved them into his breeches pocket. Maybe waking her wasn’t such a good idea. He could be on a ship by now bound for... well, for somewhere.
    “Ward.”
    He blinked.
    Celia stood beside him, her rucksack over her shoulder and a cloak in her hand. “Take the cloak, Ward.”
    How long had he been gazing off into nothing? She could have slit his throat before he noticed.
    He glanced at the man bleeding on the floor. He supposed it didn’t matter if he’d been lost in thought or not.
    “There will be others,” she said.
    “How do you know?” Her knowing everything, particularly since she’d been dead for a day, was getting frustrating.
    “Because we’re not where I told you to go.”
    He grabbed the cloak, heat rising up his neck, unwilling to confess he’d been too busy thinking to hear her instructions from when they’d been in the sewer. “I had to improvise.”
    “Improvisation will get you dead.”
    He opened his mouth but couldn’t think of a witty comeback. Ungrateful little... He swung the cloak behind him and settled it on his shoulders. It was sticky with blood. Wonderful. She’d given him the soiled one. A fine match to his slime-encrusted breeches, hose, and shoes.
    He should have left her dead.

    FIVE

    Celia ran a finger along the splintered doorframe where the bolt had locked the door. Her father’s men must have used their shoulders to get past. At least the necromancer—no, Ward —at least he’d had enough sense to lock it, warding against trouble. She snorted. Ward warding.
    But what was he protecting? Her? Himself? His employer?
    She pushed the thought away and peered into the hall. Shadows danced on the walls in the spaces between sputtering candles in crude sconces. She should give him more credit. He’d been right, she was dead—something she’d never admit to him. She even felt dead now, stiff and sore as if she’d exercised too much without stretching, and her muscles were weak, twitching with unexplained tremors.
    Still, she couldn’t