Page 44 of Prince of the Undying

Mist drifted above church steeples and red-tiled roofs. The smoke of diesel-powered autos clouded the bracing chill of the winter air. My feet floated over the cobblestones. I hummed softly to myself under my breath.

After years of nothing but survival, I was happy.

The Viennese walked briskly along the streets near the Saturday market, many of them glancing curiously at me as I passed. I knew my jacket didn’t do much to hide my dusty clothes or the scabbard on my belt.

And, of course, there was nothing I could do about looking foreign.

Hunger gnawed at my stomach. Breakfast with Wendel would have been lovely. Delicious smells wafted from a bakery. Locals had already lined up for the day’s bread. When it was my turn at the counter, I smiled.

“Guten morgen,”I said.

The freckle-faced baker nodded. “What would you like?” he replied in English.

“The strudel.”

“Apple?”

“Please.”

He insisted on speaking English, like my German wasn’t good enough. Was my accent still so poor? I had a knack for languages—everyone told me so—but I had only been speaking German for three years.

What did I sound like to Wendel? An American yokel, butchering his language?

“Ma’am?” The baker was holding out the strudel.

I blinked a few times. Was I obsessed with Wendel?

Yes, but I don’t know how to stop.

“Thank you.”

“Why are you in Vienna?”

I let my jacket fall away from my sword. “I’m a mercenary for the Archmages of Vienna.”

The baker broke into a lopsided grin. “I want to fight, not bake strudel.”

“The Hex will protect you.”

“When they tell us there is a real war, I will join you.” The baker gave me a thumbs up. “Teach those rebels a lesson!”

For his sake, I hoped there would never be a war.

I devoured the strudel while I walked through the streets. It wasn’t the polite thing to do in Vienna, but I was too hungry to care. I entered the Saturday market clustered in the shadow ofa cathedral. Merchants hawked potatoes, eggs, beeswax candles, walking sticks, and evergreen garlands for Christmas.

I wasn’t interested in such wholesome wares. I was looking for a swordsmith.

Past the market proper, down a crooked medieval alleyway, I spotted a shop with a wrought-iron guild sign that depicted a gilded serpent entwined around a sword. I tugged open the heavy door and let myself into the shop.

The vague light of kerosene lamps glimmered on glass cases full of blades. I leaned in for a closer look. Daggers and swords rested on black velvet. Some glistened with the telltale iridescence of an enchantment forged into steel. A man with quick eyes and a devilish mustache leaned behind the counter, picking his teeth.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I need some work done on my sword.”

At the wordsword, the man straightened from his slouch. He eyed me up and down, then smiled with his toothpick in his mouth. “You?”

Was he about to say something stupid? I suspected as much. Maybe a glimpse of my sword would convince him I was here on important business. I slid Chun Yi halfway from its scabbard and let the blade glint in the light.

“Me,” I said.

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