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Henri’s hands dropped away instantly. He hadn’t lived this long without recognizing murder in the air when he heard it.
“Introduce us, love,” Christian chimed in like this was a great treat for him, the bastard. “It’s passing rare to meet an ex of yours. Tell us about this lovesick chap.”
I took a bracing step back, eyes flying to Dom. He was fuming, but I still knew how to deal with fuming Dom. How to deal with lovesick Henri was a trick I’d forgotten long ago.
“Guys, meet Henri. French painter by day and a quite talented necromancer by night. We knew each other a very long time ago.”
“How long ago, exactly?” Dom asked. His teeth were still clenched. Not a good sign.
I chewed on my lip, trying to look thoughtful. “My memory’s a little fuzzy, but sometime around one of those pesky French revolutions.”
“And those bastards beheaded you!” Henri spat out as though it had actually happened and quite recently at that. His brows drew together as he tried to reconcile the impossible in his head. “I don’t understand. I saw you die. I saw it.”
“That wasn’t me. An unfortunate and completely accidental lookalike just happened to get the guillotine on the same morning I took off. You know how it was. They were killing every wealthy looking person they could get their hands on. I heard about it later and never came back to tell you otherwise. You weren’t supposed to think I was dead, just that I’d taken off. Sorry.” It was an inadequate but more or less accurate explanation of events.
The shock was wearing off, anger rising up to take its place. “I mourned you. I couldn’t paint for years after the death of my muse. I do not understand.”
“She ran away without a trace,” Dom said bitterly. “It’s what she’s best at.”
That might have been a bit harsh, but I could hardly argue. “It was time to move on, and I could have handled it better. I have commitment issues. We’ve established this. My bad.”
“Your bad?” Henri and Dom repeated back at the same time. They looked at each other, Dom glaring, Henri looking dazed.
“Jinx,” Christian added, helpful as always.
“The French Revolution, huh,” Caleb spoke up. “I’m intrigued. What would it take to hear that story?”
“Not happening,” I said flatly.
“Buy me a beer, and I’ll tell you anything you want to know,” Henri said, shooting me a newly antagonistic glance. His emotions had been bouncing around but seemed to have found a steady place to land which was squarely on bitter anger toward me. Fair enough. Maybe he and Dom could start a club. Or a support group.
I shrugged. “As long as I don’t have to hear it. Not my favorite time period.”
“Ouch,” Henri said with a flinch.
“No offense,” I said, meaning it. I hadn’t even been thinking of him when I’d said it.
“Insult to injury was always your specialty,” Henri said, not quite under his breath.
I didn’t argue with him. The man had a point.
“So, uh, how’ve you been?” I asked him. “What brings you to Sin City?”
“Not sin, unfortunately. I was asked to help with a pesky dragon problem.”
“I’m not sure I follow. How would a necromancer help with a dragon?”
Dom spoke, “Tracking is half our battle. I figured anyone that’s actively killing things would leave fresh bodies behind. They’re like homing beacons for a necromancer.”
“Smart,” Christian pointed out the obvious.
“And what’s in it for you?” I asked Henri.
He shrugged in a very French way. “I’ve always wanted to see a dragon. We used to think they were only a legend.”
Caleb was staring at Dom in an odd way. “He doesn’t know?” he asked.
“He hasn’t been briefed as of yet,” Dom said flatly.
