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A fter a grim silence, Emery waved a hand as if to dismiss the uncomfortable limbo of their new pact. “We should get you some clothes.”

The idea of seeing a tailor in Ambrose’s current state made his blood run cold. The only credit due his captor was that he hadn’t raised issue with Ambrose’s masculinity thus far, but would the rest of the world? “I doubt any tailors are awake at this hour.”

Emery tilted his head. “Mm. I should warn you, the time you’re from … Well, the modern world might come as an itty-bitty shock to you.”

“Then I’m lucky to have a guide.”

He’d meant it, but Emery frowned as though it had been a sarcastic jest. “We’ll see. First—” He regarded the corpse of his familiar. “I suppose I could taxidermy her.”

Ambrose suppressed his disgust. Slaughtering the familiar for a resurrection had a ruthless pragmatism to it. Stuffing and mounting her like a hunting trophy?

It had been too much to hope the man who’d revived him was sane.

Emery removed something from a pouch at his belt—a fine powder, which he sprinkled over the corpse.

With a ripple of magic, it vanished, transported elsewhere.

He then gathered the ends of the blanket on which the witch king’s bones had lain and disrespectfully bundled it together like a load for laundering.

He transported this with the same dust as the familiar.

Ambrose’s fist clenched, and the collar squeezed in warning.

He could not stand against Emery. Even wanting to triggered rebuke.

In truth, it should be a relief that the bones weren’t discarded back in the grave.

The pact’s restrictions ensured Ambrose couldn’t return here without Emery.

If the remains were needed for any ritual in the witch king’s return, there was a better chance of retrieving them from Emery’s possession.

Assuming he’d transported them somewhere safe and not into the sea.

“Can’t risk you being reported for indecent exposure.

Here.” Emery shucked his cloak and handed it to Ambrose so he could pretend at decency.

He had to wrap the cloak tightly, as it wasn’t quite large enough, but it protected his modesty.

The thick wool lined with satin was more comfortable than the armor Ambrose donned while protecting his charge.

That comfort was mitigated by traipsing barefoot through the woods. The prickle of pine needles on the soles of his feet stung, but they were a sweet reminder. I’m back. I survived.

Emery pulled something from his pocket. A rectangle of black glass that illuminated brightly with the touch of his thumb. He tapped through images of a colorful—diagram? No, a map.

“What manner of magical relic is that?” Ambrose asked.

“It’s called a mobile phone.”

“I … see. And what does it do?”

“A lot of things. Right now, it’s showing me where the nearest clothing store is.”

Ambrose wrinkled his nose, curious about an artifact whose tithe—its source of power—he couldn’t discern. His own abilities were testament to how dangerous that sort could be. How powerful was this witch to hold something like that so casually?

He wanted to ask more but refrained. His ignorance to this world’s idiosyncrasies, and his nakedness, left him vulnerable.

Strange light filtered through the woods ahead, warm and too white to be fire. This time of night, that could only mean one thing: magic. Ambrose stiffened, but Emery didn’t seem alarmed in the least, marching toward it.

How was Ambrose meant to protect anyone who showed such lackluster caution?

When they emerged from the trees, he understood.

Tall lanterns lined the streets of a city, illuminating a world foreign to the one he’d died in.

He had to squint against the acidic brightness of the signs lit above shops.

Spinning illusions of women in gowns fit for throne rooms danced in window displays.

Hulking machines of steel and glass slept on the side of the road.

At the late hour, not a soul wandered with the exception of a stray cat.

Ambrose should have heeded Emery’s warnings about the drastic changes from his century to this one. “How rich has this city become that it can squander magic to light signs no one is awake to read?”

“Bellgrave? Posh?” Emery scoffed. “It’s not magic powering the lights, it’s science. Technology.” He waved the “mobile phone” in his hand. “None of this requires a tithe, only electricity.”

“Magic by other names,” Ambrose supplied.

“Sure. If that’s easier to understand.”

Ambrose tried not to take offense at the condescension. He had a practiced look of naivety, a habit born of years spent protecting himself and his master’s secrets. Nobody suspected the muscle could have a keen mind. Inside, however, he flinched.

No, he had never been particularly clever, but it would have been kinder not to say so.

“None of these shops appear open.”

Emery clicked his tongue. “We can change that.”

Curious. Was Emery so renowned he could hail a shop to open at his beck and call? Ambrose followed him toward a shop with colorful clothes on display. He’d never been taught his letters and couldn’t read the sign, but it had a magpie incorporated into the design.

“I’ve heard Wyngrave’s has some fetching looks. Or would you prefer something more … military?” Emery gave Ambrose a look up and down.

His crow-like expression made Ambrose feel like carrion. He’d never cared much for the aesthetics of clothing, only how utilitarian they’d be. “Whatever you command me to wear will be suitable. So long as it doesn’t restrict movement, I’m happy.”

Emery’s look was unreadable. “Happy. Hm.” He reached into the tithe belt at his waist, pulling something gossamer from a pouch and crushing it in his fist. The pane of glass in the window display vanished.

Emery trespassed into the darkened store, and Ambrose’s assertions about his new master twisted in a new direction.

He was not a witch of wealth, renown, and power. He was a thief .

Ambrose stood frozen in the open window.

Emery looked over his shoulder. “Well? Come in! You’ll have to try things on. I’m not a wizard when it comes to eyeballing sizes.”

“We’re stealing?”

“Isn’t that obvious?”

“Is theft not still punishable? If you already have enemies, I wouldn’t hasten to add the county sheriff and the lord of this city.”

“Oh, dear, that isn’t quite how this works anymore.”

“Theft is no longer unlawful?”

“Oh, it very much is. I didn’t expect you to take issue with it, though. According to history, you’ve done a lot worse.”

“My actions were by order of the king. His word was law. By his command, all I did was lawful.”

Emery snorted. “So killing people, fine, but a bit of petty larceny? Heaven forbid. Look, I need to charm the cameras to replace our faces. Now, quickly, come here .”

Ambrose was less prepared this time, puzzling over what a “camera” was. The collar choked a noise from his throat as it yanked and dragged him forward. He stumbled into the shop, past the spinning mannequins, halting at Emery’s side.

Emery gave him a look—half appraising, half guarded—a question in his eyes. He didn’t ask it. “Have a look around while I sort security out.”

Ambrose didn’t know where to begin with the clothes.

He could don armor as quickly as he could plait hair, but some of the garments here looked like they required detailed instruction.

Emery, tired of his ineptitude, chose for him once finished with the cameras.

A new traveling cloak, several pairs of trousers, and shirts that covered the rune collar on his neck.

Other essentials like small clothes (“pants,” Emery called them) they’d get from a “department store.”

The night of crime dragged on. Emery led him on a tour of the town’s shops, stealing tithes, potion ingredients, parchment, and, inexplicably, a stuffed squirrel with a squeaker in its bushy tail.

By the time he announced they were ready to head home, the eastern sky blushed with sunrise.

Ambrose had slept the dead sleep of centuries but felt weary.

Growing a new body, even with the help of a spell, had taken great effort, and he looked forward to whatever passed for a bedroll in this strange world.

Emery didn’t lead him to a castle, manor house, or cottage. Using stolen bone powder from the apothecary, he opened a portal and took them to a—

A ruined chapel.

It cowered in the shrubs while the surrounding woods devoured it.

Ivy, moss, and lichen turned the old stone green and scaly.

All that remained of a stained-glass rose window were colorful teeth around its mouth, and the air smelled thickly damp of a nearby bog.

The door, wooden and painted green, looked new.

Otherwise, the ruin appeared to have been there since Ambrose’s generation—a weary relic clinging to life by fraying fingernails.

He searched the trees for any sign of alternate accommodation, but none was forthcoming. “You live here?”

“I expect you’re used to a castle with a roaring fire and servants to dress you. My home has only one of those things.”

Ambrose suppressed an honest answer. He’d enjoyed courtier comforts and a warm bedroll when he deserved them, a cold cell when he didn’t. The damp autumn air seeped through his new clothes in reminder of the latter.

Emery walked up to the painted door, licked his finger, then drew a symbol over the knob. It unlocked magically, swinging open. Before entering, Emery turned around and held out a hand.

“You’ll need to give me something of yours I can tithe so you can pass through my wards.”

“I have nothing but the clothes you stole for me.”

“Not a possession. A strand of hair will do.”