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A mbrose woke to the disconcerting sound of claws scrabbling against the door of Emery’s room.

He never slept deeply, ever alert to the sounds of danger and intruders. He roused at once.

The door was shut, and the sound came from within.

He cursed internally. If his new master hadn’t dismissed Ambrose’s concerns, maybe he wouldn’t be trapped in his bedchamber with some strange beast. If he was already dead, that spelled disaster for Ambrose, who could no more read a book than interpret this new world.

He searched the room for a makeshift weapon.

If the situation was desperate, he’d resort to using the abilities bestowed on him, but not before exhausting other possibilities.

He took the poker from its stand next to the fireplace and crept silently toward the door, where the clawing noise continued, followed by a low whine, then—most inexplicable of all—a shrill squeak.

Emery’s voice, indulgent and unafraid, came muffled through the door. “Fine, fine, you impatient cur.”

The door opened. A hound half Ambrose’s height bounded out.

It spotted him and charged, rearing up on its hind legs.

Ambrose did the most sensible thing and fell into a fighting stance, but the dog didn’t bite, only stood on its hind legs with paws hooked over Ambrose’s wrists.

With his alarm wearing off, he recognized its white curly hair and long snout.

This was Emery’s familiar, down to the cleaved chest, now stitched crookedly back together.

Emery stood framed in the door. “Not a dog person, I take it.”

The dog cocked its head, eyes pale and cloudy.

It was slightly horrifying that Emery could sacrifice the creature then raise its corpse into undead servitude.

The spirit of the familiar was gone. Only the shell remained, its empty eyes a pleading echo of the sentience they’d once held.

He wasn’t sure if this was better or worse than taxidermy.

It turned and loped back to Emery’s room before emerging with the stuffed squirrel toy from last night squeaking in its jaws. The hound bowed and wagged its tail. Not an attack, but an attempt to play.

Ambrose was on edge. Understandable, perhaps, given the circumstances, but he’d need to adjust quickly.

He took the offered end of the squirrel toy and shook it, crouching down on the floor and ruffling the hound’s ears.

She growled playfully, giving in to the tug-o’-war, and Ambrose cooed in answer.

Emery watched him with wary disbelief and more than a little judgment. It was becoming a familiar expression. “I stand corrected.”

Belatedly, Ambrose answered Emery’s question. “I like dogs plenty. I simply didn’t expect an undead one.”

“Katzica won’t hurt you unless you try to harm me.”

“I can’t harm you.”

“I like to have insurance. I’ve no idea if resurrection left you with all your faculties or weakened the spell binding you.”

Ambrose tucked away the memory of the voice last night. He still didn’t know if he’d imagined it. “I’ve taken no leave of my senses.”

“Good.” It didn’t sound as though Emery believed him. “Speaking of resurrection, I don’t imagine the spell brought you back with a full belly. If you’re hungry, there’s—” He paused. “Actually, I’m not sure what food’s in the kitchen. Toast, probably.”

“My appetite isn’t particular.” A delicate way of saying that Ambrose could eat just about anything.

“Help yourself. I need to prepare for classes. We leave in fifteen minutes.”

Ambrose eyed the unfamiliar shapes in the kitchen.

Katzica followed him in, tail wagging, but she couldn’t explain what he saw.

There was no wood to burn, no stone or iron oven, no hanging herbs or garlic.

Like literacy, the culinary arts weren’t a competency Ambrose had ever acquired, but he might have been able to muddle his way around a proper kitchen.

Here, he hovered amongst the steel machinery, reminded that the steel he knew how to wield best was for killing people.

Pulling open cupboards, he found little that could be called food.

There was a tin with an unappetizing picture of beans on it.

With no clue how to open it, he gave up and wandered out the front door, searching the shrubs for edible plants.

To his relief, much of the flora looked the same as when he’d died.

He picked a few dandelion leaves, dock leaves, and even found some primrose in bloom.

An overgrown flowerbed in front of the chapel also yielded some mint.

He picked enough for two. Emery would need breakfast as well, and perhaps he’d be more amenable with Ambrose if he proved teachable in the kitchen.

Emery returned, laced into austere black clothes embroidered with white, a bone-colored jewel dangling from one ear. He stopped dead when Ambrose, beaming with pride, offered him a bowl.

“What is that? What are you eating?”

Ambrose stopped mid-chew, looking at the contents of his bowl. “Salad. I made you one as well.”

“Those are weeds .”

“Your kitchen isn’t familiar to me,” Ambrose said, a touch defensively. “All of these are fresh from the outdoors.”

“And I’m to trust you didn’t add a bit of nightshade or hemlock for added kick?”

Now Ambrose was offended. “I cannot bring you to harm, and even if I could, I wouldn’t.” Emery might not be a stunning exemplar of honor and justice, but he’d resurrected Ambrose. Unless he proved as heinous as the death of his familiar implied, Ambrose would stay his hand.

Emery blinked very quickly, as if taking a new picture to accompany the image he previously held of Ambrose in his head.

“I see. Well, I suppose that’s—I’ll have to find something for you that isn’t—Did you even wash the weeds?

Never mind. I’ll order a takeaway later.

For now, we’re going to be late.” He gestured to the clothes they’d pilfered from shops yesterday.

“Wear the gloves and cloak. It’s best my peers don’t make any connections between your spell scars and your true identity.

You’ll pose as my cousin visiting from abroad.

Probably best if you speak as little as possible. ”

“Where are we going?”

“To class.”

So Emery was only an apprentice. “Which class?”

“All of them? I study magic at Bellgrave under a number of masters.”

Ambrose absorbed that. If this world had an entire institution devoted to magical learning, perhaps they’d have a library. If he could find a spell or charm that could read the books to him, perhaps he could piece together enough information to resurrect the witch king.

One thing at a time. “What are my orders if anybody threatens you?”

“They won’t. Not in public. You’re likely to meet one of them, though, and I wouldn’t mind if you frightened her. Just a little.”

Her? Ambrose’s opinion of Emery dove steeply if he’d taken to menacing women. Yet, he’d called her a rival . An enemy. That denoted a certain degree of respect, didn’t it?

Combined with Emery’s unbothered attitude toward Ambrose’s sex, it gave him … Hope was too whimsical a word, but it gave him pause.

Emery gave Ambrose a look he was starting to recognize—one of corvid calculation. Those raven eyes flicked to Ambrose’s ash-dark hands. “Right now, I’d like a demonstration of your abilities. To see that you still have them after all this time.”

“I sense that nothing’s changed in that regard.”

“All the same …” He gestured to a chest serving as a table next to the armchair. “There’s a spell book in there. Soft, leather bound, with a metal lock. Retrieve it.”

Ambrose’s stomach churned. The magic stirred in his bones. It felt heavy, like his whole limb had turned necrotic, requiring amputation to cure.

A complicated snarl of emotion held him in place. He hated the way this magic made him feel, yet it had been a gift. An invaluable tool and a symbol of his importance to the witch king.

Emery made a noise of lost patience and raised the bone leash. “Retrieve the book from the chest.”

Ambrose didn’t bother to fight it. Magic seethed through his arm as he plunged it through the wood.

He felt its splintering protest as matter yielded reluctantly to magic.

It was hard not to drown in memories of the way bodies surrendered wetly, the way bones broke, the way a squeezed heart felt when it stopped beating in his palm.

He shoved the thought away. This was just a box with nothing living inside.

His hand brushed the interior, feeling the bindings of books, a worn blanket, a thin chain attached to some amulet, until finally one book stood out against the rest. Velvety leather and a delicate clasp shivered with its own enchantment. He grabbed it and pulled it free.

Sweat beaded on his forehead, not from effort but emotion. Using the power left the smell of rotten meat in his nose.

“Fascinating,” Emery said, taking the book from him and giving it a cursory examination for damage. “Any other abilities? The history books sometimes called you a wraith.”

Ambrose, rather than submit to the collar, demonstrated by allowing the well of magic inside to swallow him. He vanished.

Emery looked alarmed. “Come back.”

Ambrose shuddered in the collar’s thrall and returned to visibility. “You needn’t compel me. I will obey.”

“You’ll have to tell me how you acquired these abilities. The history books never said.” Emery still appeared disconcerted. “But later. I have to get to class.”

Ambrose dressed to conceal the arcane collar and his scarred hands. The washroom’s advanced plumbing and warm water were yet another source of shock, though a pleasant one.

Afterward, he found Emery at the front door, kneeling in front of Katzica. He murmured to her, rubbing her ears. At the sight of Ambrose, he stood.

“You aren’t to tell anyone about her,” Emery said.

“Of course,” Ambrose answered. He could imagine what other witches might think.

That settled, Emery conjured a portal, and Ambrose followed him into a world of alien familiarity.