Blood Spirits

by Sherwood Smith

“Buck-a buck!”

  “Come on. They’re all watching.”

  I looked around. The floor had mostly emptied, except for a few brave souls. Cerisette stood near the high table, smoking through a long holder and eying me scornfully. The duchess stared, stone-faced. I didn’t see Robert, but his wife looked utterly disgusted. So, the duchess and her allies hated the idea of seeing me dance with Tony?

  Phaedra drifted like an elegant shadow behind Honoré, on the other side of the room. Catching my eye, she curled her lip and gave me a surreptitious thumbs up. Honoré smiled faintly, then sent a challenging glance at the head table.

  “Righto,” I said, and took his hand. Time for another duel. But it wasn’t going to be seduction.

  One by one, traditional instruments joined, playing lonely airs in counterpoint to one another and to the beat, as the orchestra hummed beneath, like the ocean pounding the shore. Step, step, step. For the first time I was really aware of the excellent fit of those bespoke shoes, the heels high and tight. The beginning of the tango is always exploratory, the figures meant to be a stylized flirtation as one steps forward and the other retreats, then spin and counter, feet touching in the sweep of the barrida.

  This wasn’t traditional but a tango fantasia, in which anything can happen. The lissome, airy gestures punctuated in sexy counterpoint with the tight geometry of the steps, in and out, in and out. He pulled me in but I kept my distance with the quick complications of the ochos, saccadas, adornos, the cat-like stroke of the caricias, and when the tension slowly increased, the sharp gancho, where I hooked a leg around his, followed by a cortes—the suggestive pause—just long enough for him to register my heel’s proximity to horrible pain. “This is not a seduction,” I whispered. “It’s a duel.” I left him to decide if I meant his family—or him.

  He smiled, and snapped me into a spin so tight that my hair shook free and tumbled down to my hips. He whirled me back again into a carpa, shifting expertly so I leaned down him, my hair cascading to touch the floor. “Duels are seduction, draska mea,” Tony whispered. “Haven’t you figured that out? Tell me what Grandfather Armandros said. I have a right to know.”

  “The only right I’ll give you is to go jump off a bridge.”

  On the word bridge I whirled a fan kick high in the air, my skirt whooshing in a perfect arc, and rolled my shoulder out of his reach.

  Duel was mere rhetorical flourish. There was no seduction, or maybe I might have felt it if all my muscles were not remembering the fire of that last slow dance locked in Alec’s arms. But Tony wasn’t completely wrong, either, for tango is always communication—conversation—whatever the intent.

  Tony’s emotional communication was never done in words, at least not with me. His words were all deflection, a smoke screen. His real communication was all physical, in somewhat the same way that Alec expressed emotion through the safety and deflection of poetry. Tony kept offering me the lift, over and over because he was saying trust me.

  So with all my twirls and kicks and arabesques, I pushed him away: no chance.

  Ocho, salida, the wicked snap of the gancho, inside, outside, sidestep inside, outside. He grinned and flung his damp hair back, as the diamond swung and glittered in his ear and I felt the invitation through the lean of the carpa.

  A look shot over his shoulder, half of challenge, but his eyebrows lifted in question. Even—if it were anyone else—I would say, appeal.

  Why was he asking for my trust in this non-verbal way? I was not going to find out unless I answered.

  I always loved lifts and leaps because they were like flying. I surrendered to the valida at last. His hand slid to my hip, the other hand gripped mine and up I went over his head, one foot kicking high in a split. He whirled—I felt his balance shift, and stiffened—and he rolled me down his body, my hair slithering over both our hands.

  There was a gasp and an oooh from the watchers.

  “Grandfather Armandros?” He murmured in my ear as he pulled me easily to my feet.

  “Who?” I breathed into his ear, then I leaned into the carpa, using my free foot to describe an extravagant arc in embellishment, then kicked all the way up behind me in a grand arabesque, coming out of it with my balance my own, but there was his hand at my hip, ready for a lift.

  In other words, truce, not trust. And that momentary. Of course Tony would choose to communicate through the danger-fraught complexity of tango. That would be part of his games. He was strong, fast, coordinated, and used to winning. To that kind of guy, everything was a game.

  If he wanted to talk, he would have to use words. In the meantime? I would change the game.

  Draska mea. I slowed a spin enough to look around . . . ah.

  Front and center, a small, curvy figure in a knockout gown with a white velvet bodice drawn up at a slant across the hips, and then the other way to one shoulder, where it was pinned with a fine golden leaf of hawthorn with a single diamond glinting. The wide chiffon skirt was pure black, counterpoint to her curling hair, and everything dominated by wide, intelligent brown eyes: Beka.

  That straight-shouldered stance, the line of her thighs in that formmolding skirt, I would bet anything she’d studied ballet at least as long as I had.

  And so I finished my turn, gave her a look—come on!

  Her eyelids flashed up. I stamped my foot, held out my hand—and she ran lightly forward, the black skirt foaming around her toes. I took her hand, and snapped her into spins back to Tony. The black skirt whirled around her knees, revealing balletic legs in silver silk stockings—and perfect balance on her toes, as the watchers gave a collective “Ahhhh.”

  Oh yes, she was a dancer. Other than a laughing glance of surprise my way, followed by a sardonic twist to his grin, Tony took this move as if we’d planned it.

  As I prowled in a circle around them, Beka took up the tango by mirroring the exact sequence of figures and embellishments that I had used, only she danced a challenge through the steely precision of her tiny steps, the whip-like boleros; she arched her back, her chin up, and I swear there was an electric charge between the two of them as they prowled slowly, then flourished back and forth in al reve, me moving counterpoint to them in a larger circle.

  Hand to hand and hip to hip, chest to chest, foot to foot they dueled, for this time it was a duel—even their gazes locked.

  The tension between them was all the more sexy for the precision of their control; I could feel the audience drawn into the battle of wit and skill. When Tony shifted and threw her into the air, there was a gasp that seemed to draw every molecule of air from the room.

  Aerial, hands out like the wings of a bird, she balanced on his hand, and then kicked up in a flip over his head, to land lightly, her skirts swinging.

  Whish! The air was back in a collective sigh. The music reached a crescendo. The dance was ending. Time for a flourish! I began to twirl on one leg in lazy fouettés en tournant, my hair and skirts flaring and fluttering around me. The music crashed—I whipped into a triple pirouette—and Tony grabbed Beka, whirled her once, and let her sink into a split.

  A beat of silence, and then the audience broke into thunderous applause. As the two recovered, their attention on one another, I picked up my hairclip and backed away, looking around for Alec, who was nowhere in sight.

  TWENTY-NINE

  I WAS DISAPPOINTED to discover he was gone. But I hugged the memory of that silent signal with the eyes, the unspoken promise that we would meet again, as I moved away, looping up my hair by feel, and clipping it securely.

  There was the refreshment table. I picked up a glass of punch. As I tipped my head back to drink, I caught sight of the forgotten royal box, where Gilles and the Punks were busy tracking me with their cameras. Oh, great.

  “Dayyyyy-amm! I am so glad I was here for that.”

  I turned. “Nat?”

  Natalie sauntered up, looking like day-amm herself in a killer black corset that made the most of her curves. A loose off-the-shoulders peasant
blouse with big poofy sleeves, a flounced skirt in layers of black and white, and a frilly cap set on her brown curls finished her outfit.

  “That dance ought to be R-rated. Weird, when you consider all clothes are on, and half the time there was air between you.” She wiggled her brows. “Not much air. Between those two especially. Woo-ee!”

  Noise and color filtered back in. The ballroom had seemed less crowded, but behind Nat had come a group of noisy people, all obviously pretty well lit. Shouting back and forth and laughing, they looked around, commenting loudly as the orchestra struck up a cha-cha and people moved out onto the floor to dance.

  Because of my proximity to the high table (and probably because she intended us to hear) Cerisette’s thin voice managed to float above the music, the shuffle of feet on the floor, and the woo-hoo, party-hearty noise of the newcomers as she observed, commenting on how they should have shut the door, something de mal en pis.

  Nat chuckled deep in her chest. “What did she call us?”

  “She told them to shut the door, because the crowd has gone from bad to worse.”

  Nat laughed. “I think she means me.”

  I glanced past Nat, to meet Cerisette’s angry gaze. “Actually, I think that was aimed at me.”

  Nat shook her head. “Come on, let me have my share. I don’t want to have to fight over which of us is trashier.”

  “What do you two argue about?” Beka was there, the only evidence of that wild tango a few strands of curling hair loose on her neck, and her color high.

  “Lady Snotnose over there. That’s got to be Cerisette, right? I think you pointed her out to me a year or so ago, but she was a blonde then,” Nat said. “I hoped you’d show up. That was one hot tango, and as I was just telling Kim, I was sooo glad I saw that.”

  Beka flushed to the ears and gave a quick nod. “Thank you.”

  “Is it supposed to have three people?” Nat asked. “Not that I’m complaining. That made it about ten times hotter.”

  “No,” I said, as Beka looked down. “But it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  Nat’s grin faded. “I got news, peeps.” She beckoned us close. “I told you both I had a gig, but I didn’t tell you what, so you wouldn’t have to be hiding anything in case anyone on the villains’ list asked. Bek, Anijka put me with her cousin Yaschka, and one of his Vigilzhi pals. I got my Stav and his buds from the choir to come along as cover, though they think it was a New Year’s Eve bet, whether or not I could sneak all the way through the monks’ space without getting busted. They decoyed the cathedral people—got everyone singing—while we snuck down to the crypt. I wore this, and Yaschka and his sidekick are dressed up, too, so we could claim to be lost party animals if we got nabbed.”

  Beka pressed her hands together.

  “Find anything?” I asked.

  “Oh yeah.” Nat rolled her eyes. “The guys wrestled the lid off that sarcophagus, but they wouldn’t touch the coffin inside, so I had to climb in and do the honors. Reminded me of med school, the time we—” She paused, shrugging. “Later. I got the lid up and zapped my trusty flash inside. I won’t bother you with the names of the bones. You wouldn’t know them anyway. But I can tell you that the entire city gave a royal sendoff to some guy.”

  “Guy?”

  “Then where . . . ?”

  Nat raised a hand. “I won’t say that Ruli’s ashes aren’t there as well, as I didn’t see the accident site, or supervise the retrieval, but I can tell you the pubic inset in those pelvic bones, and the skull with the brow ridge, were not grown by any female.”

  “It is a conspiracy,” Beka breathed, her pupils black.

  Nat shrugged. “I’ve been sure of that ever since I thought about what happened to Honoré. Somebody definitely gave him a whack, but didn’t hit hard enough to kill.”

  “That would be left to the fire,” Beka said grimly.

  “Why, is what I still can’t get,” Nat said, throwing her arms out wide. “Nothing adds up. Isn’t the hearing on Tuesday? Surely the liars have to know that Alec’s people haven’t exactly been sitting on their hands—that someone’s bound to have proof of at least one of their lies. What’s the point?”

  Beka shook her head. “All I can think is that someone has gone mad.”

  All three of us sidled covert looks at the high table, where the duchess sat, watching the dancers like a queen on her throne, and showing about as much expression as a stuffed effigy.

  “Or someone wants everybody mad at each other,” I said. “And that’s sure been a wild success. Did you find Alec, and tell him what you found?” I asked Nat.

  “I didn’t see him when I came in. But I’ll bet you anything that Yaschka and Friend have him corralled right now.” She grinned. “We all walked over with Stav and the choir, one big party. By the time we left the cathedral, they’d passed the zhoumnyar around so many times we didn’t need anything but a suggestion: Hey, let’s hit the opera ball! Which, by the way, will be the last thing any of us do tonight, the way that wind is rising.”

  Beka said, “I heard there was a northern storm coming.”

  “I think that baby is already here—”

  “Mademoiselle Dsaret.”

  All three of us whirled around. There, looming behind us as large as a dinosaur, was Robert von Mecklundburg—a quiet dino. I hoped he didn’t speak English.

  “If you will honor me with a moment of your time,” he said grandly, in a rehearsed voice. “I should like to show you what is being done.”

  Relief ballooned inside me. He was obviously so intent on his own errand, the three of us women may as well have been cackling in Urdu. If Urdu cackles.

  “Sure,” I said, far more cordially than I would have ordinarily and sent Nat a that was close grimace before Robert extended a hand in an invitation to accompany him.

  He promptly began to speechify.

  I guess that’s unfair, but that’s what it felt like—a sales come-on, given by a guy who hated my guts as much as I hated his. But as we strolled along the perimeter of the walls, I could see him making the supreme effort to be pleasant as he told me the story behind the enormous martial murals, and who had donated the red velvet for the stage curtains and swags (“The layer at the very top is left from the royal palace throne room, hidden by the servants two days before the Germans rolled over the border”), the four-hundred-year-old steel wheel chandeliers that had dripped candle wax onto cadets-in-training, how they were converting the warren of medieval jail cells that had been partly converted to storage in the sixteenth century, and so on, practically to every squarehead nail on the stage, which used to be the gallery where the royal family and principle nobles sat to watch the martial and equestrian exercises.

  I found myself interested enough to wish, for the first time, that I’d get those weird glimpses of what might have been the past, but I was too wary, or we were moving too fast.

  So involved I got with imagining the history of the building, I was only vaguely aware of the deep, clammy chill as we passed through a door to the side of the stage and into a low corridor, still smelling of wet plaster, toward the backstage area. The wiring still wasn’t in. There were honest-to-medieval torches stuck in sconces on the walls, outlining our jumpy shadows in fitful ruddy light as we entered the big space directly behind the stage.

  The orchestra finished an old-fashioned minuet, and after a creaking of chairs, a few muffled coughs and whispers, struck up another waltz as Robert preceded me.

  We were alone. Well, not completely alone. The orchestra was thirty feet away, behind a movable flat and a sturdy curtain. If Robert tried to strangle or poison me, I could spring through the curtain and burst into the middle of the musicians, and with my luck fall into a tuba or get tangled in harp strings.

  Still, I looked around for a possible defensive weapon as he went on talking about his grand plans. The space was inadequately lit by two lanterns on a pair of mismatched tables, throwing the ceiling and most of the perimeter
into shadow. A closer glance revealed corridors leading off at either side, and there were two padlocked doors behind boxes of stuff.

  I walked around with what I hoped looked like aimlessness, keeping the biggest table between him and me as I studied stacks of boxes and baskets.

  “. . . and so we are arrived at the backstage,” Robert said, hands out, a huge diamond on one hand glinting with candlelight. “Helas! This ends the tour. Last spring we had hoped to witness the first opera performance tonight, but. . . .” He paused, frowning fixedly at the lantern on a table.

  Waiting for what? For a good moment to attack? I pretended interest in the old costumes and props in the boxes, tawdry half-rotted fabrics and battered, dull steel enriched by the forgiving candlelight. Ah! A sword?

  “I humble myself,” Robert said finally, through all but gritted teeth. “You must know that the Dsaret holdings were as good as promised to us for this opera house. And other projects. For the good of the city.”

  I looked up as I reached for the prop sword, complete to basket hilt.

  “But no matter,” he went on. “C’est fini, tout cela. I only ask that, in your generosity, you consider a donation to finish this project. The Dsaret name, I need hardly mention, would feature prominently.”

  I closed my hand on the hilt just in case, as I said politely, “I would love to donate money, but you have to remember that it all belongs to my grandmother. Who is very much alive, I am glad to say. You’ve got to ask her.”

  He breathed out through his nose. Then smiled—I could feel the effort across the width of the space. “If you will give me an address to which I can write,” he began.

  I was about to remind him that she was staying with Milo when he scowled, the lantern light from the table making his brow look furrowed and ferocious. He took a step toward me—no, he was glaring at something behind me!

  I whirled around, the blade coming up hard in a defensive block as a black-shrouded someone, or something, raised a crossbow. Not aimed at me, but past me. My blade hit its arm—it grunted as the crossbow twanged.