Isela felt the breath leave her lungs in the face of that anger. It was over. She had revealed herself, and she would die now. Or be turned into a zombie and made to pay for her indiscretion over and over again.
Vanka rose, speaking words in a language Isela had never heard. Isela was frozen in her crouch.
Azrael paced into Vanka’s path, one hand lifted.
“You dare cast in my territory,” he snarled. “You overreach your bounds.”
From her crouch, Isela felt the sudden wave of heat roll off his back. His legs braced against an unseen force.
Between his calves, Isela watched the redhead fold back into her chair, her face growing pale as her mouth clamped shut.
“You started it,” the tattooed woman sang from across the room. “He finished it.”
It was a childish retort, laced with so much power and animosity Isela cringed.
Then Azrael inclined his head to look at Isela out of the corner of one eye. He never turned his back on the redhead.
“Forgive me,” Isela murmured, rising from a crouch with head bowed. “It was an instinctive response.”
“Are all dancers so. . . instinctive?” the suited man asked, his light tone belying his interest.
“No,” she said, adding, “sir.”
“Punishment, Azrael,” Vanka shrieked.
“Can we get on with it?” The sloe-eyed necromancer sighed. “I tire of this harpy’s screeching.”
How this group had managed to piece the world back together amazed Isela. Half of them seemed certifiable, and they certainly didn’t like one another.
“Death closed the eyes of its lords,” the tattooed woman sang.
“Five necromancers have been murdered,” the batik-draped woman elaborated with a little exhale of annoyance.
“She must know something.” The North American necromancer aimed his words at Vanka. The redhead stared at Isela as though she wanted to make a rug of her skin. “The last one was in the news.”
Isela remembered the report, a prominent necromancer found dead in Tokyo. As far as anyone knew, only necromancers could kill one another. Isela had brushed it aside as none of her concern. But now it appeared it was her business.
“None of the others have been leaked?” Azrael asked.
“No,” the Japanese necromancer said. “And the reporter who broke the embargo has been. . . reprimanded.”
“Good,” Paolo said as something far older and more deadly than his dashing young male appearance moved behind his eyes. “Even the lesser of us must be protected from human speculation.”
Isela tried not to trip over the tumble of thoughts that came next. Five murders had left the most powerful necromancers in the world so troubled they were driven to bring in a human godsdancer. For what? She still didn’t understand what they hoped to get out of her.
“You will work with Azrael,” Paolo said, turning his attention back to her. “He will be your exclusive client until this issue is resolved. It has been arranged with your agent. You will be compensated handsomely.”
“Why?” Isela immediately wished she had kept her mouth shut as all eyes went to her.
Vanka muttered something uncharitable about the lack of necessity for a tongue as a dancer. Clearly, this group wasn’t used to having to explain themselves to anyone. Or being asked questions.
“Why do you need me?” Isela finished against her better judgment.
“Azrael will explain what you need to know,” Paolo said finally.
She had a feeling the conversation continued on without her. She had been judged and found sufficient for their needs.
She looked to the door, hoping that her escort would reappear. Apparently, she wasn’t the only one.
“How is that Hessian of yours, Azrael?” Vanka said from the chair, her voice taking on a covetous tone.
“Gregor sends his regards,” Azrael said without a hint of emotion, but Isela felt the sudden waft of heat. It was a warning.
“You are too protective of him,” Vanka mused.
Azrael said, “He belongs to me, and you will remember that.”
“So possessive with your toys.”
“It would serve you well not to forget it.”
And that was it. Meeting adjourned. Vanka vanished from the chair like heat waves fading off pavement, leaving only Isela’s blade buried in the back. The others went in their own fashion, disappearing, dissolving, or simply winking out, as though they had never been there at all.
Except one. Azrael.
CHAPTER FOUR
Being alone with Azrael made Isela feel like she was in more danger than ever. There was nothing to distract him now. Of course, they had been alone all along.
“They weren’t really here, were they?” she asked as he plucked her blade from the chair back.
“We rarely meet in person, for obvious reasons,” he murmured without shifting his gaze from the blade. “Hence the lighting. Our presence can have peculiar effects on technology.”
He waved a hand, and lights came on, making her blink. She heard the faint hum of electricity, noticeable only because of its previous absence. Even fully illuminated, the enormous room maintained a dim, firelit quality.
“Weighted nicely,” Azrael said. “This is a good blade. Are all dancers so well armed?”
Her throat went dry as he crossed the room to stand in front of her, filling her vision. She stared at his collarbone. Eventually Isela forced her eyes upward, the smug arrogance on his face making her skin prickle with irritation.
“Lie to me at your peril,” Azrael said, one eyebrow rising. “Vanka expects you to be punished.”
Indignation raced up her spine at the sensation of being a ball of yarn for a very large, very bored, cat.
“Some are even better armed.” Isela squared her shoulders.
That’s it, Vogel, she told herself, when—if—we make it home, I am putting you on suicide watch for continuing to mouth off to a necromancer.
Azrael made a sound that might have been a laugh. The corner of his mouth twisted upward, again making her feel as though he knew her every thought. Only this time he found her amusing. “For all the good it did you.”
Without looking, Azrael held out the blade, handle first. For a moment she wondered what he would do if she sliced down and opened up a couple of his fingers with it. That would show the arrogant bastard.
Azrael’s hand moved faster than her eye, grabbing Isela’s wrist as she took the blade. He pinned her arm, twisting it behind her back and bringing her closer. She found herself encircled by an amazing amount of heat coming off his body. Her free hand splayed defensively against his pectorals.
The intoxicating scent of agarwood and toasted cinnamon coated in molasses bewitched her nose. He didn’t even smell like a normal man. He lowered his head, inhaling deeply. Her nostrils flared as, for a moment, those shining silver eyes met hers. The heat in them put the fire to shame. This close, his irises were not a uniform molten shade but variegated by tiny ridges of texture, like any other human eye.
Beautiful. Isela couldn’t stop the thought.
Azrael’s lowered eyelids hooded his silver irises, the long fringes of lash as dark and silky as fur. His smile hovered inches from her mouth.
“Careful, dancer.” His breath brushed her lips. “Accidents happen.”
Get a grip, Vogel. The man makes puppets out of corpses.
Between gritted teeth, she muttered, “Somehow, I doubt that.”
Another noise—humor? Surprise? And he released her. Isela skittered out of reach and sheathed her blade before she did something else stupid. Having a knife in her hand gave her a false sense of security.
“The allegiance believes your dancing may provide the increase of power I need to successfully summon one of the victims,” Azrael said idly. “Something none of us have been able to do so far.”
That was news to her. Dancing for gods worked one way; she petitioned and they answered, or not. It wasn’t like plugging a bulb in
to a socket. She was about to tell him so, when he spoke again.
“You’ve danced for athletes before, correct?”
“Yes, I—”
“The choreography should be similar, I imagine,” he went on, oblivious to her objections. “I need increased strength. Stamina. I need more time in between than I can get on my own.”
Isela chafed. In between what? “But I—”
“The latest victim will arrive in a matter of days.” Azrael interrupted with quiet finality. “Until then, it would be good for you to prepare.”
“How do you—”
“I’ll call you when your services are required.” The way he said it was a mockery of her earlier deference.
Isela paused, surprised. After everything she’d seen, he would just let her leave?
“You’ll not speak of it to anyone,” he said.
“How do you—”
“Trust me,” he said, showing rows of beautiful white teeth.
Outside, Isela fought the urge to collapse against the nearest wall and let her knees go to jelly. Her heart threatened to explode with each new beat. Cold night air flooded her lungs, and she drank it greedily. Her senses were sharp, her entire body primed to run. And then she felt a hand on her arm.
Isela grabbed the assailant’s wrist, twisting and spinning before the little cry of surprise could leave her own mouth. It was a boy in a fine suit who landed on his back on the paving stones, her short blade drawn and at his throat.
Her zombie guide was a new shade of pale. Shock opened his mouth to a wide O as his eyes strained to see the blade at his throat. She hadn’t known the undead could be afraid of a weapon. That was useful information.
“Sorry, Miss Vogel,” he breathed, words coming in a high-pitched stammer. “I just thought—you looked—I wanted to help! Please!”
Isela made herself let him go, stand up, and sheathe her blade. The courtyard might be under surveillance. She didn’t know how Azrael would feel about her threatening his pets. More so, she didn’t want to reveal her training any more than she already had.
“Forgive me,” she said.
Isela could not make herself offer a hand, but she backed well away as he leaped up, patting down his suit and ordering his tie.
“I’ve called your driver,” he said, all business, though the color was still out of his cheeks and he couldn’t meet her eyes.
“Yes, thank you.”
It was all she could do to follow him through the rest of the castle to the first courtyard. She took her own coat, and he backed away sheepishly. Niles held the door to the car. If he noted the trembling in her limbs or breath, he was sage enough to keep his own countenance. But she might have sworn she heard relief when he uttered her name in greeting. “Miss Vogel.”
“Can’t you just call me Isela, for once in my life?” she muttered as she climbed in the back.
The door shut behind her without comment.
Isela wiped her palms on her dress and tried to relax against the seat. Her whole system was disturbed, as though someone had run a current through her just to see what might happen. She tried to forget the flash of cat-eye silver on her own.
She fidgeted with the seat belt, unable to sit still.
“Let me out.” Isela hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud until she saw Niles’s eyes on hers in the rearview mirror. “Please. I need to walk.”
Without question, he pulled the car over and put on the hazards. She had the door open before he could open his own, and she flung herself out before leaning back in.
“I just need to stretch my legs.” Isela forced a smile.
“Shall I wait for you here?”
“I’ll walk home. Let Director Sauvageau know that everything went better than expected.” I’m still alive. “I’ll brief her in the morning.”
“Understood.”
Though the rain had stopped, she shivered a little in the damp breeze.
“There’s a hat and gloves in the trunk,” Niles said. “An umbrella also.”
Gratefully, Isela closed her door as the trunk popped open. She knew it must have taken all his willpower not to get out and help her.
The hat and gloves must have been Divya’s. They smelled of her; a subtle mixture of spicy peppers and bittersweet chocolate. The gloves were too small, but the knitted cap was a welcome addition. She took the umbrella, closed the trunk, and started walking. The Tesla slid past her, and she allowed herself to be swept up in the crowds thronging the tiny streets in the growing darkness.
Prague had always drawn tourists, and the necromancer’s presence in the city only swelled the numbers year round. With a few weeks until Christmas, the streets were thronged and festive. Isela didn’t pretend to understand humanity’s ability to live in apparent contradiction: terrified of necromancers but fascinated and drawn to their power. Brought to the brink of annihilation by gods and still celebrating old religious holidays faithfully. A tour group pushed through the crowd, hurrying to follow the guide, wearing a “Streets of the Necromancer—Tours Daily” smock over her winter coat.
Isela shook her head, moving through a rainbow of faces, all bundled up against the cold.
The area of Mala Strana, or Lesser Town, had always been affluent due to its proximity to the castle. Now, it was also one of the most touristy. The narrow streets were lined with shops below exclusive boutique hotels and flats. Out of the shops drifted the scent of mulled wine and coffee, the hot pastry rolls coated in sugar, and the ubiquitous crêpes folded around everything from cheese to Nutella. Restaurants advertised daily menus and authentic cuisine, mostly goulash, on signs outside the door. Warmly dressed hosts and hostesses made a personal appeal to the passersby.
Isela kept her chin tucked, blending into the crowd. In spite of her renown as a godsdancer, she found she still enjoyed a blissful level of anonymity in public. No one expected her to be walking around alone in the streets.
In the press of people moving toward the Charles Bridge, she felt herself slowly coming down from whatever panic response the necromancers had incited. When she found herself disgruntled by an oblivious couple that cut her off on their way to dinner, she knew she was firmly grounded in humanity again.
Isela’s thoughts drifted back to Azrael.
That she could have thought for a moment she was attracted to him was a sure sign of emotional distress. All eight of the allegiance were visually arresting—even if their looks didn’t conform to human standards of attractiveness. She thought of the plump, batik-clad woman, who looked like she could be someone’s kindly grandmother, until you met her bronze eyes, full of power. Was it the power that made them so compelling? Or had they used it to somehow transform themselves?
And Azrael was the most striking of all. If not for his eyes, she would have thought him a few years her senior. They were ageless and inhuman. As for the rest of him—
Handsome was so mild it was almost insulting. Other words—powerful, dangerous, sexy—made her question her sanity and her libido.
Isela stopped for a moment, leaning her weight against the wall of a building and letting the cold of the bare stone temper the heat rising in her core. She didn’t feel distressed. She felt magnetized.
Relationships had always been something of a conundrum. The work to maintain one took valuable effort from dance, but Isela had needs, so she’d tried once or twice. In the end, she’d happily given up the effort. After all, she had friends for companionship, and everything else could be taken care of with a small device she kept in her nightstand table, which was a lot less complicated than an actual partner.
Until it couldn’t be, Isela admitted. It had been an appallingly long time since she’d been with anyone.
She was attracted to him. So what? What breathing woman with an active heartbeat wouldn’t be? There was masculine, and then there was male. The former could be acquired, molded, cultivated. The latter was pure, essential being. Azrael had that in spades.
The cold made her shiver,
and she pushed herself off the wall, tucking her hands into the pockets of her coat. She focused on what she now knew about necromancers. They had an intricate code of rules, but what held them to the code was a mystery. Beyond controlling death, they could appear by projection and disappear at will. And they weren’t all knowing—even if they did have some sort of extrasensory communication abilities. They could be taken by surprise—murdered, it appeared. They were vulnerable to something other than each other. And most disturbingly, there was something in the world capable of putting the eight most powerful necromancers in the world on alert.
Now she was caught up in it. She thought of Azrael’s response to her surprise that she would be allowed to leave after all that she’d witnessed.
They knew everything about her and everyone she cared about. There was no need to say more to imply the threat.
Isela paused to catch her breath, stepping out of the flow of tourists. It would do no good to spend too much time dwelling on things she could not control. She had a job to do. The sooner it was done, the sooner she would be free.
The hair prickled on the back of her neck and with it came the sensation that she was being watched. She stepped into a line for a hot-wine seller and scanned the crowd. Her gaze paused at a figure motionless in the crowd on the other side of the street.
Gregor wasn’t even trying to blend in. In a black wool coat and a brilliant, crimson silk scarf around his throat, he attracted glances left and right as the wave of people simply parted around him. Not that he paid them any mind. His eyes were only for her. His full mouth rounded up at the corners in a way that would have brought blood to her cheeks if they were not already flushed with cold.
Instead, Isela steeled her gaze and tipped her chin. Gregor inclined his head and winked at her. A nudge from behind drew her attention. The vendor waited, an impatient line stamping behind her.
Isela ordered her wine, fumbled for her change, and conducted the exchange in practiced if not fluent Czech. She scooped up the little Styrofoam cup and hurried away.
So she had a tail. And not just any tail. Azrael’s head of security. The same one that homicidal maniac Vanka wanted. To fight or fuck? Isela wondered.
Death's Dancer Page 4
