Isela had never seen a summoning—a necromancer calling spirit to dead flesh—but she knew it involved the physical matter of the dead body, preferably a heart or brain. Was this why he needed her, because the body was incomplete?
“Mind your task, dancer,” the Amazon said, startling her.
Isela met her gaze and nodded.
She set down her bag and occupied the newly cleared space, walking a few times around its circumference to orient her body. It was smaller than usual, but it would do. She always choreographed for a small area when performing in a new ring, not knowing what she would be given. It was easier to expand a dance in the moment, than contract one.
Mentally reviewing the choreography she’d prepared based on Azrael’s request and her research, Isela warmed her body with a methodical sequence of stretches beginning at the toes and going all the way to her head and neck. She used the same sequence every time. Like a mantra, it combed her mind into the meditative state she needed to be in to dance.
The room fell away. She lost track everything, including that wretched burned flesh smell, letting a deep bubble of stillness expand around her. The quiet was so complete she barely heard the call for her attention until the necromancer himself spoke it. His voice sliced through but did not break the bubble, filling the space with a husky timbre.
“Ready, dancer?”
Isela acknowledged him with a nod and felt him retreat, so swiftly and expertly the space was undisturbed by his passing. A shiver moved through her. She closed her eyes and began to dance.
She had designed this routine to be performed without sight. It lacked multiple spins or long balances that would require a fixed gaze. Grateful for the foresight, it relieved her from having to see what the necromancer was doing to the corpse. Though her curiosity was piqued, she knew she would have never been able to focus if she had tried to watch.
Isela could smell his work; a strange, burned orange-and-sugar scent not entirely unpleasant banished the char. In the absence of sight, her mind became active, her eyelids a screen on which bursts of light and color flared. She breathed deeply, losing herself in the motion.
A bright flare of gold behind her eyelids almost broke her concentration. It flashed warm, the opposite of Azrael’s cold silver glare. After a moment, she realized it was taking the shape of a figure—a woman—mimicking her movements exactly. It hovered just out of reach like an image in a mirror.
A thrill of excitement raced up her spine. Isela tested the theory with her fingers, twitching them slightly. The gold figure responded in kind but with her left hand, not the right. A mirror. But not quite. The body was slimmer, taller, and leaner than Isela’s. After a turn, it became curvier, fuller-breasted and thicker-hipped. Every time she turned, it changed. Once, Isela swore she made out extra arms and a tail. Improvising, she experimented with a spin and another, startled to find her balance held so long as she focused on the gold shape.
She envied Yana and Kyle their ability to dance with a partner. She struggled to maintain the level of awareness on her surroundings it required. It went against her nature of surrendering entirely to dance. But this was effortless. It was as if the gold figure was her shadow.
“You can stop now.”
The voice cut through the dance that had now become a pas de deux, and the gold shadow vanished. Inexplicable loss welled up in her chest from a bottomless place.
Isela came back into awareness of her body to find it exhausted, dripping with sweat. Her tongue, thick in her mouth, was as dry as an old blanket. She blinked to find all eyes in the room on her. Her knees buckled. She barely caught herself as she fell to the floor, hands taking some of the impact from her knees and shins.
The cold air enveloped her; her sweat-soaked clothes did nothing to keep the chill at bay. She shuddered hard, searching the faces for succor. Gregor’s was openly captivated. The others were unreadable. She stopped at Azrael. He was watching, his lips set in a firm line, his jaw locked. He was furious.
“What happened?” Isela croaked before she passed out.
“Nothing at all?”
She woke in the castle proper, wrapped in a blanket softer than cashmere. The Amazon crouched beside her chair, assessing her. After a moment, she pressed a cup of something hot into Isela’s hands.
Isela drank, smelling ginger and mint before the taste left the lingering sweet sour of lemon and honey in her mouth.
“Little sips.” The woman stilled her with a hand on Isela’s wrist when she tried to drink too deeply. “Don’t make yourself sick.”
With restraint she didn’t know she possessed, Isela pulled the cup away from her mouth. Her tongue cried out for more, but she felt her belly contract and knew the woman was right. Her awareness stretched, beyond the chair and the cup, to the room around them. A fire was crackling in the hearth a few feet away, but she still felt the cold of the morgue in her bones.
Azrael leaned over an impossibly large book resting on one of two enormous tables. She shivered. He was like negative space in the room, where light could not reach. Gregor stood by the door. His eyes met hers briefly, and she saw none of his previous flirtation. Her heart buckled. Without a word, he turned from his place and left the room.
The Amazon seemed to linger only long enough to make sure Isela didn’t drop the cup on the priceless Persian rug beneath her chair before she rose. When she saw Isela’s gaze, she hesitated but walked toward the door. Isela had the feeling her dawdling at the door took powerful effort. No words were spoken, but after a moment, the Amazon left, closing the door softly behind her.
Isela found herself alone with Azrael. This time she felt even more defenseless than the last, if that could be possible. She finished her tea and set down the cup to avoid betraying her trembling hands. He seemed absorbed in his book. His back to her.
Not dead yet, she reminded herself, straightening up and tugging the blanket around her shoulders. “The summoning didn’t work?”
Azrael turned to face her, leaning against the table and crossing his arms over his chest.
“You’ve won over my Amazon,” he said without answering her question. “For that alone, you’ve earned my respect.”
My Amazon. As in, she belongs to me. Slave? Employee? Lover? Isela tugged her thoughts away from sussing out the relationship. He was still speaking. “If you think that gives you the right to question me. . .”
Isela exhaled sharply. “I’m not—you—I’m trying to figure out what happened. I’m not exactly there when I’m dancing, and I need to know what happened so I can fix it. Next time.”
If there is a next time.
The density of the silence made it difficult to breathe. She concentrated on his clothes to avoid his eyes: all black, the cut elegant in its simplicity.
“The summoning worked,” he said finally. “But the dancing did nothing to improve it, as the others had hoped.”
That was it. She’d failed. No, Isela corrected swiftly. She had done what she was asked to do, without knowing how or why or even what to do. And it hadn’t worked. She was too exhausted for diplomacy.
“And you’re surprised?” she said, plowing on heedless into the silence. “You tell me nothing about how this works, expect me to dance in a morgue, and it didn’t do anything, and this is surprising?”
Azrael spun and crossed the room so fast the movement blurred. When her vision resolved, he was on one knee before her chair and his silver eyes peering directly into hers. There was nothing penitent about his positioning. Instead, she felt like she was staring down a panther crouched, ready to spring.
Maybe she ought to learn to get ahold of her mouth after all. Isela shrunk as far as the chair back would allow but refused to let her eyes fall.
“You speak too freely, human.” His eyes traced the shape of her mouth.
“Then get yourself a zombie.”
The blood left her face as a slow smile grew across his.
“You think I haven’t thought of that,” he murmured.
&
nbsp; “I think if you could, you would have already.” Isela was proud of herself for sounding so calm while all her instincts screamed flee.
Azrael sat back on his haunches, a calculating expression creasing the handsome face. “It doesn’t work that way.”
Wonder of wonders, she thought. She was right.
“How unfortunate for both of us,” her voice squeaked.
One eyebrow arched. “Indeed.”
This close, she confirmed it wasn’t just an absence of heat or light about him. She sensed a complete stillness, as though laws of matter and energy ceased in his presence. It was the kind of quiet she spent years training as a dancer to possess. No wasted energy, nothing unintentional.
Azrael was as complete a being as she had ever met. Powerful and self-contained in ways she could only imagine. He just was. It was terrifying to behold and impossibly magnetic. He was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
He was not human. Not touched with empathy or compassion, but neither with vindictiveness or cruelty for its own sake. What she had mistaken as disdain for her humanity was disregard for it. As if he had forgotten—or never known—what it was to be surrounded by beings more powerful and mysterious than he.
He reached up to take one of her sweat-stiffened curls between his fingers.
Isela’s pulse bounded under her skin, despite the tension in her balled fists. Azrael provoked more than just “fight or flight” in her. Had it been so long since she’d felt desire that she’d forgotten the tingling sensations racing from the center of her body to the edges?
As if reading her mind, the finger released her curl and drifted to her mouth. She stayed motionless but felt a surge of heat. She was glad she wasn’t on her feet, or her knees might have gone to water.
Instead, as his fingertip traced the line of her lower lip, she only had to fight the urge to part her mouth and taste him with her tongue.
What the fuck?
A small, knowing smile pulled his full lips taut inches from hers. Damn, it wasn’t fair for him to have a mouth like that.
Isela felt the groan in her chest, barely catching it before it escaped her throat. His index finger traced her cheekbone, thumb pressed into the pad of her lower lip. Broad, surprisingly callused fingertips flared against her neck and jaw. Silver eyes fixed on her, studying, finding, deciding.
The morgue cold had vanished: whatever he was doing to her had forced it out of her bones. If she wasn’t already dehydrated, she would have broken a sweat.
“I don’t. . .” She closed her eyes. The words came stronger now. “This isn’t. . . no.”
When she opened her eyes again, surprise colored his face.
“That’s not part of the deal.” Isela glanced down at his wrist. “This is not part of the deal.”
Azrael withdrew, and her body ached at the loss of contact.
Fucking traitor libido, she accused.
“You want me.” That bold, masculine confidence cut through the languid stupor of arousal. It was not a question. And she was not a swooning first year. Defiance steeled her spine and narrowed her eyes.
“Is being seduced by a necromancer supposed to flatter me?” Isela said, ignoring the niggling bit of truth that begged the contrary. “I mean, why bother when you can wiggle your eyebrow and make me drop my panties?”
He jerked back as if her words had been a blow.
No, she thought, startled. Worse than a blow.
She’d actually offended him.
That dangerous, seductive heat growing between them vanished, replaced by a deadly cold. A snarling grin cut his face. “I have no need to coerce a woman into my bed.”
His bed. An instant image of black satin sheets and an abundance of pillows. Four posts with silk straps for wrists and ankles. She gave herself a mental slap. Snap out of it, Issy. He can turn you into a zombie. That is not sexy.
“I’m sure you don’t,” she said lightly. “When you could have a mindless automaton.”
He leaned toward her, hands on either arm of the chair. She reeled backward. When she could go no farther, she struck out instinctively. He caught her wrist before she could make contact. She clawed at his forearm with her free hand. It was like trying to scratch stone.
He rose to his feet, and though he only held her wrist, her entire body followed as though scooped out of the chair. She dangled like a puppy by the scruff, feet kicking impotently. A little scream escaped her.
In the background, Isela heard the door open, but her entire frame of vision was filled with his monstrously beautiful face. He shook his head, without taking his eyes from her, and it closed. Who had it been? Gregor? The Amazon? Not that it mattered. She had no allies here.
“You cover your own attraction by accusing me of compulsion.” His voice never rose from the dangerous purr.
“You can control the words that come out of my mouth,” she countered. “Why wouldn’t you be able to make me think I want you? You told us necromancy was about biological control. ‘Scientists, not magicians,’ wasn’t that the line your allegiance used?”
Azrael gave her a little shake. “You insult me with your loose tongue and your base insinuations.”
“I’m not the one ripping out eyeballs and leaving them nailed to doors because someone said something I didn’t like.”
Cold silence. A calm settled over her. Now she’d done it.
Azrael released her. Isela’s feet hit the floor a moment before she knew she was going to fall into the hearth. She reached out to break her fall as her hip gave and would have put a hand in the fire if he had not caught it first. He stabilized her, pinching her wrist.
“If you were any of my people,” he said emotionlessly, “I would remind you of your maker and your vow. Then again, were you any of my people, you would never speak so against me. But you are not one of mine,” he said, turning cold eyes on her. “You are mortal. You are weak, foolish, and impetuous. Knowing what your kind has done throughout history, I should not be so surprised you are incapable of something as simple as being circumspect in your words.”
He let her go.
Isela stumbled backward, gasping as she held her hand to her chest as if it had been burned after all. Tears clouded her eyes, and her consciousness swirled toward the darkness that edged her vision. Relief won the battle with shame. All she knew was she had to get out of there.
Heedless of the fact he could have caught her before she reached the door, she ran, throwing it open. She bumbled past the twins, bolting for the front doors, and no one stopped her. Outside, she paused.
Dawn was creeping into an inky, dark sky. She had been here all night. The blue Tesla waited silently in the courtyard. Once she was inside, Niles pulled away from the curb with speed that earned her gratitude. She tore one of the water bottles from the storage space between the seats and drank it down. Her throat felt raw and hot.
They didn’t speak. She glanced back once as they crossed the Vltava, heading toward the Academy. Behind the car, a black, two-door Audi with tinted windows kept a discreet distance. It followed them all the way to the turnoff for the garage, before racing into the dawn.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Azrael watched the Academy driver bundle a terrified Isela into the car from the window of his private study. He’d retreated there after she fled the drawing room.
She’d surprised him.
When he came to his senses, with her wrist in his hand and terror in her earthy grey eyes, he realized how close he’d come to losing the control he’d so carefully constructed to contain his power. And that wasn’t the first time.
When Vanka tried to curse her, it had been easy to rationalize stepping between them, as a desire to preserve the code of the allegiance.
In truth, seeing her draw her little blade against one of the most powerful necromancers in the world intrigued him. It was apparent she was afraid from the moment she stepped into the room. Based on his experience with other mortals, even the most blustering were eventual
ly reduced to helpless capitulation under the weight of their own terror in his presence. And that was without the rest of the allegiance in attendance.
Instead, Isela faced them as composed and self-possessed as any of the members of his Aegis: the warriors chosen to be his shield and council. She was afraid, but she refused to be cowed by it. Her courage, despite the fear, was foolish. In that room, it should have been deadly. He told himself he was forceful with Vanka to prove a point. At best, that was a partial truth.
Her mere presence had an uncanny way of destabilizing him.
When she arrived with Gregor, the sight of her disrupted his concentration. The brown skin on her calves below the skirt and above the neck of her blouse shimmered like fine velvet. Beneath it the suggested curves of her breasts and ribcage were second only to the slope of her fully covered hips in the fitted skirt. Her mouth, tantalizingly full, beckoned in a shade of pouty red. The tiny coils escaping from her upswept hair bounced at the back of her neck when she strode away from him.
When Gregor touched her, Azrael almost snapped. He’d agreed to the ruse, even insisted when Gregor balked. But the moment he saw the man’s hands on her body, he wanted to tear Gregor’s arms from his sockets. Gregor, who served, without question, for centuries. Azrael would have broken every bone in his hand if it had wandered even a centimeter lower.
And, by the gods, Gregor knew it and held her anyway. He had to, or she would have tried to run. Azrael was able to regain control with that knowledge, but that didn’t stop the feeling he was gradually being unwound every time her storm cloud eyes swept over him.
At last she’d left the room. Trading revealing eveningwear for leggings and a bodysuit made her inexplicably more alluring. She moved with ease and surety through the warm-up, limbering her body with attention to detail and sensitivity. She had them all captivated, even before she began to dance.
He’d watched clips of her before but nothing compared to seeing her dance in person. When Azrael caught a glimpse of her dancing, she had almost thrown him off course.
She moved with grace that was her very nature, like water pouring down a rock, fire racing through a forest, an avalanche slicing down a mountain. She moved with fierce strength and a stark, unself-conscious beauty. She wasn’t trying to be, or do, anything. She simply was. No wonder even the gods ceased their senseless bickering to mark her move.
Death's Dancer Page 8
