Death's Dancer

by Jasmine Silvera

  Her mother smiled but did not look up from her book. “Of course he is. He’s just tired. I thought when he’d retired, he would wander down the studio for a class or start coaching the Vogel football club. But your father is your father. He doesn’t change—still fixing up this old place and tinkering with boxes.”

  Isela nodded, unsatisfied with the answer.

  “What about you, Isela?” Beryl turned the tables, fixing her in a gaze that missed little. “Are you all right, really?”

  Isela felt herself flush as the Sisters looked up as one.

  “Everything is good.” Isela shrugged. “I’m staying super busy with work.”

  “And Gregor,” Bebe added.

  “And Gregor,” Isela said, “is definitely taking up a lot of time right now.”

  Beryl frowned, and Isela knew her mother saw right through her. Always had, always would.

  “Isela Rose Vogel.”

  In the ensuing silence, a persistent buzzing caught everyone’s attention.

  “Phone,” Evie said.

  “That’s me.” Isela levered herself off the floor, racing to the hooks by the door where she’d left her purse.

  She fished out her phone, and her stomach fell as Gregor’s name and image flashed on the screen. She recognized the tie from their night “out,” so he must have added it when she was unconscious in the study. She hit dismiss and silenced the phone. According to the history, he had called twice. Shit. When she returned to the living room, she felt like she was walking into a wake. Who did she think she was fooling? This had been a terrible idea.

  “Who was it?”

  “The Academy,” Isela lied anyway. “Kyle probably. He always forgets Sunday dinners.”

  Beryl smiled. “Ah yes, he’s a good boy. Why didn’t you bring him? You know he’s always welcome here.”

  “He was. . .,” Isela began. Why didn’t she? That would have been the smart move. Kyle would have distracted everyone with his stories and sense of humor. Her brothers liked Kyle. Kyle would have covered for her.

  Her phone buzzed again. Insistently. Hadn’t she switched it to silent?

  “Do you need to take that?” Bebe looked at her strangely.

  “No, it’s fine,” Isela said, clearing her throat. “He can leave a message.”

  “So does this Gregor fellow eat?” Beryl asked.

  “Food?” Isela echoed.

  “You should bring him to dinner sometime.” Evie clarified the hint as a suggestion. She passed Bebe a worried look.

  “Yeah!” Fifi chirped, looking up from her bridal magazine. “I would love to meet him.”

  “We all would,” Mark finished from the doorway.

  Isela wanted to melt into a puddle on the floor.

  “Tante Issy.” Thyme tugged her arm. “Tante Issy, who is him?”

  She was saved—or damned—by the sound at the door. With panic, she realized it wasn’t the buzzer of the downstairs door but a knocking on the door to the flat. The room went silent.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Azrael looked out over the city. The snowfall had increased steadily over the past few hours. As daylight waned, thick, round flakes settled into sticky piles. He felt the coming of night in his bones, as he always did, the tug of darkness as welcoming as a blanket. His senses expanded with its coming.

  The whole city flared to life from the dullness of its daytime existence. Millions of lives, busy with their own concerns, envies, fears created an endless background droning during the day. Some of which he knew involved him—predominantly fear. His mentor, guiding him as he grew into his powers, insisted it was better to be feared than to be loved. It certainly made ruling them easier. As the majority of minds surrendered to sleep, he could more easily tap into the deeper sense of the city itself and the earth beneath it.

  He remembered, seemingly lifetimes ago, when his powers had only come to him at night. It was that way with all necromancers. Many remained bound to the darkness for their power. But a few, like him, evolved. It was the first sign he was to become something more. The most powerful were rare; it was almost a decade before he met another who could manipulate energy to the same degree he could and more than a century before meeting the one who would become his mentor and shepherd him into his full power. Still, they all had their small differences, unique talents that made no two the same.

  They kept those differences hidden from humans. Let it be believed that their powers extended only to communication with and raising of the dead, mind reading, and thought control. Let them believe that necromancers controlled the entities humans insisted on calling gods. It was enough to keep mortals from once again dabbling in a world they knew nothing about.

  The door opened, and Gregor entered. Azrael could sense the blood and death that clung to the Hessian before the man spoke.

  “There’s been another,” Azrael said, without turning.

  The susurrus of fabric accompanied Gregor’s bow. “It seems to fit the pattern, master.”

  “Who discovered it?”

  “The apprentice.” Gregor stood in the shaft of light from the door, his features cast in darkness.

  “You left it as it was found.” Azrael felt anticipation growing in him, the shift from waiting inertia to movement. He found himself excited by the prospect of a challenge. His thoughts flashed to the dancer. Isela. It had been almost a week since she stood trembling before him, meeting his eyes despite her fear. Another challenge.

  “As you commanded,” Gregor said, breaking his thoughts, taking a careful pause. “Azrael, are you certain it’s not best to retrieve the body. You mean to do this. . . there?”

  Gregor served willingly, but he knew enough of gods and necromancers to be cautious.

  “I do,” Azrael said. “Bring the dancer, and call in the rest of the Aegis. We may need them.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The knock came again. Resonant. Insistent.

  “Expecting anyone, Ma?” Mark asked.

  Toby appeared in the kitchen doorway beside his brother. Chris was a step behind.

  On the other side of the door was a—sure to be furious—solider. Fuck. Isela took a breath.

  “What is everyone standing around for?” Lukas Vogel pushed past his sons, a dishrag in hand. “Even I can hear the door. Has everyone forgotten their manners?”

  “Lukas,” Beryl cautioned, watching her daughter’s face, as Isela called, “Papa, wait.”

  But he was already at the door. Isela hurried forward, not sure what she would do, only that she would put herself between her family and death if it was required.

  Gregor stood on the other side. Tonight he wore a suit, with a white shirt and no tie. The knee-length, wool coat and loose scarf around his neck completed the look of a casual executive, fresh from a late dinner meeting. A red kerchief was folded in his breast pocket. He was wearing his most easygoing smile, but Isela saw the ice when his eyes flashed on her.

  “Guten Abend, Herr Vogel.” He spoke formally, ignoring her to address her father. “I apologize for disturbing your family at such an hour, but I have been trying to reach your daughter.”

  Blinking, Lukas glanced from the man to skim the four young women. It seemed to take him a moment to find Isela.

  “Well, with all the commotion, I’m not surprised Issy didn’t hear her phone,” he said, finally offering is hand. “Lukas Vogel.”

  “Gregor Schwarz.” He took her father’s hand and gave a little bow. If he’d added Prince of Darkness as a title, she wouldn’t have blinked.

  “Please come in,” Lukas said, pleased.

  His sons had other ideas. Moving together, they blocked the entrance to the living room.

  Gregor came up short. “My, my, the legendary Vogel boys.”

  That was how she’d always thought of them: the Vogel boys. But looking at them now, she saw the men they’d become while she spent her life learning to dance for gods. It wasn’t just that they had families of their own now. Assembled and on guard
, they seemed formidable in a way she had never considered. Not one of them stood under six foot tall. All inhabited their broad shoulders and deep chests with functional ease. Even Toby, in his glasses and cardigan—so much like their father in his easygoing, if occasionally inept, way—was not to be dismissed in stature. Young wolves, all.

  Isela darted around Chris to stand between Gregor and her family.

  “Ahh, everyone,” she said. “This is Gregor, Gregor, this is everyone.”

  Her brothers stood between Gregor and the rest of the room, and the Sisters clustered their respective broods behind them. In the No Man’s Land between, Lukas seemed puzzled by his family’s behavior while Beryl watched with hawk eyes and a stiff spine.

  “My mom, Beryl.” Isela coughed.

  “Frau Vogel.” Another crisp bow.

  “Gregor, these are my brothers,” she said. “Mark, Toby, Chris—this is. . .”

  “We heard,” Toby said.

  “Gregor Schwarz,” Mark finished.

  “And these, I assume, are the lovely ladies Vogel?”

  “Evie, Bebe, and Fifi,” Isela rushed.

  “What is everyone standing around for?” Lukas queried. In German, he added, “Please, Mr. Schwartz. We were just about to serve tea, or would you like coffee?”

  Everyone started talking at once.

  Isela: “We really have to go.”

  Beryl: “I’m sure you have a moment.”

  Mark: “Pop, maybe they have a date.”

  Fifi: “Yeah, come in. We want to hear all about life in the castle.”

  Finally, Gregor: “Of course we have a few minutes for coffee. I would not be so rude as to snatch your daughter away.”

  Isela craned her neck to look at him in surprise. The smile was as casually charming as ever, but the glint in his eye suggested snatching her was exactly what he’d like to do, preferably by the hair.

  “Papa, we really have to go.” She shook her head. “I completely forgot this thing we have. I was going to go right after dinner, but. . .”

  But Lukas was already taking Gregor’s coat, complimenting the fine construction of it.

  “We really should get these little munchkins to bed,” Evie said, moving slowly under the weight of a daughter on each hip.

  Bebe followed, herding Isaac and Octavia in front of her, Philip in her arms. “It was. . . nice to meet you, Mr. Schwartz.”

  “Gregor, please,” he said. Isela wanted to kick him, but was positive it wouldn’t even register.

  Bebe and Evie gave him wide berth, scooting the gaping kids out the door.

  “Home soon, Eves,” Mark called.

  Evie gave him a long look, one of those bits of intimate couple conversation.

  Isela detected one-part plea and another part warning. She wanted to implode and erase her presence from the universe. How could Gregor not see this for what it was? Her mom looked like she wanted to jump across the entryway and rip out his throat with her bare hands.

  This was not going well.

  She found herself on the love seat beside her “boyfriend,” balancing a cup of untouched coffee on her knee to keep her hands busy while Gregor and Lukas talked about the old country, and her brothers looked on as if they were deciding on an angle of attack. Only Fifi, cheery and oblivious, prattled on excitedly about the newspaper reports chronicling their relationship and begging for details. Isela haltingly manufactured stories while hoping Gregor was listening with half an ear to corroborate, if needed.

  “No, no, darling,” he paused in his conversation, switching to English as he smiled at Fifi. “You were dissatisfied with the prawns at Čtyři růže. She complained about this all the way to my flat.”

  Fifi looked charmed. Beside her, Chris gently edged her behind his shoulder.

  “So, Greg,” Chris said, eyes glinting with an expression Isela recognized immediately. “I can call you that, can’t I?”

  Isela glared at him. Shut up. She nudged him with her foot.

  “Please,” Gregor nodded. “I find the Vogel nicknames charming.”

  “For which of my sister’s best qualities did you fall for first?” Chris questioned.

  Gregor’s hand slid onto her knee, fingertips gently resting on her inner thigh. The air went out of the room. Isela fought the urge to smash her coffee cup into his perfect face.

  “Why her legs, of course,” he said, and now his smile resembled nothing so much as bared teeth. He laughed softly and inclined his head. “You’ll forgive me for not having the gentleman’s answer. But I am only a man and so flawed. It wasn’t until I was lucky enough to meet her in person that I discovered her sparkling personality and. . . inner fortitude.”

  Toby gripped Chris’ shoulder before the younger man could lunge. Isela gave him credit that it looked enough like a casual touch to be passable. But she reached her limit. She set down her cup and stood, knocking Gregor’s hand away in passing.

  “We really have to go,” she said. “Now.”

  Gregor smiled apologetically at her family, spreading his hands. “As my lady commands. My dear, what are you wearing?”

  “Pants,” Isela snapped.

  Back in the entryway, Isela found their coats. Gregor helped her into her coat as her father promised to show him his full collection of seventeenth century German family crests on his next visit. Isela slipped away to hug the boys and Fifi. Chris held her the longest.

  “If he—” he began in her ear, threateningly.

  “You’ll do what?” She sighed. “Gods, Chris, don’t be stupid. Promise me.”

  He hugged her again. “Doesn’t matter, Issy. We’ll kill him.”

  Tears stung her eyes. “You guys have the Sisters and Mom and Papa to take care of. I can handle this.”

  She turned to face her mother. Beryl didn’t look happy.

  “It’s fine, Mom,” she assured. “Please. The boys. . .”

  Beryl squeezed her so tightly the air left her lungs. “I’m not worried about them, Little Bird.”

  Isela swallowed the knot of emotion in her voice. She hugged her dad, and finally they were in the hallway, headed down the stairs.

  For the first time since Gregor walked in the door, Isela was able to draw a deep breath as she led Gregor away from her family. On the second floor, the door opened, and she almost crashed into Mrs. Simpson.

  The old woman took one look at Gregor and jerked into her apartment, slamming the door. Isela heard the locks click.

  Gregor’s smile flared. “That little old woman has more sense than all your brothers put together.”

  Isela glared at him. “You came into their home, with their families around them, bearing your teeth and pawing at me. What did you expect them to do, roll over and show their bellies?”

  He snorted, following her down the long hall to the front door.

  Isela spun on him, full of rage and anguish. “I took this job willingly. I will do what he asks, if it kills me, but you stay the fuck away from my family. Do you understand? Or so help me—”

  “You’ll what?” Amused, Gregor pulled the heavy door open as easily as if it were a curtain.

  She growled, hands fisted in impotent rage, and marched past him into the night.

  “That’s what I thought,” he said. The lights on his black Audi flashed as the doors unlocked. “And if you had answered your phone, like a good little dancer, that whole scene could have been avoided.”

  He opened the door before she could grab the handle. She flung herself into the car with such violence it rocked. One perfectly groomed eyebrow rose.

  “You did hear it ring,” he said evenly as he leaned into the open door.

  She flushed and looked away.

  “Azrael’s wards ensured it would always stay with you and you would always be drawn to our calls,” Gregor explained casually. “The night you fled the castle, you neglected to bring your bag but somehow held on to your phone, did you not?”

  He closed the door behind her, leaving her to thi
nk about it. When he climbed in the driver’s side, his smile was gone.

  “Yes, but—” she began.

  “But nothing,” he said, starting the engine with a roar. “You flirt with danger when you keep the necromancer waiting for even an hour. You have him to thank for that little tête-à-tête upstairs. If it had been up to me, I would have broken down doors and dragged you out by your nape. Over the bodies of your precious brothers, if need be.”

  The image pushed Isela dangerously close to tears. Her voice was gravelly with emotion when she spoke, but it did not shake. “A tête-à-tête is an intimate conversation between two people.”

  Gregor’s hands flexed on the steering wheel. She wondered if she could get to the blade strapped to her calf. If he was going to snap her in two, she didn’t have to make it easy.

  When he started to laugh, she flinched. He relaxed into the seat, and the car picked up speed. He glanced at her, his expression full of homicidal mirth.

  “I’m beginning to like you, dancer.” He chuckled, switching his eyes again to the road. “You’re spunky. Now put on your seat belt. Even if you succeeded in cutting me, the doors are electronically secured, so you won’t get far. We’ve wasted enough of the master’s precious time as it is playing this game.”

  “He’s your master, not mine,” she grumbled, drawing the belt across her chest.

  Gregor smiled again, patting her knee as if she were an obedient child. She jerked her knee away.

  “Eyes on the road.” Isela gasped as headlights shone in the windshield.

  He nimbly directed the car through traffic, handling the loss of traction without sacrificing speed.

  “You’re a fucking sociopath,” she said, her breath coming back reluctantly.

  “Name calling, Little Bird?”

  “Don’t call me that!”

  He grinned at her.

  Isela needed a subject change before she tried to stab him anyway. She glanced out the window. They’d turned away from the river, leaving Old Town and the castle behind them.

  “Where are we going?”

  That did it. His maniacally jovial mood was replaced with the overtly dangerous one she knew best.