Death's Dancer

by Jasmine Silvera

  Azrael licked a thumb and wiped at her cheekbone. It came away sooty.

  “I guess I need another shower.” Isela dropped the sheet mischievously and climbed out of bed to stand in the ashes.

  At the sight of her, his eyes went hot again.

  “After a shower and breakfast,” she chided. “Lunch? Food. I’m starving.”

  Azrael leaped from the bed with catlike quickness, tossing her over his shoulder and striding into the tiled room. She admired the firm roundness of his bare backside, smiling at the sooty footprints he left on the floor. “Consider multitasking.”

  Well, as long as whatever it was between them lasted, it certainly wouldn’t be boring.

  Azrael sent a command to the kitchen as they finished drying off, and a few minutes later, there was a tap on the door. He tossed her the robe on his way to open it.

  Gregor bore a platter and a large duffel bag.

  Shutting the door behind Gregor, Azrael felt her surprise and a little bit of embarrassment as she purposefully avoided looking at the ruins of the bed. Gregor had no such compulsions. He took in the entire scene, and his mouth set in a long, thin line.

  “I intercepted Tyler on his way up with these, and I have some information about the attack,” Gregor said, depositing the tray on the fireside table. “Two birds, one stone.”

  “Later,” Azrael said as Isela whispered, “Tell me.”

  As Gregor looked between them, she poured two cups of coffee and snagged a cookie. Gregor’s gaze settled on Azrael, waiting for his command.

  “I need to know.” Isela met Azrael’s eyes as she handed over the coffee.

  Go ahead, Azrael commanded.

  Gregor stalked to the window, his back to them.

  “They exploited a gap in the system,” he explained. “The head of Academy security found it. Then it was just a matter of timing to catch the blind spots in the sensors. It’s being addressed.”

  “Do you know who hired them?” Isela said. “Was it her—the Queen?”

  Gregor half turned, appraising her. “Do you doubt it?”

  To her credit, Isela addressed the question without rising to the challenge inherent in Gregor’s voice. “Maybe. But I was in that room with the allegiance. You’d be an idiot not to see the tension. What if bringing me in was just for show? What if they didn’t expect us to get as close as we have? I’m the weak link, right? Get rid of me, and Azrael has to start all over again.”

  Azrael admired how collected she remained even as her pulse raced against the skin of her throat.

  “Both are so powerful.” Her voice cracked finally. “Why hire humans to kill me?”

  “The Academy’s security includes wards against the supernatural,” Azrael said as Isela cleared her throat with a sip of coffee. “Another necromancer would have triggered my alarms. We trusted the cameras and sensors to guard against human infraction.”

  She paled. “What about my family? My friends? If she can get to me—”

  “I’ve sent word to your mother and assigned a few of my people to the Academy.” Azrael said, addressing Gregor, “You made the delivery?”

  Gregor nodded, looking pleased for the first time since he’d entered the room. Azrael could count on his gruesome warning of severed heads deterring any other attempts. Gregor had a way with theatrics. Azrael was sure he would hear about it from Lysippe.

  “Until we know, or this is finished, I’m assigning a guard to you,” Azrael said. “And you will stay here.”

  It wasn’t a request, and he expected her to fight. He knew how much she valued her independence. But when she spoke, her voice was full of hard-fought resolve.

  “I won’t put the people I love in danger with my presence,” Isela agreed.

  Azrael sipped at his coffee to avoid taking her into his arms, startled by the impulse to comfort her. Between one breath and the next, her spine straightened.

  “What do I need to do to help you finish this?” Her eyes were firm.

  “Prepare yourself to dance again,” he said.

  Gregor set down the duffel bag. “Your cohorts at the Academy sent this for you. I presume you will find what you need here.”

  “The ballroom is yours,” Azrael said. “If you need anything else, inform your attaché. He’ll see it done.”

  The ballroom was a long, rectangular space with soaring ceilings painted in vivid frescos over glossy wood floors. In one corner, a freestanding barre had been placed near the mirrored wall. The floor was taped to the dimensions of the Academy ring. The room was warmed to a comfortable temperature, and she inhaled the scent of cardamom and oranges.

  He’d gotten everything right, she considered. Down to the smell.

  Of course he would. Isela dismissed the little singing voice in her chest. It’s not like he was giving her a key and a toothbrush. Well, a key.

  What she had done in Havel Zeman’s little room had been effective, regardless of the outcome. If he wanted more of the same, the effort he’d expended to keep her environment familiar was sensible.

  Isela set down her bag and the pile of books she’d brought with her from the library. One of the twins that had been in the car the night before had been her silent shadow all morning. He now stood at the edge of the space, waiting.

  She faced him, hands on hips. “I don’t usually rehearse in front of others.”

  “I will be outside.” He gestured to the door they had entered. “My brother waits at the other door.” In case you were having any bright ideas about escaping—the unspoken conclusion to his sentence.

  She remembered how the two men fought the demons in the bookstore with the sheer force and inexorability of tidal waves. The only weapon either of them needed was the four fingers and a thumb around the two dinner plate-size palms. The machetes were for efficiency.

  Both were a handsome shade of polished teak, slabbed with muscle, and moved with incongruous grace and speed. Brothers yes, twins maybe, but they were not identical. Though neither had broken the stern expression in her presence, she had the impression this one did not laugh. His earlobes were punctured with smooth black discs, and his luscious, curly hair was bound at the nape of his neck.

  “Thank you, Rory,” she said, betting on her hunch though Azrael hadn’t called him by name, and he hadn’t offered.

  Rory grunted and stalked away, but she was sure, for just a moment, she had seen the surprise in his face. That meant his brother was Dory.

  Isela’s body ached: she focused on her exercises at the barre and prolonged stretching before stepping lightly through the sequence she’d been crafting. She’d already worked out the big movements of the choreography; all that was left were the transitions, smoothing and shaping them to draw the whole dance together.

  Isela was taking a break and checking her phone when the door opened. Nothing from her mother or Evie, but Bebe had called—twice.

  “You have a guest,” Rory said, standing aside.

  Isela tossed her phone into her bag at the appearance of a dishwater-blond man with eyes that darted around the room in a combination of awe and terror. “Kyle.”

  When he saw her, his face broke into a smile of pure relief. And then she was in his arms. Kyle lifted her off her feet and spun her in a little circle before setting her down.

  “You scared the bejesus out of us, Vogel,” he muttered into her hair, dragging her away from his chest to look at her face. “Are you—”

  “I’m fine,” she said, furiously wiping at tears coursing down her cheeks.

  “’Course you are,” he said, but his voice was uneven.

  Isela’s eyes found Rory. “Is there somewhere outside we can take a walk?”

  “Gardens,” he grunted, staring ahead.

  Isela passed Kyle a look of hopeless exasperation. He grinned, tucking her under his arm. “Look at you, commanding the troops.”

  Isela rolled her eyes, pressed her face into his coat, and breathed him in, picking up hints of arnica and wintergreen oil. K
yle squeezed her shoulders.

  Tyler met them at the door to the north courtyard with a long coat and a thick stole of soft wool for Isela. “The Garden of Paradise,” he announced as they walked through the doorway.

  Even in the winter, the shapes of plants and trees looked elegant beneath a light dusting of snow.

  “The kid, with the coat, is he. . .,” Kyle began.

  “Tyler,” she nodded. “He’s their attempt to get me used to being around them.”

  “He’s not bad,” Kyle said. “If it weren’t for his eyes—”

  “I know,” she whispered. “And they have no smell. It’s just wrong.”

  “You and your nose, Vogel,” he said. “I bet your mom’s got the bloodhound on her side of the family.”

  You’d be surprised, she wanted to say, thinking of them. Her mother was the fiercer one of the two, yet her mild-mannered father carried the wolf gene. Guess you never could tell.

  “So how’s things with lover boy?” he asked finally.

  Azrael hardly fit the description, but the flush rose in her cheeks anyway, and Kyle cackled.

  “How are things,” she corrected.

  “You totally hit that!”

  Isela pressed her gloved hands to her cheeks in a vain attempt to stop the flush from spreading.

  “Not that I blame you,” he said. “Your necro is something. A terrifying something, but my gods, those eyes.” Kyle glanced around. “And this isn’t a bad setup: bodyguards, a zombie foot servant. What more could a girl ask for?”

  “Her friends,” Isela said plainly, squeezing his arm. She forced a laugh. “My necromancer. It’s not even like that.”

  “Oh? What’s it like?” he quipped. “You two playing tiddlywinks to pass the long, cold nights?”

  “None of your business.” Isela was unable to keep from grinning. “Anyway, he sleeps during the day—when he does.”

  Kyle’s eyes widened. “Like a ghoul?”

  She slapped his shoulder. “Shut up.” She dropped her voice. “The walls have ears.”

  “So do I,” he teased. “And I want details. He looks like he’d be a hurricane between the sheets.”

  “More like an inferno,” she said, thinking of the bed they’d incinerated. “I can’t believe we are talking about this here, of all places.” She paused. “Speaking of places. . .”

  Kyle must have heard the ache in her voice. “Niles had the windows boarded up, and the guys were working on the door when I packed your bag. I’ll keep an eye on the place for you, promise.”

  “This will be over soon,” she said, reassuring them both. “I’ll be home soon.”

  Kyle sighed, and for a long while they stood in silence, breathing in the crisp winter air as the sunset cast faded golds and vivid magentas across the city below.

  “It’s good that you’re here, Issy,” Kyle said eventually. “You’re safe here. . . from everything.”

  The skin crawled on the back of her neck. “What do you mean—”

  He looked out over the city sprawled below the castle, teaming with people and activity in spite of the cold. His jaw worked in frustration.

  “Kyle?”

  When he looked at her, his eyes were full of tears. “People are idiots, Vogel.”

  Her chest clenched. “What’s happened?”

  He sighed, tucking his chin into his chest with a resigned shrug. “One of the paps got a picture of Azrael carrying you out of the Academy. It looks. . . Pictures lie, Issy, but you’re in that robe and not much else, and you look. . . dead.”

  “Someone tried to kill me, Kyle,” she said.

  His eyes shown bright with tears. “I know. We know Issy. A brick was thrown through the window of the Academy this morning.”

  “Was anyone hurt?” Isela gaped.

  He shook his head doggedly.

  “What is it?”

  “There’s speculation,” he said, hesitating.

  “Speculation?” Isela tried to keep the desperation out of her voice. “What are they saying?”

  “Zombie,” he whispered. “Azrael turned you, for Gregor—or himself—or gods only know what. It’s nonsense, Issy. . .”

  It was foolish, and reasonable people might know better, but where necromancers were untouchable, godsdancers were human. They made accessible scapegoats for the uneasy human relationship with the gods.

  “Azrael is right,” he said resolutely. “I hate it, but you’re safer here.”

  Isela swallowed the raw burn in the back of her throat. She pasted on a smile. It felt brittle as old glass. “I should get back. I have a lot of work to do. Thank you. . . for checking in on me.”

  As if on cue, the door opened and Tyler appeared, framed by light.

  Kyle hesitated, searching for something to say. He must have guessed at the fragility of her control, because he sighed instead.

  “Anytime, Vogel.” Kyle hugged her one more time. “Divya is waiting for a full report.”

  Isela stood at the wall for a long time after Kyle was gone until she could no longer feel her fingers. A sound from behind startled her into turning.

  Rory waited in the growing twilight a few feet away. He was coatless, the thin gray T-shirt stretched over his chest and a dark brown cloth wrapped around his hips. He didn’t seem cold in the slightest.

  “How are you not freezing?” She impatiently wiped the last of the wetness from her cheeks. “How long were you standing there?”

  He shrugged. “Long enough.”

  “It’s guard and spy now?”

  “I have no need to spy,” he said. “The Matai sees all.”

  “Matai?” she said. “Is that Fijian?”

  Rory grunted and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Brilliant,” she muttered, striding around him back toward the door. “Taking Gregor’s side, I see.”

  He moved so fast she only saw the blur of his passing. He held open the door for her. “You endanger him.”

  “Oh really?” she said, stalking past. “I thought I was the puny, fragile human.”

  “Our duty is to protect Azrael against threats even he cannot see.”

  Isela threw up her hands as she returned to the ballroom and shucked off her outerwear in the doorway.

  “I’m a threat,” she muttered, “to Azrael?”

  “For whatever reason, he has decided to protect you. But he is more important than a single human life.”

  She scowled at the implication. “Thank you for reminding me of my place in the scheme of things.”

  He grinned, exposing a beautiful set of strong, white teeth. “You’re welcome.”

  Isela slammed the door in his face.

  She threw herself into dancing, pushing herself harder than she would have before Kyle’s visit to keep her mind from wandering. The door opened. Expecting Rory, she spun with a frown to see the Amazon.

  “Lysippe,” she said cautiously.

  “Dancer.” The woman did not smile, but there was no animosity in her gaze either. “Azrael would speak with you.”

  Isela hesitated just long enough to evoke a canted half smile from the Amazon.

  “Not every battle must be fought.”

  “Am I that transparent?” Isela asked, grabbing a towel and the oversized sweater to keep her upper body warm.

  The taller woman said nothing. Isela followed her into the hall. The chair Rory had occupied was empty.

  “I, too, bridled at first,” Lysippe admitted after a moment. “Where I came from, only a fool would follow a man into battle. But Azrael leads a worthy command.”

  Her stride was so long Isela had to half jog to keep up. Everything about her was pure warrior. “Where. . . do you. . . come from?”

  “You mean, when?” the Amazon said.

  “That too,” Isela said.

  “My homeland is known by a different name, and my sisters no longer ride,” she said. “Everything changes.”

  “You call him Azrael,” Isela said, suddenly realizing it. �
��Not master, or sir, or matey.”

  “Matai,” Lysippe corrected, “is a Samoan title of honor and leadership. We choose the word that suits. Azrael only asks for the respect.”

  The way she said his name did hold a bit of resonance, as though it were more of a title.

  “The word my people used translates roughly to honored aunt, or mother,” she went on, raising an eyebrow. “Neither of which applies.”

  “Does he. . . have your soul too?”

  The Amazon glanced at her, and her expression held mild surprise.

  “I’m not supposed to know that, am I?” Isela asked, stricken.

  “It’s up to Azrael.” Lysippe shrugged. “And yes. I entrusted my soul to him.” A familiar, savage smile parted her lips. “In exchange, I have seen civilizations rise and fall. No wound can touch me. What warrior wouldn’t take that bargain?”

  Isela thought about what that must be like; to watch humanity pass before timeless eyes until individual human lives became a blink. She thought about seeing her family and friends age and die while she remained unchanged. It made her shudder. No weapon or strength would make up for that loss. Not to mention being owned by a necromancer.

  “You wouldn’t,” Lysippe assumed.

  Isela’s eyes darted to hers and then away.

  The Amazon shrugged. “To each her own.”

  “Azrael must be—a tough person to spend an eternity working for,” Isela said diplomatically.

  The taller woman bared her teeth again in that smile, and Isela suddenly realized why she recognized it. Though their features bore no relation, something in its character reminded her of Azrael’s smile.

  “I suppose,” Lysippe answered. “But he’s my father. I’m used to it.”

  Isela was aware her jaw was hanging, but Lysippe had already moved ahead to open the door to Azrael’s great study. She snapped her jaw shut with a clack of tooth on tooth and took a breath to quiet the deep sense of foreboding.

  The door closed behind her, and she was plunged into the firelit darkness of the cavernous room.