“Allies,” Kadijah spat. “He allies with dogs.”
“Watch how you speak about my brothers,” Isela said, bristling as Toby’s growl rose in chorus with Marcus’s.
“It’s true,” the Japanese necromancer said, taking Isela in with a breath of surprise. “You’ve committed the great offense that caused Róisín to be cast out.”
“Cast out?” Azrael sneered. “You deceived her, convinced her to break her vow to her own consort. You know the price of breaking the contract with violence: she paid for your meddling with her sanity. I call that a betrayal.”
Isela froze. It should have been obvious. The dancer channeled the god. Róisín made the dancer her consort. And she and Azrael had repeated the cycle. Despair surged in her. How could they hope for a different outcome?
You seem to doubt the strength of what lies between us, said Azrael’s voice in her head. I am not weak as she was, Isela.
I thought you couldn’t read me. She wanted to weep.
Perhaps, he admitted. But your body is mine. I feel your heartbeat. I hear your breath.
The chill in her was too deep to be put aside with heated words.
They won’t let us succeed, she thought frantically. They have an eternity to work at us. They won’t let us win.
We don’t need their permission to be what we are, he assured her. And I fight for what I love.
The heat that surged in her was part him but mostly her own heart. She knew in that moment they were bound together, rise or fall, succeed or fail.
She wouldn’t have it any other way.
Azrael loosed the tethers of his powers, and his increased strength swept into the space between them and the allegiance. She sent her own power down her fingers, intertwining with his. Gold and green flared, and the lights threw sparks as electricity surged through the building.
Now you’re getting the hang of it, the golden voice said.
Behind them, protected by the Vogel boys and Azrael’s own guard, her mother and the Sisters stood shoulder to shoulder, power curling off them. Lilac and sunlight warm, it pushed at her back like supportive hands.
“Let me tell you how this ends.” The Sur American spoke, his voice cast in a heavy sadness that rang false. “You will give her your heart. And the goddess in her will destroy you. The world will be cast into chaos and war again.”
“War and chaos, that’s what you wanted when you set Róisín after the goetic spell, wasn’t it?” Azrael said lightly. “You have always been good at spinning words. Róisín counted on it when she recruited you to the allegiance. Do the others know you used it to destroy her?”
Isela watched the eyes of the allegiance, noting the first flickers of uncertainty at the mention of the ancient spell that was legend among them. There were others who looked less convinced in their purpose here. So this was not unilateral agreement. She could see the fractures in their alliance.
“Róisín’s talent was finding things and people,” Azrael mused, as if reminding them of an old memory. “She saw the power in me and made it her duty to teach me our ways. She was the one who found the spell to bar the gods from humanity. She found each of you when the time was right.”
Necromancers did not have children, which meant they were born to normal people. Róisín must have been the first to identify herself to him and teach him what he was. He would have known her skills best and she his, making them more than a match for each other. That’s why he had been charged with finding her.
Azrael inclined his head with an unspoken command.
From the line beside him, Gregor tossed something wrapped in cloth into the center of the room. It rolled across the floor, shedding the black fabric as it went to reveal an object the size of a fist and roughly the shape of a human heart. An icy vapor rose from it, staining the floor with a creeping black frost.
“This was never about revenge,” Azrael said. “Róisín didn’t have a heart left to seek it. It was about power. You send her to flush out the book, I die trying to stop her, and you sweep in to claim her loyalty—and the spell to raise angels. No need for an allegiance then, is there? Not when you hold the power to destroy the entire world.”
Even Vanka’s glare went to Paolo, green glass in her gaze. “He speaks the truth?”
“A clever lie,” Paolo snapped. “Now he has the book and a god. We cannot let him regain his strength.”
The allegiance’s power snapped together again. But Azrael threw back his head and laughed. It shook the building, the strength of that laugh. It swept through the room. The power behind it battered his enemies with hot desert air that scalded the flesh from more than a few lips and cheekbones, but left his own allies untouched.
“The book is no more,” he said. “The spell died with it. But a half-formed angel is now loose in the world, and it will take all my strength, and the god in her, to stop it if it ever comes to its senses and realizes what it is.”
They broke in that instant: a thousand waves against the rock that was Azrael’s strength united with the god in Isela. The unified wall of power began to retreat, each necromancer hastily absorbing his or her own strength, not trusting the others. Combined with his allies, Azrael’s blazed brighter. So vivid and fierce Isela wanted to laugh. How could she have ever thought them in danger? That the allegiance had a chance? She exhaled a long breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding.
About time you had a little faith in me, dancer. Such warmth in that voice.
Forgive me, my lord—a little tease in the title. I will never doubt your sincerity again.
Never is a long time, love. And I will prove it to you as often as it takes. His tone changed, edged with humor. I’m happy to see you finally paying me the respect I am due. Although I prefer “master.”
Don’t press your luck.
“Let me tell you how this ends,” Azrael boomed to the intruders. “I will allow you to return to your respective territories. If you—individually or as a whole—encroach on my territory without permission, you will remain as corpses. If you make a move against my consort or the one she holds, I will shred your flesh from bone with my bare hands and hang you still breathing from the walls of the city as a warning to others. If you harm my allies, wolf or witch, I will come for you in the darkness like a pestilence and take your strength, leaving you husks for the things that prowl the night.”
Azrael the Monster was terrible to behold. But she did not look away. He was her monster. The goddess in her affirmed their union with a surge of electricity.
“I will make no bid for any of your holdings so long as I am respected,” Azrael finished. “If not, I will not rest until every last one of you is in chains, and I smash the souls of your Aegises into the final death.”
She saw more than one throat bob. The warriors behind their necromancers shifted restlessly.
“Now, you have interrupted a joyous day for my consort’s family and our allies,” Azrael said quietly, with a formality deadlier than any of his previous words. “I bid you take your leave and wish you swift journey on your way.”
They retreated, cloaked in the mists of their arrival but departing in cars real enough to form a convoy of vehicles. Azrael’s people erupted into cries of victory that rang to the ceiling.
Azrael gave direction to his Aegis. “I want them tracked, and confirm when they clear the borders.” He paused, surveying the rest of his guard. “And Gregor. . .”
“Jawohl.” Gregor came to attention, the black sword reforming and ready for the hunt.
Markus surged eagerly at his side, ready for a fight, his ears already beginning to come to black-furred points.
“Go eat some cake,” Azrael said. His tone lightened. “I hear they’re serving Schwarz Hirsch at the groom’s table.”
The look of horror on Gregor’s face was priceless. Isela pressed her hand to her lips to catch the laugh. She started forward, ready to get between Gregor and her brothers if it came to blows. But Mark grinned as the wolf retreated
from his features, and with all the confidence of a young groom, Chris pounded Gregor on the back companionably.
“Come on. It’s red velvet. An American specialty. You’ll love it.” Chris laughed.
Gregor’s nostrils flared, but he sheathed his sword. He shook off the younger man’s arm, tugging at his lapels, and followed the still-laughing pack into the reception hall.
One arm around Isela’s shoulders, Azrael offered his free hand to Beryl Gilman-Vogel. She clasped it briefly. “You’ve sanctioned witchcraft again. You must know we’re not the only coven. Others will come here, seeking sanctuary.”
“And they will be permitted to practice under your supervision,” he said, shaking his head when she began to protest. “They cannot practice in freedom yet. I need to be able to protect us all until this settles. We’ll work out a way to coexist. In the meantime, I expect you will be busy supervising them.”
Azrael and Isela trailed the celebratory party into the banquet hall where guests were stirring as he lifted the geas. He moved slowly, the display in the hall had taken more of him than he was willing to let anyone see. When he wavered unsteadily, she was there, leaning into his side, lending him her strength.
“I will be your shield,” she murmured. “This is my vow.”
Azrael pulled her hand to his mouth. “All that I am is yours. This is my vow.”
His finger slid down to her wrist, over the skin twisted and blackened by the angel’s touch.
“How is it today?” he asked.
“Not bad,” she said, wiggling her fingers.
For the first few nights, it burned insistently, and neither witch’s potion nor Azrael’s geas could ease it. Occasionally, pain sprinted into the nerves in her hand. But gradually the pain abated.
Still she pled for mercy. If the angel caused trouble, they would take care of it. Marked by its touch, she would always have a way to sense it. Azrael kept the wings and the grimoire under lock and spell in his aedis. They would need both if it came down to it.
He kissed her fingertips one by one, sending heat through them and into her body.
“Tonight?” she whispered.
She had been patient, knowing he needed to recover, but she hungered for him nonetheless.
A wicked smile full of sensual promise curled his lips. “Are you so eager for my touch, dancer?”
The bloom of heat in her chest was no longer just passion to be satiated but something deeper. An eternity awaited them. They would explore it together.
“Come, necromancer.” She led the way into the banquet hall and cast a mischievous, golden-eyed glance over her shoulder. “Don’t make me beg.”
THANKS AND MORE READING
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
No writer becomes an author without a lot of help. With unending gratitude:
To Beth Green, NaNoWriMo buddy extraordinaire, for teaching me how to pronounce “tea” in Czech and encouraging me to write the “fun” one.
To author and dancer, Camille Griep, for doing her damnedest to keep the dancing honest. Any liberties taken are my own.
To draft warriors: Amy, Sandra, Lucie, Kam, and Esha, for smart, and occasionally hilarious, critiques and words of encouragement.
To Mom, for taking me seriously and being the most incredible grandmother.
To Dad, for introducing me to the writing of Octavia Butler.
To Clarion West, for giving me the opportunity to meet her.
To the city of Prague: I have taken significant artistic liberties with your treasured landmarks and buildings, and I humbly beg your pardon.
To the Mamas and Papas of Someone Just Pooped. Thanks for letting me join the club.
To OG, there’s nothing like a due date for a deadline.
And my husband, Oliver, who is always up for a murderous game of gin rummy and can finish my sentences with song lyrics. You knew I could do it, even when I had doubts. There aren’t enough words to thank you for your patience, persistence, and support; so please accept my heart instead.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jasmine Silvera inherited a love of sci-fi, fantasy, and comic books from her dad, who thought The Hobbit was a perfectly acceptable bedtime story for a ten-year-old. She filled long hours as a volunteer at the church thrift store by reading boxes of donated Harlequins. She’s been mixing them all up in her writing ever since. She lives in the Pacific Northwest with her partner-in-crime and their small, opinionated, human charge.
Connect with Jasmine at www.JasmineSilvera.com or on Facebook.
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