“Your mentor,” she said of Necromancer Róisín. “The one they set us against, hoping we’d fail.”
“Paolo knew, yes. Perhaps Vanka, but I doubt the others had any idea.”
In her quest for vengeance, Róisín had tried to raise an angel and unleash an apocalypse on the world. Isela died in the fighting. Agreeing to become a vessel for a god had been the only way back.
“They wanted you to put me down.”
She watched him trying to sort out her flair for idiom. With two thousand years and a dozen languages—living and dead—to his repertoire, it amazed her that she could stump him.
She clarified. “The same way they talked Róisín into killing her consort.” She pressed on. “Believe me, I am grateful that you saw past that. But god or not, it’s still my life. I have to dance, Azrael, and not just for you.”
The issue had lain unspoken between them for weeks. Hired by the Allegiance to help him find Róisín, Isela had learned to act as a conduit for the power of a god, boosting his own. She would be lying to say some cynical part of her did not wonder if making her his consort had not only been for her protection. As a vessel, she had access to unknown power. It was an advantage that had brought the Allegiance to their door to challenge him after they’d defeated Róisín. United with her god, he’d overwhelmed them, sending them fleeing back to their territories with the promise to leave them be if they did the same.
They had won. Róisín was dead; what remained of the artificial heart that powered her occupied a special case in Azrael’s aedis. And somewhere in the castle, under security so tight even Gregor would not speak of it, was the grimoire containing the spell to raise an angel.
The temperature in the room dropped a few degrees. All necromancers manifested their powers in the form of classical elements. His was fire. When he lost control, things burned to the ground. They’d lost a bed that way. Restraint worked the opposite way.
“We don’t yet understand what makes you different,” he said. “The PR people want a meeting. The human resistance is restless, and they don’t know the danger they put themselves in. You can keep them from acting on their plans—and hurting anyone.”
She could not stand his coldness. She preferred the inferno.
Her eyes burned with unshed tears. “Now I’m a poster child for the necromancer public-outreach campaign? I have given up everything, Azrael. My home, my freedom, my life—”
It was his turn to look away. She bit the inside of her lip hard enough to taste blood, wishing she could take it back. Since they’d emerged from the tomb, Azrael had barred her from any further summoning work, left her out of his affairs. He hadn’t suggested she so much lift a finger for him.
Bound by their word, the Allegiance had paid her fee on the completed job. She was wealthy beyond belief. The degenerative hip condition that had once threatened to end her career was healed. It was a luxurious retirement by any standard.
But her death had done something to him. Sometimes she woke with his arms so tight around her she clutched for breath. She’d learned to stay calm, to reassure him that she was there and would not leave, until his hold loosened. It was fear she understood. It had driven her to take a deal with a god.
Azrael was unlike any other in the Allegiance. He loved when others would—or could—not. That knowledge usually made her heart begin soaring acrobatics in her chest. But now it sank like a stone. He loved her. And that love was poised to crush the life she’d built for herself.
“Advanced seminars are where all the theory comes in,” she said. “I’ll teach technique or balance work. Anything.”
“We can’t take the chance.”
“I need to dance.”
“And I need you safe,” he barked.
Isela snapped. “I am not a thing to be locked away in a glass case and kept under guard and key until you need me next!”
The mug splintered in his grip. Steaming coffee sprayed over his hand and onto the counter.
“That was— I shouldn’t have said it.” Guilt squeezed her throat.
She went for a cloth, but Azrael was already moving away, shaking his fingers over the sink, not in pain but irritation. His skin wasn’t even red.
“The Allegiance is at our door, slavering for an excuse to challenge me for my right to rule,” he said. “Your god is sneaking out in the middle of the night to play while you sleep. There is too much at stake. You will not dance. Not until we know it’s safe. That is all.”
Chapter Two
Tyler pulled up in front of the Praha Dance Academy and Isela opened the passenger door. Niles, the director’s personal assistant, was bundled up for a wait, cheeks red from cold, but he greeted Isela with a rare smile as she slid out of the car. There was a surprising lack of paparazzi out front as he herded her to the front doors of the art nouveau building the Academy called home.
“It’s been quiet since you’ve taken up residence at the castle, Miss Vogel,” Niles said, catching the door. “A little too quiet if I’m honest.”
“How is she?” Isela asked.
“She’s survived worse things than losing her premiere godsdancer,” Niles said with an air of joviality that faded fast. “Several families pulled their children from the school. Apparently they prefer the necromancer as a distant patron.”
Isela understood. Learning to communicate with the gods via dance had led to an international conflict as countries used their powers against one another. Necromancers had saved humanity, but at a high price. They enforced a ruthless brand of peace by dividing the world among themselves and ruling over it all. They barred humanity from direct contact with the gods. Now all requests had to be approved. Necromancers might have prevented chaos after the godswar, but they still engendered terror in the human population. Isela knew the feeling. She’d stood among their most powerful members, the Allegiance.
“It will recover,” Niles said as he escorted her through the halls. “Always does. She’s concerned about you.”
A few students moving between classes slowed their pace or paused to stare as she passed. Isela smiled, but few met her eyes.
Her mentor seemed older than Isela remembered, and more tired. But the strength of her gaze was undiminished. She rose from her desk and greeted Isela with a hug.
“Tea, Niles,” Divya said, not taking her hands from Isela’s arm.
Already in motion, he raised a brow conspiratorially at Isela. She almost laughed. Divya glanced between them, missing nothing.
“You two,” she chided. “Sit, Issy. We have to talk about when you’ll start with us.”
Isela slid into the chair with a sigh.
“Oh,” Divya said, settling opposite her. “Is it your hip?”
Isela nodded, hating that she had to keep this secret. Niles served the tea and made a discreet exit. He brushed Divya’s shoulder as he passed, a movement so small Isela would not have noticed it except that in all her years at the Academy, she’d never seen them touch. Divya’s variegated eyes followed her assistant for just a moment before returning to her former student.
Isela cleared her throat. “I wouldn’t be doing the Academy any favors. I know what they say about me… and Azrael.”
She tried to ignore the gossip. Depending on the day, she was a grasping seductress who’d bounced from the head of the necromancer’s security detail to his master, or the victim of a Machiavellian scheme of seduction by proxy. Most suspected she was a zombie or otherwise under the thrall of one man or the other.
“What better way to dispel those ridiculous rumors than having you here?” Divya asked. “Some on the board think it might be a draw for students.”
Isela stirred her tea. Divya slid the plate of small cookies closer, but Isela shook her head once. She forced herself to swallow a sip in the hope it might help loosen the lump forming in her throat.
“Azrael and I decided it’s just best.” Isela swallowed. “For the time being…”
“Did you?” Divya’s brow ros
e. “And Azrael?”
Isela flushed. Divya had always seen right through her. She was as much a surrogate mother as a teacher. “It’s just right now is a bad time, Divya. We have to figure out how to make this work.”
Isela waited for her suggest a way to work around Azrael. But when her teacher met her eyes, Isela read shrewd calculation in them.
“He doesn’t want you calling down another god,” Divya said, surprising Isela. “Or teaching another dancer how. I see.”
“How did you know?”
Divya smiled. “I suspected at the wedding, but seeing you now—I’m certain. May I ask?”
Isela blinked hard. “In the cemetery. I died. This was the only way to come back. I just wanted… him.”
Divya’s mouth curved, suggesting a smile. “Love forces our hand, does it not?”
Isela sat back in her chair and contemplated her tea.
“It’s something I hadn’t considered,” Divya said at last, frowning. “And perhaps, for the time being…”
Isela’s throat closed on her next breath. She was being forced out of the one place she truly belonged. She stared at the fire to avoid her teacher’s gaze.
The director leaned forward, reaching out to rest her fingers on Isela’s jawbone. Isela gave in to the pressure and met her teacher’s eyes.
“You are family,” Divya finished. “The Academy will always be your home.”
She let Isela go, slipping a tissue into her hand as she took a sip from her cup. Isela clenched her teeth and struggled for control of her emotions.
“Your apartment door has been fixed.” Divya changed the subject. “And we had everything boxed after the… break-in. I can have the boxes sent to the castle.”
The dam of emotion broke in Isela, and she set her cup down with a rattle. “Throw it away. I don’t care.”
Divya sat upright. “Isela Vogel. It is unseemly for a dancer of your status to pout.”
Isela laughed against her will. Her mentor’s serene gaze was a challenge.
“I am not pouting,” Isela confessed. “I’m just… adjusting poorly.”
Divya sighed. Her cheeks softened and the line between her eyebrows melted away.
“No one is clamoring for a drafty attic apartment in this old building,” Divya said casually. “We’ll hold your belongings until you decide what to do with them. There must be room for a few boxes in that enormous castle.”
Isela tried again to be surly. “You might as well just dump it.”
Divya squeezed her arm, rising. “Call your sisters, see if they can use any of it first. We’ll take care of the rest.”
Tyler held the car door as Isela stepped back out of the Academy and into the weak winter sunshine. She paused, as she always did, to admire the colored glass archway. Leaving the elaborate art nouveau building for the weight of the enormous castle on the hill made her glum. She hadn’t even gone up to her apartment. She didn’t think she could bear it.
“Issy?”
“Go home, Ty,” she murmured. “I’ll walk.”
“But…”
Let me.
Isela felt the words leave her mouth and the geas that interlaced them. They emerged musically, with the unmistakable cadence of a command. Tyler paled, but he closed her door. With jerky limbs, he returned to the driver’s side.
“I’ll be fine,” Isela said when she had control of her voice again. “Promise. I’ll go straight home. Just need to stretch my legs.”
He looked like he wanted to protest. Still, he climbed inside and closed the door. The car pulled away from the curb. She shivered against the cold seeping up from the cobblestones beneath her boots.
How did you do that? she asked the god.
Words are power. All this time I’ve been borrowing from you, but we had language once. I’d forgotten. Azrael reminded me.
Alone, Isela snugged her coat and tugged her wool cap over her ears. Aside from the few glances she attracted for standing still in the middle of the walkway, no one seemed inclined to acknowledge her in the least.
You’re welcome, the god said. They don’t recognize you. I tweaked the one Bebe taught you to hide your eyes.
Nice trick. And thanks for Tyler.
My pleasure. I am sorry about last night.
Sorry for trying to seduce my lover or for considering destroying him? Isela grumbled. Or wait, how about for sneaking out and making me dance around the fountain... naked.
The god was silent, and Isela had the impression she wasn’t the only one in a sulk. She crossed the road between cars and started down the long avenue that ran through the west edge of Old Town Prague. The pedestrian thoroughfare lined with international luxury stores and dotted with food and cigarette stands connected the Obecní Dům, or Municipal House, home of the Praha Dance Academy, with Wenceslas Square and the National Theatre beside the river. She could catch a tram back toward the castle—
I just wanted time to feel again, the god admitted reluctantly. It’s so glorious—all that flesh. I am a passenger.
Isela snorted. You want to drive? That’s fine. Let’s talk. But you can’t just take over… and Azrael is off-limits.
Don’t be such a prude, Issy. There was a definite note of teasing in the god’s voice. It wouldn’t even be cheating. After all, I am you.
No, you’re not. Isela stopped in her tracks.
Someone bumped into her from behind, and she muttered an apology and kept walking. Isela’s sense of the god retreated to the back of her mind. She burrowed there, in whatever corner she’d designated for herself, and did not speak again.
The thing that grabbed Isela’s wrist on the packed tram was not human. She’d missed it as she’d hurried on with the rest of the passengers to the standing-room-only tram; she saw now that it only looked human. Torn between avoiding the overpowering stench of it and growing curiosity, she remained still.
The hand locked around her wrist was skin stretched over bones and tendons. The stringy muscles stood out in relief on clenched fingers, the thick palm coarse on her healed scar tissue. For a moment she wondered if she’d made a mistake in advocating that a half-formed angel go free. Maybe now it had returned for vengeance.
All around her, humanity pressed in, forcing her closer to her captor.
“A word,” it hissed, head bowed against the plastic seat as its fingers locked.
She felt the bones in her wrist grind against one another an instant before the cool of healing spread through the breaks. It had to be tall, but hunched over itself, it seemed vulnerable. He, she amended. The height and the hand and the shape of its broad shoulders made it seem male enough. Isela was getting used to things being more than they appeared. She racked her brain through the supernatural creatures she’d encountered. Incubus? Necromancer? Witch? Were?
The rags of his clothes contributed to an overall stench of cheap vodka and unwashed flesh. She wasn’t sure what color his hair was—grease and dirt made it a shiny, stringy auburn. Ratty tennis shoes with mismatched laces thumped as he tapped the floor spastically. He hadn’t shaved in weeks. She didn’t know it was possible for a person to be so filthy. With his head bowed, neck vertebra jutted against the skin. She wondered when he’d last eaten.
Thanks to Lysippe, she knew half a dozen ways to break a hold, but none of them would allow her to avoid excess attention or risking human lives. Innocent lives, she reminded herself. Lives that should not be aware that the world around them was darker and full of scarier creatures than appeared in their nightmares.
The world that had become hers.
Goddess. She turned her attention inward. Need a little help right now.
“A word,” it said again, mournful.
Nonhumans obeyed a strict code of secrecy enforced by the Allegiance. The human population would know as little about them as possible, to keep them from the panic that had almost brought the world to the brink of apocalypse during the godswar. Showing itself on a tram full of humans would violate that code. Whatev
er it was, the message was important enough to risk revealing itself to her.
The voice was rusty from lack of use—or overuse—and trembled.
“A word.”
Three times, she thought. Saying something three times—thrice—was more than a request. It was power. It was geas.
Isela felt a small shifting against her skull as the god stirred. What’s a phoenix doing dressed like a man?
A phoenix?
She glanced down as the creature looked up. When their eyes met, she forgot to breathe shallowly.
Beneath the layers of dirt over freckles and skin cracked and dried by the elements, it was beautiful. Enormous, hooded green eyes fissured with gold belonged to something inhuman. Shaded by a broad forehead and sunken above prominent cheekbones, they spoke of being captured and broken but never tamed.
His mouth—no mistaking its maleness now—pulled in a rictus of pain as it glanced at her, then away.
Isela, something is super wrong with this guy, the god said.
That is your great insight?
The god sighed. Well, let’s see what he wants.
“Okay,” she heard herself saying. “You can have your word.”
The tram jerked as the overhead buzzed an announcement of the next stop. The press of passengers shuffled against her. A few cast curious glances her direction.
“But we have to get off this tram. Come on. Next round’s on me,” she said, coaxing him.
The narrow cabin shifted as people began the process of exiting and entering the tram. The doors closed, warning lights flashing with the incomprehensible recorded warning to clear the entryway as the last passengers crammed in.
Her captor leaped. It was follow or be dragged. In spite of his thinness and alcohol reek, his grip was a vise on her wrist.
On the cobblestone island dividing the tram tracks from traffic, she thought of her opening to break away. His eyes lit on her again, wild and afraid and unbowed. She ran with him.
“Where are we going?”
Dancer's Flame (Grace Bloods Book 2) Page 3
