A long line of saliva dripped from the muddy one’s mouth, glittering silver and wet as it settled on his chest. There were two ways for humans to become undead. Converting a human by force required wiping their minds and leaving them blanks. They were blunt objects, not suitable for a mission of some nuance like this. That meant these had a contract, bargaining their free will in exchange for longer-than-human lives. Contracts were the most useful, because they could retain some of their personality and past skills. But few mortals bargained well with immortals who had had centuries to perfect the terms to give themselves the ultimate advantage. These two might not have volunteered for this specific task, but without properly defining the promise to serve, they had opened themselves up to be used in whatever way the necromancer saw fit.
“The angel of death is disgusted,” Raymond said, as if with dawning awareness of something he’d missed before. “To see them treated this way.”
Azrael shrugged uneasily. “It has never served my purpose to use undead as cannon fodder.”
“How humane.” When he looked at Azrael next, a smile turned his sharp face handsome. “I like you, Azrael. You succeeded where Róisín failed.”
Azrael let his confusion show.
“Your dancer,” Ray clarified, rising. “She must be special. Perhaps, when conditions are better and I have earned your trust, you will introduce us.”
Azrael stood with him. Raymond didn’t acknowledge his silence as they walked toward the steps. Ray’s second fell in, herding the shamblers behind. The wind had died down but picked up again as Ray moved. For a while companionable silence lingered. He would have to talk with Lysippe again when she returned. She knew Ray best.
Morning sun cast deep shadows beneath the bridge.
Azrael stopped by the steps and Ray faced him.
“I suggest when you’ve gathered all you can, you dispose of them quickly. Who knows what traps that snake has laid?”
“Paolo will not be happy if he finds that you’ve come here.”
It was Ray’s turn to bare his teeth in the feral approximation of a smile. It made him truly frightening. “When. Let him sulk.”
Azrael offered his hand. Ray’s grip was firm, cool, and when their energies met, it was without agitation. “If I learn anything that would be of use to you, I’ll send it along.”
“In their minds you broke the laws, allowing your dancer to live,” Ray said, and his smile faded. “Words are tricky things, twisted easily enough when you’re looking for a way. Don’t get comfortable.”
“Understood,” Azrael said, “thank you.”
Raymond touched each undead man’s forehead with his thumb, sketching a quick symbol that left a trail of cerulean sparks fading fast in his wake. Azrael recognized a geas for control in the sequence.
“All yours.”
Azrael watched the other necromancer go. Ray ascended the steps first. He paused for a moment and looked back at Azrael with something akin to regret on his face. “Tell Lysippe… Send her my regard.”
He continued on. Behind him, the swordswoman hesitated at the bottom of the stairs and gazed into the darkness beneath the bridge. Even Azrael had not known Ito was there until the head of intelligence made himself visible by stepping into the lighter shadows. Dressed in slate, his cropped black hair a spiky assemblage over his narrow face, he palmed his fist and gave a deep bow.
Azrael didn’t know the woman well enough to be sure, but her stiffened posture suggested surprise. A hand settled on the hilt of her top sword as she folded at the waist in response. She turned and trotted up the stairs after her master.
Follow Ray and his companion out of our territory, Azrael ordered his Aegis. One could not be too careful.
When he finished, Ito waited at his side, having crossed the distance so silently he startled Azrael.
“You know her?” Azrael asked, his eyes on the figures retreating from the bridge.
“Of her,” Ito said. “I believe she calls herself Ana these days. She is a formidable fighter, even without the Gift.”
It was how his Aegis referred to their exchange. The necromancer created protections around their soul, giving them almost immortality, increased strength and physical prowess, accelerated healing, and a symbol of their ability. Some, like Gregor, claimed physical weapons. Others had more subtle gifts.
Like all contracts, time periods of service were clear. When it was complete, they could remain or seek another necromancer to serve. Most never left.
Ito had departed Japan and service of the necromancer there, having completed the terms of his original contract as a guard. There he had been a second. The new retinue Azrael assembled offered an opportunity he would have never had in his home.
Azrael understood the gamble in taking on a ranking intelligence agent from another court. He’d taken the chance.
With a network of connections and ways of accessing information that mystified even Azrael, Ito had gained strategic advantages for him time and again. Azrael didn’t bother to ask him who or where he’d gotten it from. The young shinobi had proved his worth a thousand times in the past century of service. Of all the Aegis, he was the most self-contained. Yet Lysippe trusted him. That meant the most to Azrael.
Azrael waited.
“He’s telling the truth,” Ito said. “Both Vanka and Paolo have been campaigning. I’ll continue to look into the other claims. As for these?”
Azrael sighed as two pairs of blank eyes fixed on him. He lifted a hand, hesitating for just a moment. Claiming them would create a connection. He would feel whatever awareness of their situation they retained. Another reason he resisted using humans this way. What did it do over time, to feel another’s fear and suffering and simply ignore it? But he could not waste an opportunity to gain information on Paolo’s workings.
He formed his geas with a susurrus of words, minimizing the amount of physical contact he must have with either man. He passed his thumbs over the eyes of each man and they sank carefully to the ground, curling up around each other like littermates. He sighed. In sleep, their minds would be quieter, less fearful.
Master, it appears your consort is in some trouble. Gregor’s voice broke his thoughts. She’s headed to the square.
Azrael ground his back teeth. What could Isela have gotten into between breakfast and—he checked his watch—noon? He opened his mouth to give instructions for preparing his aedis to house the two spies, but Ito spoke first. “Sire, your progeny have arrived.”
Azrael swore as his glance ricocheted from the two men to the castle on the hill and the east-bank side of the river toward Old Town. Dory, get Isela.
On it, Matai.
“If you will allow me.” Ito nodded before Azrael could speak. Azrael had the sense that his head of intelligence found the entire scene amusing, though he was careful to keep his face impassive. “I’ll secure these two.”
“Go ahead,” Azrael called over his shoulder as he took the stairs in threes. “Laugh.”
Chapter Four
Gregor stood sentry by the doors to the aedis as they unloaded the phoenix. Tyler shifted from foot to foot in his shadow. When he saw Isela, he started forward.
“Dr. Sato.” Gregor cut him off. “Perhaps it’s best if you ensure the welfare of our visitor. Isela, your presence is requested in the Old Royal Palace.”
Tyler scraped a bow, a high flush in his pale cheeks.
Little stooge, the god snapped.
Gregor advanced, leaning in so his words were for her ears alone. “Careful, dancer, you forget who are your allies and who is your guest.”
Isela stepped back, surprised. Smug, Gregor resumed his full height.
“The eyes,” he mock whispered as if sharing a secret. “They’re still giving you away.”
He lifted a hand, flaring his fingertips below his cheekbone. He had, she noted, perfectly groomed cuticles and the nails were short and buffed. She wondered who was brave enough to give Gregor his manicures.
I’ll give him something, the god hissed.
Why are you so angry today? Isela sighed.
Why aren’t you tired of being treated like baggage?
“What will you do with him?” Isela asked, concerned.
As the gurney passed, Gregor did a cursory inspection of the man’s pockets and extracted an old battered wallet. He wrinkled his nose at the smell.
Gregor rifled through the wallet—no ID, no money—and tossed it back as Azrael’s undead wheeled the phoenix away from them. “He’ll be contained until Azrael can determine why he is like this.”
He crossed her path, blocking her lingering view.
Isela flexed her fingers. The second heartbeat, merging with her own, sent waves tingling through her system as power raced to her extremities.
“You are due in the sparring ring in one hour,” he reminded her. “Put it to good use.”
He turned his back on her, striding down the hall. She stood for a moment looking after him, wishing she knew some geas to make him trip and fall on his perfect face.
“Come on, Issy,” Dory said gently behind her. “Save it for the ring.”
What was it about Gregor that set her off, she wondered. And why did he seem to enjoy it so much? As head of castle security and chief enforcer in Azrael’s Aegis, Gregor answered to no one save Azrael. Gregor was Azrael’s sword. Or gun. Or bare-handed executioner. Whatever the situation required.
From the moment they’d met, their exchanges had been barbed. She’d picked fight after fight with Azrael’s captain, and he seemed to like provoking her.
And then there was the night she’d been confronted by the scattered remains of a murdered necromancer. She had lost her stomach and her senses in the basement turned abattoir. The words he’d whispered in their shared tongue—German—were the ones that would be used with a beloved child taken ill. There was no disguising the tenderness in that tone.
A few hours later he was back to tormenting her. Azrael claimed he hated her for reminding him of his lost humanity.
Now that she was Azrael’s consort, he would lay down his life for her. Such was the bargain he had made when he traded his soul for Azrael’s gift. Not that it stopped him from treating her as an extra—unwanted—responsibility. And with Lysippe gone on one of Azrael’s interminable missions, he was in charge of her training.
She turned a smile on Dory. “Why is it again you can’t train me?”
He laughed. They left the aedis, emerging in the narrowest part of the old castle buildings. Here the walls and the cobblestones sloped upward toward the main courtyard. The spires of Saint Vitus, the cathedral housed within, rose over all. One of these days she would check out those Mucha stained glass windows.
Dory shortened his stride to match hers without comment. It was nice to not feel like a small dog chasing someone for the first time all day. A mountainous man with an easy smile and dancing dark eyes, Dory was an easy favorite among Azrael’s Aegis.
“As consort, you will be closer to Azrael than any of us,” he said. “Your willingness to fight at his side is admirable. But without proper training, it’s suicidal. And he can’t afford to lose you. Not now.”
Isela made a rough sound in the back of her throat. She wiggled her fingertips and sent gold sparks dancing, but her eyes were on the cobblestones at their feet. “I get it. He needs the god—”
“Not because of a god, Issy.” Dory shook his head. “They say necromancers do not love. That they cannot.”
She looked at him. His broad hand almost spanned her back from shoulder to shoulder.
“I have never seen Azrael like this,” Dory said. “If Gregor is hard on you, it’s because he knows what’s at stake.”
“Your brother likes to remind me that I’m Azrael’s weak link,” she said, gritting her teeth against emotion. “I didn’t think you—”
Dory squeezed her gently. “A woman like you is once in a lifetime. And he’s lived a long time.”
Isela’s chest constricted. She smiled, and Dory wavered in her shining eyes. “Gods, you’re a romantic!”
His laugh boomed, echoing against the walls. The narrow passage opened up, and the sight of the grand cathedral, rising in the afternoon light, stole her breath. She hoped she never got used to it.
Never is a long time, the god chimed. It’s a big old building. Now, the Hanging Gardens in Babylon—
“How come none of you have girlfriends… or boyfriends,” Isela asked to distract herself from the temptation to argue with the god. “I bet getting laid once in a while would take Gregor’s edge off.”
“Gregor’s something of an ascetic.”
“Surprise, surprise.”
“Still waiting for the right one, I suppose,” Dory said.
“You can’t win if you don’t play.”
They’d arrived. Rory stood outside the Old Royal Palace, in the same position she had first seen him. Unlike Dory, his brother, who was casual in cargo shorts and a short-sleeved button-down shirt patterned with hibiscus blossoms, Rory wore a wide swath of thick fabric around his hips, a dress shirt tucked in above the knot below his waist. On the other side of the door, stood a Nordic bruiser with impressive facial hair. Except—
“Aleifr, you didn’t!” She gasped.
She leaped the distance, chased by Dory’s laughter, and stretched up on her toes to put a hand on his cheek. The long bound plait bearing trinkets that caught the light when he moved had been trimmed to hug his cheeks and jawline in a neat sandy-blond shadow. He had a generous mouth, she noted. And with his hair pulled back in a tidy bun to reveal the shaved underside of his head, she could see the strong lines of his face. He might have even groomed his brows. Beneath, eyes the color of a northern sea in summer were fringed with platinum-tipped lashes.
“Speaking of girlfriends.” Dory chuckled.
Aleifr was the height of the brothers, but his strength was lean and wiry. “Handsome, eh?”
She had to tilt her chin up to glare at him.
“Talking and now dating,” she said, a speculative element of teasing entering her voice. “Careful, Thor Odinson, you’re going to be a modern man before you know it. Next thing I know, you’ll be asking for car keys.”
He grunted, but the laughter brightened his eyes.
“Who is it?” Isela asked.
Aleifr smirked with a shrug.
“Apparently she likes the strong silent type.” Dory rolled his eyes. “Witches.”
She mentally reviewed the witches who had trickled in since Azrael made his territory a sanctuary.
“A foolish man speaks much and says nothing,” Rory said. “Mistress, you should enter.”
Isela glared at Aleifr before settling on her heels. “We’ll take this up later.”
She’d walked in on a gathering of necromancers. Again.
Only the surprising lack of tension kept her from turning around and walking right back out of the room.
Light streamed into the Old Royal Palace from the broad windows, casting shafts against the square-patterned wood of the main floor. The lit chandeliers chased the last of shadows from the arched stone ceiling above.
Her eyes settled on three figures at the far end.
For a moment, everything in the room fell away but Azrael. She would have known him without sight. The solid beat in her chest engaged in familiar acrobatics. Born when the rigors of daily life demanded soundness of body, he dressed as a solider might, but with the studied elegance of a diplomat. Modern styles favored him, and he wore them well. Slim-cut trousers defined long, lean legs, and a button-down shirt hugged the width of his shoulders before nipping in at the waist. Dark hair curled just past his collar, a touch of the wildness of a predator in otherwise measured restraint. He was a collection of classical lines and sharp edges. Even his face reflected humanity at a younger age: skin touched with gold, full lips, and heavy brows shading upturned eyes of minted silver. Once, she had found them strange and inhuman. Now they were the most beautiful thi
ng she had ever seen.
Gaining power interrupted the aging of necromancers, the essentialness of their natures coming to the surface in a way that was both inhuman and magnetic. Only the strongest went without some layer of disguise in public, allowing the final and most visible transformation—their eyes—to be revealed. Once a necromancer reached what she thought of as “Allegiance level,” the irises mutated from a normal human shade to the iridescent shine.
Of the two standing before Azrael now, only the male’s eyes held the beginning of a telltale glow. A thin circle of metallic sheen around vibrant hazel. The interior of his irises picked up flecks of bronze that reflected the light, making them appear to flicker as they fixed on her. He was shades of the desert, from the tan designer jeans to the ochre racing jacket over an artfully faded T-shirt. A dark line of neatly trimmed hair outlined his angular chin, the line of a goatee defining full lips a shade more pink than his burnished amber skin.
At a glance, Isela would have mistaken the female for any of the young corps dancers at the Academy. She stood with one hip cocked as a resting place for her long, delicate fingers, wearing the dismissive expression of a bored adolescent like a second skin. Nails painted a carnal red and filed to points drummed at the hipbone over her fitted leather pants. Her hair, shaved above one ear, fell to the small of her back in a tight braid. The hint of a tattoo curled around her neckline and down the back of her hand to her wrist below the cuff of a black chunky-knit sweater with an asymmetrical toggle close.
Isela felt the weight of her gaze across the room. The god reared up against Isela’s consciousness, revealing an overlay of strength emanating from the female that belied her apparent youth.
Dory made a sound between a breath and grunt, placing Isela on his left. The female broke eye contact first.
Isela glanced between the newcomers and Azrael. They were all impeccably dressed; most necromancers seemed to have a keen sense for dressing well in the fashion of whatever era they chose. She had walked in on a ceremony of sorts. And in spite of Azrael’s adoption of modern conveniences, there was an ageless formality about him when it was time to do magical business.
Dancer's Flame (Grace Bloods Book 2) Page 5
