She fought the urge to look down at herself. She had stumbled in off the street. Her jeans, wet from the slushy ground, clung to her calves. Wisps of hair floated in an untidy mess around her shoulders.
“Ah, my heart.” Though Azrael’s expression didn’t change, she heard the suggestion of a smile in his voice. “Meet my progeny. They will be… staying with us for the immediate future.”
Heat curled languorously from her core to her fingertips and toes. He slipped one hand from the pocket of his slacks and offered it to her.
She didn’t hesitate. Nor would she slink to his side. She knew where she belonged. Chin up, she crossed the room as elegantly as she had ever navigated a stage.
When his fingers closed over hers, the lights in the room flared. The corner of his mouth quirked as the flush returned to her cheeks. It made a simple touch as intimate as a kiss. He clasped their fingers and brought her knuckles to his lips. His scent, agar and molasses, banished the phoenix from her mind.
The door opened again, and Dante crossed the distance briskly, his hat in his hand as he took his place beside the female necromancer. “Forgive my tardiness. Got caught up in your new visitor.”
This should be an interesting story. Azrael’s voice was even richer inside her head; it also held the dry humor his face lacked.
Her eyebrow twitched as she fought the edges of a smile from curling her lips. Later.
After a shower and a change of clothes, preferably.
Aloud, he turned to their guests as he spoke. “Isela Vogel, my consort and the god vessel.”
But she liked the way he gave her name first. He would not define her by their relationship, yet he put it between her and the vast unknown of what she had become. Once she had been a loose end, even among her own large and complicated family.
Azrael had changed that.
You necromancers have a fancy title for everything.
Your mouth distracts me.
Think that’s a distraction—imagine it wrapped around your co—
Enough, Isela. A distinct pause in which the heat from his body flared and was swiftly contained. Please.
She bit down on a smile as she returned her gaze to the visitors.
At the introduction, all three had swept to one knee. But Isela didn’t miss the skepticism in the girl’s eyes before her head lowered. Isela shivered, and a curl of heat rolled up her spine. Azrael’s attempt to reassure her fell flat. Being disliked on sight, without provocation, had that effect on her.
“Please,” Isela said to them, looking to Azrael for help. She understood formality, but this was just ridiculous. “You don’t need to do that.”
“Dauntless,” Azrael said.
Summoned, the male with the bronzing eyes rose at Azrael’s introduction and offered his hand. “Tariq Yilmaz.”
Isela took a half step forward, but Azrael’s hand on hers kept her from leaving his side. Tariq closed the distance and brought her knuckles to his forehead with a second bow. She resisted the urge to lean closer and sample the scent of sandalwood and freshly peeled tangerines.
He looked into her eyes when he spoke. “Consort of my master, I offer you my sword and my shield.” After a moment of awkward silence, he leaned in with a murmur. “Do you accept?”
What exactly am I accepting? Isela asked Azrael.
Protection, physical and otherwise, from our enemies.
But the Aegis…
It will be good to have one who is not bound to obey you among them. The last was said dryly.
The god chimed in so that only Isela could hear. A keeper?
Isela didn’t like it either, but she had put her life in Azrael’s hands the moment she’d come back with a god. She would not gain the almost invincible immortality that he took for granted for hundreds of years. She remembered the rock flying at her. If she lived that long.
It is appropriate to extend them our hospitality, Azrael instructed. As consort.
“I accept,” she said. “Thank you, Tariq. I offer you the hospitality of our home.”
She took Azrael’s silence to mean she’d done it properly. Tariq stepped away with a wink.
Dante filled the space. “Dante Abraham. I lend you my wisdom of mysteries great and small.”
“He is a walking library,” Tariq added, earning a fleeting smile.
Dante had once been tall, but age stooped him in ways that made her think of her own father. The comparison brought a rush of tight heat to her chest that was neither the god nor Azrael. Is that all she was without them, she wondered, an endless well of grief and loss? Her father would only be the beginning. As she remained unchanged, everyone she knew and loved would walk slowly toward death. She thought of her mother, who had seemed to age years in the weeks since her father’s passing. Powerful witches might live longer than most mortals, but it was not immortality. Her throat ached with the pressure of rising emotion. Azrael’s fingers tightened on hers, bringing her back to the here and now.
“Thank you for your help today, in the square,” she said, her voice huskier than before. “Please accept the hospitality of our home.”
“My pleasure.” He winked before stepping aside with a nod for Azrael. “Long time, no see, old man.”
Azrael clasped his hand, drawing him close. “My friend.”
Isela cleared her throat, lifting her chin. The spot behind her eye throbbed.
“Nitiu Nandipame Diaz Estrella.” The girl spoke next, rising. “My sword and shield are yours, señora.”
Woman, Isela thought. Perhaps there was one part of necromancers that aged: the voice. She might look nineteen, but there was no hiding the knowledge of centuries in that voice. Up close, Isela was startled to find herself taller. The woman cupped her hand, palm facing her face and rested it beneath the hook of Isela’s fingers. The charge between them snapped painfully. It took all of Isela’s determination not to flinch when thick dark brows brushed her knuckles.
“She is called Gus,” Tariq clarified.
Both women frowned at him.
I don’t care for this one, the god chimed in unhelpfully. She has no respect for her betters.
“Thank you,” Isela said.
The female necromancer’s head jerked up, and her lashes tightened around eyes so dark it was impossible to distinguish between pupil and iris. Azrael squeezed Isela’s fingers again.
She blurted out, “I accept and offer the hospitality of our home.”
Gus nodded and rejoined her companions. The ease and familiarity between them and their mentor was obvious as conversation resumed around her with less formality. Clouds scuttled across the sun, interrupting the flow of sunlight into the room. Isela shivered.
She stepped back, misjudged the distance, and bumped into Azrael. Trapped, she thought. I’m trapped in all this; I don’t even know what I am anymore. The lights flickered, dimming and brightening before settling.
Steady, Isela, the god said as Azrael asked: Little wolf?
“Excuse me,” Isela muttered. The light bulbs popped.
All four necromancers looked at her in question. Azrael still had a firm grip of her hand.
She forced herself to form the words louder. “It’s been a pleasure—meeting you—but I have to go.”
Tariq swept another low bow her direction. Gus’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. Dante smiled gently enough to break her heart. Azrael brought her knuckles to the center of his chest, over his heart, and then he let her go.
Isela fled.
Chapter Five
Isela dragged herself back to Azrael’s quarters from the sparring ring. She poured half a bottle of wine into one of the fishbowl-sized glasses and limped to the bath.
Her clothes brushed patches of skin scraped raw by sand and pressed against bruises on the way to the floor. Her cargos fluttered where sliced. She inspected her calf. At least the cut had stopped bleeding.
The first rounds with Tyler had earned nothing but sharp criticism from Gregor, finding fault with her te
chnique, her speed and her focus. Life as a professional dancer had toughened her. She knew how to turn her own anger into determination. But she could not withhold her compassion, and Gregor overheard her apology as she helped Tyler to stand. His fury had been complete.
“No apology, no remorse.” Gregor picked up his own staff.
The noise in the room vanished.
“You want to slit my throat, little god,” he said with a homicidal grin. “Come.”
Her fingers ached as she turned on the water. When steam rose from the spray, she hesitated. The pain would be exquisite, but the desire to be rid of sand and defeat overwhelmed her. She stepped into the shower, unable to swallow a cry.
As a teacher, Lysippe was tough but fair. She took what Trinh had started at the Academy while Isela was still just human and shaped it into something more deadly. She recognized Isela’s natural gifts: speed, grace, balance. The god presence had amplified them; she must learn to use them again. At first they had been a hindrance. She moved faster and farther than she intended. Her spins had more momentum than necessary. She could catch herself but not recover enough to meet her opponent.
When Azrael sent Lysippe to see to his shipping interests in Barcelona, Isela’s hell began. Gregor delighted in showing her exactly how not good enough she was.
The god rose in her several times but offered nothing more than rage at Gregor.
I can’t yet, the god admitted as Isela lifted her staff up to fend off his blows. Not this one. Not after the square. But the first chance I get, Issy…
The god helped her absorb the blow that dropped her to one knee, dampening the pain. Isela swung, but Gregor was out of range, and when she lost her balance, he struck. She hit the sand hard and tasted blood.
Can’t you do something? Isela pleaded near the last. Róisín—
That was the In Between. Frustration tightened the god’s voice. You weren’t in your body.
“You are dead,” Gregor pronounced. He didn’t even look at her as she braced her elbow beneath her and staggered to her feet. “Twenty-five, no, twenty-seven times. If you are lucky, Azrael will incinerate your remains. If not, you may well find yourself serving another necromancer.”
The worst part was her audience. Rory wouldn’t meet her eyes. Tyler looked sick and pale. Gus’s expression was one of icy calculation. Gregor turned his back, dismissing her.
Showering, she turned her face up to wash away tears. Hatred rose with the senseless rage that made her muscles tremble. She slammed her hands into the walls and screamed. Tile cracked and fractures rippled out in concentric circles from the imprints of her hands. At the sharp pain, she flipped her palms up. Blood welled up where broken tile had sliced skin.
The rumble of Azrael’s voice rolled through her. “Do I need to kill Gregor again?”
“Not unless you’re interested in testing how strong his vow to protect your consort is,” she said, proud that her voice did not shake.
She fought the urge to open her eyes, letting her ears take in the sound of clothing falling to the tiles. The sight of him would overwhelm her as it always did. She wanted the clarity brought by the hot burn of anger to linger a moment longer. The scent of him—agar and molasses with the hint of cinnamon—curled into her with every inhale, drowning out her own blood and sweat.
He captured her wrist in one hand, cradling it as he inspected the new bruises over skin twisted and blackened by an angel’s touch. His gaze climbed her arm. She tried to pull away, but he went still until she let herself be held.
“I will break his hands,” Azrael said as though he were contemplating what color tie to wear.
Though she doubted Azrael even owned a tie. It was Gregor who belonged on the cover of a man’s luxury magazine, collection of expensive watches and all. Yet for two hundred years, they’d fought back-to-back. Nothing had come between them until her. She was Azrael’s weakness. She suspected Gregor would kill her himself before he let her become a big enough chink in Azrael’s armor. Vow or not.
“I don’t think he needs another reason to hate me,” she murmured.
Her words were light, but he heard the anguish in them. He regretted losing the ability to read her.
“No one challenges Gregor the way you do,” he said. “It’s good for him.”
He compartmentalized his need to deal with Gregor. A rough sparring session wasn’t the only thing weighing on her. Her departure from the palace had been more like flight.
Once, he would have pushed, baited, and cornered her like the wolf she was descended from. Now he had other tactics at his disposal. He brought the bruised wrist to his mouth, flicking his tongue over the damp, soapy skin below her palm. Her gasp was music to his ears. When he brought his eyes up to hers, the heat building in them was unmistakable. The gold had almost faded from her irises, returning them to the smoke-before-fire he knew best.
He pressed his lips to flesh again, sucking until tremors wracked her. Her whole body revealed layers of sensitivity to the slightest contact. The difference between a gasp and a tremble, a sigh and a scream, kept him coming back to her bed night after night, determined to seek, discover, and elicit every ounce of pleasure she held.
Her spine arched when his mouth moved higher.
“I understand you had a busy day,” he murmured against the flesh inside her elbow, letting his words thrum against the pulse in her arm. “Brought home a new pet?”
“Phoenix.”
His brows rose. His mouth moved in a long line up the inside of her arm, taking in her scent and then moving toward her collarbones. “Truly?”
She made a sound of affirmation, or a moan. “He’d delayed his transition. Almost took out half of Old Town.”
He drew back, and this time she moaned. Her eyes fluttered open. Desire and confusion warred in their depths.
“You stopped him,” he said, his voice cooling as his mind turned over the possibilities. Phoenixes never postponed their transitions.
“Something’s wrong with him.” She sighed, dipping under the spray one more time. “Besides the transition. He’s human, or he looks like one.”
Who had transformed a phoenix? One necromancer in his territory might be capable of that level of alchemy—the satrap over southern Europe, holed up among a harem of godsdancers in Seville. He was an ally, or at least not an enemy. Maybe his meeting with Raymond had made him paranoid, but this couldn’t be a coincidence.
She forced her lips closed against a yawn. “It must be the Allegiance, to cast a spell that strong, right?”
“It would take a great power,” Azrael admitted, shutting off the water.
“The phoenix is reborn from its own ashes,” Isela said dreamily. “The cycle of creation and destruction is essential to their nature.”
“You’ve been spending time in the library.” Azrael smiled at last.
The sight of her in the shower when he arrived, back bowed in defeat, had affected him more than he expected. A yawn escaped, making her jaw pop. He scooped her up. Her body healed faster than any human’s, but even watching the bruises fade didn’t ease his mind. He would figure out what to do about Gregor tomorrow. Tonight he would give her the gentle pleasure of a worshipful lover, to bring her back to herself.
She was asleep before he reached the bed.
Chapter Six
Isela woke alone in the big bed. She examined the previous day’s injuries, but even the faded bruises and pale, healing lines on her palms were no comfort. Her head throbbed faintly; the god she’d nicknamed Gold mercifully maintained silence. She spent a long time on her mat beside the window overlooking the garden. The repetitive sequence of sun salutations served as a moving meditation. Her muscles warmed through the practiced motion, strengthened as she bore her own weight through the transition between postures, and softened as she breathed into each space where worry had created tension in her body.
The mat, like the sequence that followed, had been a gift from her mother. She had never known a time
when one like it hadn’t occupied a corner in whatever space they lived. Her mother went there every day, moving through her sequence with single-minded intensity. When they were young, the siblings all tumbled around her hands and feet as she moved, imitating her with childlike enthusiasm. Only Isela stayed until she was old enough to need her own mat, placed beside the first. Moving together, breathing as one, connected them.
You are your mother’s daughter, her father liked to say when she was small and unable to sit still for more than a few moments at a time. But you are also my child: when you choose, you do nothing without purpose.
Azrael might have barred her from dance, but that didn’t mean she had to sit still. By the time she reached the double digits, her limbs shook and her breath came harder than she was used to. She found herself more tired than she should have been and remembered she hadn’t eaten anything the night before. Grief, taking its senseless toll, had stolen her appetite again. But that was no excuse. She was going to have to be more careful about fueling her body, especially after the god tapped it for anything. It would do no good to burn herself out. She showered, dressed, and then stood in the kitchen. She took a deep breath and filled a plate.
She sat down at the table, poking at the delicacies that had a moment before seemed palatable. Resolutely she took a bite of toast. It tasted like sawdust and reminded her of the crumbs her father always left on the countertop. Tears choked her, fighting against the half-chewed lump of bread making its way down her throat. She took a breath, focusing on the feeling of the sun coming in the window from the snow-dusted garden and the hum of the appliances and the sensation of her seat in the chair and her hands on the table. She swallowed.
By the third bite, it was no longer a struggle. She found thinly sliced meats and cheeses. The scent of bread drew her to a basket of brotchen freshly baked and fleetingly warm. Cherry tomatoes and pickles and olives followed. She took a break with a cup of tea, then attacked the honey jar with a spoon. A hurried ransacking of the cabinets turned up a jar of peanut butter—a luxury she infrequently treated herself to before—and she spread it on toast, and carrot sticks and celery.
Dancer's Flame (Grace Bloods Book 2) Page 6
