Azrael had grown under the shadow of their doubt. In spite of the fact that he looked more like his people than his mother did, they studiously avoided eye contact with him, muttering ancient phrases against evil and possession as he passed. He knew they thought he had been got on his mother by something not entirely human. It was why the dogs came before he called them, the horses shied from his presence, and even the birds fell silent at his approach.
The honesty of children was a comfort by comparison. They threw stones from the protection of packs until they found other diversions.
It was not the supernatural that came to his defense but one of his sisters. All older, all the image of his mother, as though their fathers had played no part in their creation. They faced bullies, delivered black eyes, and bruised shins. They insulated him from the mutterings of the adults and would not permit him to entertain the whispers. Instead, they doted on him—treating him like a beloved little baby until he really did earn the nickname Terror.
He was thirteen when he stumbled on a group of children poking a dead bird with sticks. Furious at the sight of the fragile, feathered body under attack, he charged them, swinging his fists and kicking. He put his body over the thing, feeling the tiny, thin bones and itchy feathers press against the ragged assault of his heart. A breath later, he felt the sharp pecking and the scratching of tiny claws.
When he flung himself backward in alarm, the bird—a small, gray thing… a dove, perhaps?—launched itself from the dust to land dull eyed and staring a few feet away on the rocks.
The children fled. The dead bird—because it could never really be anything but dead; somehow he knew that even then—followed him all the way home.
For the first time even his siblings shied away from him.
Only his mother approached, capturing the bird gently in her long-fingered hands. With a quick twist, she snapped its neck. She gave the corpse to one of the camp dogs and made Azrael warm mare’s milk and buttered bread.
When he was finished filling his belly, she met him at the front door of the spacious, felt-wall tent that was the only home he’d ever known. She’d saddled her best horse—a young mare the color of old nickel. The mare’s saddlebags were packed for a long journey. One of the many family hounds—the one he’d always thought of as his—stood close with head and tail low. The sleek, silky-coated body trembled with eagerness or fear, but tawny eyes met Azrael’s, and his tasseled ears perked expectantly.
“He’s a good companion.” His mother touched the dog’s slender head gently. “The mare will get you far from this trouble, but not willingly. Ride hard, but don’t wind her. Sell her as soon as you are able. The money will get you much farther than her legs will.”
The muddle of his closest siblings stood by, sweating in the heat. They must have moved industriously fast to carry out their mother’s commands.
“When can I come back, Mother?” he’d asked naively as his closest sister buckled her blade around his waist. Even on the smallest hole, the belt dipped low around his hips. His eldest sister moved her aside, unbuckled it, and tied a fast knot to snug it against his waist in the silence that was his answer.
“Don’t forget us, little terror.” His mother brushed aside the forelock of hair that always seemed to be in his eyes. “And don’t look back.”
She gave him a leg up onto the mare. The horse skittered sideways as soon as he was alight. Her eyes rolled back at him, and her skin twitched with the desire to flee. Every child rode without stirrups around camp and on herd duty; only as an adult on long rides or in battle did the stirrups come in handy for bracing the rider. His eldest sister adjusted them to fit his short legs with the same effortless efficiency with which she’d knotted the knife belt.
Over the beating of his own heart he could hear them now—the first of many mobs that would assemble when he displayed the smallest show of the power that came in tantalizing and dangerous flickers throughout his adolescence.
His mother reached up, touched his knee and then his hand, then her own heart. “Remember, you are what you make of yourself,” she said. “Give that power to no one.”
Then she turned the mare’s head south, toward the distant villages on the sea. As she stepped away, she whistled sharply and the mare launched herself into a dead run. He clapped his heels to her side and gripped two handfuls of mane just to stay astride. When the mare faltered, the quick snap of jaws from the silky-coated hound at her hocks drove her on.
Through the blur of his eyes, he glimpsed his fingers, clenched in the shaggy, slate-gray mane of the horse beneath him. What had they done, his hands? What was he?
“My mothers used to tell the stories of the times before Troy,” Lysippe said behind him. “I can hear hoofbeats when I close my eyes.”
Azrael squeezed his palm, capturing the last of the earth in a fist. He pumped heat into the fist. When he opened his hand again it was just dirt, the last bits of moisture and smoke rising in the cold dawn. Lysippe laughed.
Azrael’s brow rose. “Expecting diamonds?”
“From horse shit?” She snorted.
He dusted his palms off and stood.
“This is closer to home than either of us has been for a thousand years,” he said, taking her in from the corner of his eyes.
She looked pensive and tired. They’d had longer nights of drinking. This was something else.
“What do you think Vanka is after?” Lysippe asked finally.
Azrael accepted the topic change without comment. He briefed her on his meeting with Raymond. “I don’t know. But I don’t trust her or Paolo to accept my terms. Holding my territory—keeping it safe—means being ready for whatever they will try.”
Lysippe made a thoughtful sound. “And when do we decide to stop waiting and take the fight to them?”
Azrael’s brows rose. “You’re talking war, Lys.”
“You said once that a world ruled by necromancers is not balanced. That it will end someday. Yet you persist in believing you can create an island of safety in a sea of sharks.”
Azrael shook his head. “There is too much at stake. Isela—is not ready—to go up against the Allegiance as we are would be suicide.”
“Living under siege isn’t pretty, Azrael,” she said. “I don’t need to tell you that.”
Chapter Eleven
Tariq called it quits when Isela managed to graze his neck. The iron tang of blood in the air made the newly born warrior in her howl with glee. She flexed her knees and showed teeth.
“I think I’ve taken enough of a beating for one day,” Tariq muttered, dabbing at the blood.
Isela retrieved her fallen blade and met him outside the ring. Tariq had been a much more generous teacher, pausing to slow things down to show or repeat a move. He seemed to understand what she was capable of healing that wouldn’t impede her sparring. He had an easy smile at the ready and never snapped at her for missing an opportunity. Not for the first time, she wondered if Gregor’s objective really was to teach her. If she couldn’t fight, she would be dependent on Azrael and his Aegis.
“So, Gregor and the Aegis see to your combat training,” Tariq said lightly, swiping his sword clean with a long cloth.
He inspected his weapons carefully, using motions as practiced and automatic as she did to brush her teeth.
“Gregor beats me to a pulp on a regular basis,” she said. “I’ve learned a few things. But when Lysippe is here, she teaches me.”
A furrow appeared between his brows, but he kept his eyes on his task.
She handed over the borrowed blades, hefting them lightly. “I like these. Light but effective. And beautiful.”
They were not twins. The longer, curved blade was her primary weapon. The second, shorter blade was made to stick and deflect. They required being closer to her opponent, but because she’d already been training with dual blades, they were her preferred weapon. Not that Gregor had skipped an introduction to the long blade. And the firing range. Also the hand-to-ha
nd combat that always ended with her on her face and his knee digging into her spine.
“True Damascus steel,” he said. “I commissioned them from a metalworker who had studied with a guy from Nepal—about fourth century, perhaps. I’ve forgotten. What’s not to like?”
Isela stared at him as he gave the blades the same cursory but thorough inspection. When he looked up, his full mouth pulled sideways in an attempt to repress a smile. “What?”
“You’ve forgotten more than I’ll ever know.”
He laughed, a generous sound that made her face itch with a smile. Unlike the others, he didn’t seem to hold it against her that she had, up until very recently, been human.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “You’ll have your turn at being the oldest guy in the room soon enough.”
“I hope not. I kind of like being a woman.”
Tariq laughed again, and the bronze in his eyes danced.
He contemplated the blades in his hands. This time Gold’s sight settled delicately over her own vision with only a moment of dizziness to show her the wards that marked the metal. Delicate lines of power shaped into geas clung to the rippled steel pattern. From her research, she knew some were common, known among necromancers and others who commanded power. But necromancers could also create new ones with combinations of power and effect. These were warded to evade normal sight so they could be carried openly and also defensively.
“You fight well with them.” He slid both blades into their sheaths. He flipped the hilts toward her. “They’re yours.”
Isela’s smile died. “I can’t take these.”
He lifted his hands, an offering. “Humor me. My people give gifts. It’s just how we are. So take them or risk offending me mortally. And given that I am effectively immortal, that’s a grudge that won’t die soon.”
She swallowed hard.
“Plus, what man doesn’t like the idea of a beautiful woman fighting with his knives?” He winked, destroying the weight of the moment. “You are even more lovely when you blush, light of my lord’s eye.”
She took the larger blade, shaking her head at his relentless charm. He hesitated with the second blade, capturing her hand with his. He slid the blade free enough for her to see the geas.
“They are partners,” he said, fingertip caressing the imperceptible mark. “Like the best partnerships, they complement one another. You hold Catsfoot, the force, the power, but not the most deadly.” He hefted the smaller blade, light and needle fine. “She is.”
“She?” Isela raised a brow.
“When you are in need, Peerless will be with you. Here or in the In Between.”
“The In Between,” Isela said, remembering the place where Azrael had battled Róisín. “Where you go when you summon?”
Tariq’s troubled look returned at the hesitant question. His hand still cradled hers beneath the blade. She was acutely aware of the contact. “Your combat training is well attended. Who sees to the development of your power?”
Isela looked away, remembering Azrael’s prohibition against her interacting with the phoenix or dancing. At her lack of response, Tariq’s expression darkened. He said something in an old language, shaking his head.
“How come you aren’t so formal?” At his blank look, she elaborated. “You sound like you actually learned to talk in this century.”
“I’ve always been a man of words.” He cupped his elbows behind his back. “My first lover was language. In the caress of her sentences, I found ecstasy.”
She paused, one eyebrow rising. “A poet and you didn’t even know it.”
“Oh, but I am a poet, lady,” he said. “My columns once filled royal libraries. More than one prince has wooed his match with my words. Many a royal heir was conceived after his mother’s ear bent to my verse.”
“Seriously?”
“My word is my vow, lady.” He placed his hand over his heart without an ounce of humility.
Against all reason and despite her present mood, a genuine smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. “Does that line work for you?”
Tariq laughed. “The greatest gift of immortality is watching language evolve. I may be an old man, but I don’t have to sound like one. Your words are a great compliment.”
“You’re welcome.”
Across the room, a throat cleared. Tariq released the blade into her hand in no particular hurry, looking up. She realized how close they stood when she stepped back.
Tyler hesitated in the doorway. “Sorry to interrupt. Issy, did you still want to go?”
Tariq snapped to attention, his bronze eyes no longer warm. “Go?”
Isela hesitated, fighting the urge to scowl at Tyler. Her attaché seemed happy enough to rat her out to anyone who happened to be in a position to put the kibosh on her plans. She considered lying to him.
There are many ways reduce suspicion, Gold murmured against the base of her skull. Perhaps keeping Tariq close would be most effective.
“I was going to visit my family after training.” She focused on arranging both blades in the holster Gregor had commissioned for her and kept her voice light.
Tariq helped after a moment, but bronze eyes flecked with metallic sheen did not leave her face. “Azrael suggested it would be best if you remained on the grounds.”
“I haven’t seen my mom since the wedding.” She shrugged. “She gets fussy if I don’t show my face once in a while. Ask Gregor.”
“The high priestess of Prague?” Tariq said, and interest crept into his voice.
“The very one, apparently.” Isela paused for effect. “Why don’t you go with me?”
Tariq hesitated.
“I’m not sure how she’d take to a necromancer showing up on her doorstep unannounced,” he said. “There’s a certain protocol to these things, Issy.”
“You are an ally. She’s my mom. It would be good for you to meet her if you plan on staying in the area for a while. Anyway, I need you.”
His eyes widened.
“To drive,” she said quickly. “Gregor still hasn’t forgiven me for wrecking the Schwarzmobile.”
“The Schwarzmobile?” Tariq laughed. “What was it, a Bimmer? Porsche?”
“Audi, I think. The logo with the rings, right?”
“He is loyal. You wrecked it?”
“In my defense, there were demons involved,” she said. “But he kind of lost his mind.”
“He does love his automobiles.” He ducked his head, dragging a towel across the back of his neck.
Isela pushed. “I mean, they gave me what I think is Azrael’s idea of a beater, and I should probably stay off public transportation for a while.” When she looked up, Tariq was watching her with those inscrutable bronze eyes. She gave what she hoped was an encouraging smile.
“I am a humble servant,” he said, making a courtly bow. “O shining jewel that crowns my master’s brow.”
She stuck out her tongue. “Give it a rest.”
He laughed. “Twenty minutes—meet you in the garage.”
Beryl Gilman-Vogel, the high priestess of the Prague witch community, set down the phone, resting her hands on the sink and bowing her head.
“Mom, are you okay?” Bebe said from the doorway.
The kitchen was quiet, breakfast dishes cleaned and the kettle on the stove for tea. It was Tuesday, Toby’s day to take the older kids to school. Bebe hoped he remembered to bring his own wallet. He always forgot something, and then she would have to hop on a tram to meet him for lunch. Which wouldn’t be terrible. Maybe they would grab a doner kebab and walk around the Jewish quarter before she opened the store in the afternoon. She hadn’t been to the Kafka statue in ages.
Those little moments stolen between the routine were the ones she treasured. She loved her children and her store and her place in the coven, but it was Tobias that brought it all together in her mind and her heart. The thought of being without him brought her back to the kitchen and the sight of her mother-in-law’s bowed shoulders.
Shared loss clenched painfully in Bebe’s rib cage, and the air in the room felt too thin. She wondered if she would have the strength to get out of bed every day in Tobias’s absence.
And yet Beryl insisted on keeping the same routine they had before Lukas’s death, in spite of her family’s desire to give her space to grieve his loss. “Children need routine,” she’d said. “And I need my grandchildren.”
As they always had, every morning a tumble of Vogel children made it up the stairs, trailed by their parents, to where a pot of oatmeal simmered on the stove and the scent of hot coffee filled the air. Beryl presided over it all, the littlest ones on her lap.
“Go back to bed,” she had said more than once to her daughters-in-law after colic or a new tooth or just plain sleeplessness had kept them up most of the night. “I’ll take care of it.”
Evie arrived with lunches for school-aged ones. Bebe checked off coats, gloves, hats, and scarves. Since Markus left before dawn to whatever site he was working on, Tobias and Chris did most of the drop-offs. Bebe got the little ones who weren’t ready to go to school sorted in the living room with games and art supplies, or down to Mrs. Simpson’s on the fourth floor if she had to see a client or spend time in the shop. It was a familiar routine; sharing tasks made everyone’s job lighter.
But now, after the barely controlled morning chaos had wound down, Beryl retreated to the kitchen. She would stand at the sink and look out the window into the view of the park behind their building, sometimes for as long as an hour.
Bebe was grateful that they could keep the routine after her father-in-law’s death, but she also felt an abstract sense of guilt, that she should be doing more, or Beryl doing less, under the strain of grief. Today, without Evie to stop her, Bebe entered the kitchen.
“Can I do anything for you?”
The older woman drew on a boundless well of strength and her chin rose, shoulders dropping back as she turned to face her daughter-in-law. “I’m just fine, Barbara. Thank you.”
Dancer's Flame (Grace Bloods Book 2) Page 11
