Dancer's Flame (Grace Bloods Book 2)

by Jasmine Silvera

  She leaned in, ignoring Tariq. He moved his shoulder more firmly between them.

  “Madame,” he said resolutely, and his hand went to a sword Isela hadn’t seen until that moment.

  Had he been armed this whole time? How had she missed it? She thought of his words about the hidden nature of the blades. For a moment, they all froze in a tableau.

  The woman relented, both hands on her hips this time as she turned her gaze up to Tariq. She smiled beguilingly, and the years fell away from her face before Isela’s eyes. She blinked at him, thinned lashes replaced with full, mink-colored ones. Her lips plumped, top and bottom, cheeks filling out again as the lines disappeared from her face. A dimple appeared in her chin.

  “I promise you no harm here, though it is you who intrudes in my sanctuary,” she said. “I will do no magic against you; you have my protection here against all my defenses.”

  “And your curiosity,” Tariq insisted, seemingly impervious to the breasts blooming under the apron and the way her hips rounded.

  “Will remain satisfied by questions you are willing to answer,” she said, aiming the last at Isela in Tariq’s shadow. It still raised goose bumps on her arms to hear that ancient voice coming from the face of a woman who now looked no more than twenty-five. “Happy now, Turk?”

  Tariq bowed his head. “As can be, given the circumstances, dame.”

  “Dame sounds like someone’s grandmother.” She blinked at him, her skin smooth and colored like fresh caramel now.

  Tariq inclined his head.

  “Just remember it was you who came to me,” she snapped. “You needed my help, remember.”

  “Advice,” Bebe clarified.

  The woman’s mouth turned down in amused displeasure. “Fine. You won’t even let me see it, will you?”

  “Not unless it wishes to be seen by you,” Bebe said. “If it survives. So we have a common interest in that outcome.”

  The woman crossed her arms over her chest but nodded. Isela took the softening in Tariq’s stance as a sign that accord had been achieved and laid a hand on his arm. He slid sideways the tiniest bit, but now she could see the woman full-on.

  “We haven’t been properly introduced,” Isela said.

  The woman brightened. “Finally, someone with manners. But the accord had to be reached first, so all the verbal sparring. It’s for the best, truly. But it does set a bit of a mood, doesn’t it?”

  Isela felt the smile itching at her face. “It does. I’m Isela, or Issy. I mean you no harm if you will do none to me.”

  She offered her hand. Tariq looked as though he were going to choke on his tongue. Even Bebe opened her mouth in surprise.

  “I have been many names in many times, but what I am never changes. You can call me Alchemist.” The woman smiled back and took the hand in a firm grip. “See how much easier that was? Have to say one thing for these moderns, they do favor simplicity, don’t they?”

  When Isela glanced back, Tariq rubbed his upper lip with one hand, trying very hard not to laugh as he cast his gaze upward. Bebe still looked stunned. The woman’s grip was firm and warm. Isela felt a tingling of power in their connection.

  Ah ah ah, Gold chided, sending sparks down Isela’s palm. The woman withdrew her hand, shaking it, but didn’t look upset. She promised not to take liberties with her curiosity. But I don’t think she can help herself trying to unpack us, really, it’s what she is.

  “You are something unusual,” the woman said, her tone hovering somewhere between admiring and covetous. “Is that how you tamed the angel of death?”

  “Why is everyone so bent on trying to figure out why Azrael wants to be with me?” The words escaped before Isela caught herself.

  The Alchemist watched her with somber eyes. She waved her hand and her age reappeared with a long inhale. “Youth is wasted on the young, and beauty untested is no prize. Eh, Turk?”

  “I’ll keep my pretty face,” Tariq said. “And you look more beautiful now than ever.”

  She smiled at him slyly before returning to her plants with a sway of her hips. Her strides slowed, and the smoothness went out of them. By the time she reached the table, she moved at an aged hobble, leaning heavily on the thick plank for support.

  “What say you now, silver tongue?”

  Now the face matched the voice as it turned back to them. Bare scalp under a few strands of hair caught the light from above. Mottled skin like faded petals clung as delicately to the hollows of her face as old blossoms held to the stem. One eye, a marble of gray and blue, floated beneath the lid. The other, still amber, bulged out at them.

  “Your necromancer will never suffer waking to this,” she said to Isela in gravel tones with a wicked smile. “What man would not claim a blossom that did not fade? How they do hate age, those cowards who call themselves masters of death.”

  Isela swallowed hard, but her chin lifted and she slid her shoulders back defiantly. “I was mortal when I became his consort. He chose me, not the god. I don’t want to waste your time, Alchemist. You seem… busy.”

  For a moment the old woman just stared at her, bushy brows lowered over her eyes as though she wasn’t sure what to make of what she saw. “I’m a lonely old woman. I’ll spend my time with visitors however I wish.” She exhaled. “You look for keys everywhere but around your own waist, consort.”

  Isela frowned. She knew nothing about the kind of magic that would transform a boundless magical thing capable of moving between worlds into something human.

  “A god then,” the Alchemist said resolutely, returning to repotting a crimson orchid. Her hands moved about the task with rote familiarity in spite of their heavy tremble that sent bark chips shaking to the tabletop. “And yet you are still whole and sane. Such a thing is not possible. Nor is your phoenix.”

  “Nonetheless, both are true,” Tariq suggested gently.

  “How they speak in reserved, respectful tones before age!” The old woman cackled at Isela. “It is the maiden they chase but the crone they respect. Typical.”

  “You did it before,” Bebe interrupted. “The pigs—”

  “Slow and stupid and dull, not very good pigs at all.” The Alchemist waved her off and carried the newly potted orchid to the shelf by the gramophone. With her back to them, her next words were muffled. “And after a diet of saltwater and hardtack, terrible eating as well.”

  “The alchemy of living things is an impossible art,” she roared suddenly, facing them. “And a cruel one. Even I’ve given up on it after old Černá out there. Even some of those who carry the shifter gene don’t have the ability, isn’t that so, lady? Although no doubt you could now, if you willed it so. You and your little god. It might not even cost you much.”

  Could she? She hadn’t even considered it. And what would she be, a wolf like her brothers, or something else?

  “But you, Alchemist,” Isela said, “have transformed before us three times.”

  The Alchemist shook her head. “I have only become what I was, what I am, and what I will be. I could not turn myself into the flower in my hands. Though I would if I could and not be bothered by infants questioning the impossible.”

  “But there’s a man lying in a bed that used to be a phoenix,” Isela said, frustrated.

  “And he’s dying, isn’t he,” the Alchemist snapped.

  She returned to her work. Her hands steadied, and the mottled marks of age faded. Her hair sprang out and thickened. She swore as a hank of it fell in her face and brushed it impatiently behind her ear, leaving bits of bark and moss tangled in the ropy curls.

  “A few days he’ll cling to life.” She sighed. “Living things always do, but alchemy by force takes a toll on both creatures.”

  Isela paused. Force, that was it. Was that why she survived and others had not?

  You accepted me, Gold reminded her. And I gave up some of myself to fit inside you.

  The Alchemist smiled knowingly. “The keys have jingled, and she chases the sound.”


  “What can we do,” Bebe asked, impatient, “to fix it? Can we change them back? Odysseus’s pigs—”

  The Alchemist slammed her hand down on the table as she roared, “Do not speak that name in my presence!”

  A new scent crept into the room. Warm, earthy loam gave way to a gasp of brimstone and sulfur that made Isela cough. The lights dimmed and flickered, and the leaves around them trembled. The gold raced to the surface of Isela’s skin in response, sparks rippling to her fingertips.

  Tariq planted Bebe firmly behind Isela. “Protect your sister, and stay out of it.”

  He put himself between the women and the Alchemist.

  “Your favor,” he said, hand again on the hilt of his sword, “O blossom that cannot fade. We beg your forgiveness. Is the phoenix not revered by your kind more than all others? You must understand the urgency that makes us careless. We crave the wise hand of your guidance. Are we not allies in preserving this creature?”

  The Alchemist pressed her palms into the table, her head bowed as her shoulders trembled. The flowers on her table began to smoke, popping into flame. Tariq dropped his left hand, flashing his palm at Bebe and Isela in an unmistakable command—go. Bebe grabbed her arm, tugging her backward, but Isela resisted.

  The sulfur faded from the air. The Alchemist faced them with an enormous sigh. Her wry grin did not reach her eyes. “I see your mother’s wisdom in sending this silver-tongued devil, Barbara. Return, child, I will not harm you. Of all your witch kin, you are my favorite. You know that.”

  Isela stared at Bebe in surprise. Bebe flushed a little but obediently returned to her place.

  “You don’t consider yourself a witch?” Isela asked before she could think about the wisdom of asking.

  The Alchemist’s eyes fell on her, and Isela fought the urge to step backward. The woman ignored the question and shook her head at Bebe like a mother chiding a stubborn child. “I told you once, they made terrible swine, those men, and so I gladly turned them back to something resembling what they were before. At least they were useful then. Though a few never forgot the pleasure of lying around in the sun or bathing in mud. But a thing changed can never return to what it was, truly.” Her eyes returned to Isela. “Surely you know that.”

  “We would try,” Isela said, stepping around Tariq again.

  The Alchemist dusted off her hands and set her them on her hips. “What is the obsession with those damned pigs?”

  Bebe shrugged lightly. “You showed men what they were in their hearts, and they never forgot it. Or forgave it. I’m sure there are many other more remarkable things you’ve done that have been forgotten by history. A phoenix needs you.”

  “He’s not the only silver tongue in the room, it appears.” The Alchemist narrowed her eyes at Bebe, but they were bright with humor. Her face stilled as she considered Isela like an unexpected bug in her garden. “I am no witch. Nor necromancer. The world is not divided as easily as they wish, and not all power comes from gods. I refused to choose sides in their little spat. As I refuse to bow to this new high priestess of Prague and join their fold.”

  Isela’s spine stiffened. “My mother only wishes to protect the witches of Prague as part of her alliance with Azrael.”

  A satisfied little smile lifted the Alchemist’s lips. “Does she? Witches form communities, but they do not have overlords. Did she not tell you that?”

  “Well, you are not a witch,” Isela snapped.

  “And it would be wise of her not to forget it,” the Alchemist retorted, her eyes going pointedly to Bebe, “when she calls on me demanding favors for her new allies.”

  “Daughter,” Isela said, correcting her.

  “Is that what you are to her?” the Alchemist said wryly. “She didn’t mention it.”

  Isela sealed her lips shut and tried to pretend the words hadn’t struck a blow in her rib cage.

  She’s baiting you, Gold warned.

  No shit.

  So quit playing into it.

  Isela took a breath. She met the Alchemist’s eyes. “I accepted what I became. And the price I paid. The phoenix did not. What can I give you for knowledge that might help us?”

  Isela heard Tariq’s sharp intake of breath and she squeezed his forearm, willing him to be silent. Bebe’s dark eyes seemed too shiny and wet. She mouthed something Isela could not understand.

  “Let me see you.” The Alchemist held out her hands. “As you are now, both of you.”

  She learns by touch, Gold said. She wants to know what we are. But there’s something else, Isela. Something about you.

  Me personally?

  Gold paused. Your line. I don’t understand fully, but I don’t trust her.

  Can you limit her?

  She’s right, Gold said. Whatever she is, it’s a power not of gods. I don’t know what she’s capable of…

  I trust you.

  The god was silent for a long moment. I will do my best.

  Isela looked at Bebe. “You might have to close your eyes, Beebs.”

  “A kindness,” the Alchemist agreed. “And stand behind your escort.”

  Bebe passed close to Isela, her eyes too wide. “Be careful, Issy. She—”

  “I know.” Isela squeezed her hands reassuringly and looked at Tariq. “Protect her.”

  “As you wish.” He nodded, his eyes never leaving the Alchemist.

  Isela moved forward. Protect what you can, give her only what you must.

  She felt Gold’s assent. Hesitating, she laid her hands in the Alchemist’s. The other woman’s palms were warm and gritty with the soil of her task. Strong too. Her fingers locked around Isela’s hard enough for her to gasp. The Alchemist’s smile widened, predatory now.

  “Show me,” she commanded.

  Gold sniffed. At my pleasure.

  The Alchemist laughed, and Isela knew she had heard the god’s words. “Indeed.”

  Isela felt the layers of the geas leaving her skin, drawing away like the petals of a flower. She knew what she would see if she looked at her own hands—brown giving way to gold as the god came to the surface. It had started slowly after her transition with a few threads of gold in her hair. Then, healing from a sparring wound, the skin had been replaced by a layer of gold. One morning Tyler had winced and squinted, unable to look at her fully. After that it had happened quickly. Every time she showered, flakes of brown skin fell away like the skin of a snake, shedding. Her hair began to fall out in her hands, replaced quickly with strands of gold until it flowed thicker and more curly than ever and shining like a sunset on water.

  Azrael taught her how to build the geas to disguise herself. Piece by piece—skin, hair, nails. She learned to paint herself with power and illusion to cover the fact that she no longer resembled something human. The eyes were the hardest part, and they still slipped when the god was active in her, a giveaway that she was something else.

  The Alchemist stripped away the geas like the peel of ripe fruit. Isela felt naked. No one but Azrael had ever seen her like this; he was the only one powerful enough to withstand it. Even then the damage to his eyes had taken hours to heal.

  The Alchemist recoiled a bit but did not look away. Nor did her grip relax. A thousand tiny touches crawled over Isela’s skin. It was not painful, but the hairs rose on the back of her neck and arms. She felt the memories of her encounters with the phoenix pawed through as the Alchemist scrutinized the withered creature.

  Force, choice, freedom. Choice. It all came down to choice.

  She’s looking at your bloodline, Gold said warily. She’s not even interested in us. Not really.

  What is she looking for?

  Don’t know. Gold grumbled. She’s found something—something she needs. OH. Oh.

  Stop it, Isela said out loud and to Gold. “Stop.”

  I can’t, Gold cried, suddenly panicked. She has—she’s done something to me. I’m stuck. Isela.

  Isela felt the god inside her, buzzing angrily against her skull. The more she fought and
buzzed, the more erratic she became, pieces of her shattering and bouncing around Isela’s mind until the pain became blinding.

  Help, Isela! She’s trying to unbind us. She wants to steal me.

  “Stop!” Isela screamed.

  “Enough, sorceress.” Tariq’s voice cut through the buzz. Isela opened her eyes.

  They were in the In Between. And the edge of Tariq’s blade rested at the Alchemist’s jugular. She glared at him, eyes bulging as the metal tasted flesh. It should have been impossible for his physical blade to exist here, but Isela remembered what he’d told her about the blades he’d given her. Whatever geas he’d marked them with allowed them to travel with him into the In Between.

  “How is this possible?” the Alchemist asked.

  “I’ve picked up a few tricks in my time,” he said. “Same as you, I suppose. Now it’s time to end this. I suspect you’ve taken what you needed. And more, given my lady’s protestations. Now it’s time to withdraw, or I will assist you.”

  The blade bit, parting skin, and a line of red rolled down her neck.

  The Alchemist let Isela go abruptly, and they were all dropped back into their real-world bodies. Isela hurried to restore the illusion geas, but the struggle had cost her dearly. Bebe helped her step back from the Alchemist when her own strength failed her. The headache was back, pounding a hammer against the nail behind her right eye.

  The god was silent—not just quiet, but absent. Gold?

  There was no response. Isela didn’t have the strength to search for her, and fear rooted out a deep place in the pit of her stomach. She didn’t think it possible for anything to harm the god. Was it? But certainly if the Alchemist had succeeded… Her knees buckled.

  “I’ve got you,” Bebe whispered, sliding Isela’s arm around her neck. “Easy.”

  Tariq covered them, waiting until they were across the room before lowering his blade. He withdrew a handkerchief from his coat and offered it. “Your pardon, madame.”

  The Alchemist snatched it from his fingers, dabbed her neck, and withdrew to her potting bench, leaning heavily on the wood. Whatever she had done had drained her too. She looked older, not yet the crone but no longer the vibrant woman of middle age. Still, she smiled at Isela. It lacked any warmth or familiarity.