“We can’t get our hopes up,” she said. “It might not even work.”
“It’s a chance,” Niles said. “And hope.”
Maybe the greatest thing wasn’t love after all, but simple, unassuming hope.
“Don’t you dare sneak out of here without saying goodbye, Vogel.” The lanky dishwater blond trotted down the stairs to wrap her in a bear hug. “Or should I say Madame Vogel?”
“How is she?” Isela murmured into his shoulder.
His exhale carried the weight of worry. “Healing. Thank your boyfriend for the safe house and the nurse. She can’t go back to her family. And dancing isn’t an option anymore.”
Grief welled up in Isela’s chest, a tangible pressure against her ribs. She’d thought she would have time to win Yana over, that she would one day lose her mistrust of the supernatural and go back to being Isela’s friend. But that would never happen, not after all she had been through. Isela knew she should be happy that her friend had survived, but loss stuck in her throat.
“It’s not your fault.” His words lost themselves in her hair.
“I want to see her please.”
He drew back, hands on her shoulders. “I’m sorry, Issy. She’s not ready. Not yet.”
It was a kind way of saying Yana was still refusing. Isela searched his face, seeing only new lines of regret and age where once there had been careless youth. He squeezed her arms. “You did a good job with the eyes. Almost the same as the old days.”
The smile that snagged one corner of her mouth was a shadow.
“What you’re doing,” he said, tugging her gently. “What we’re going to do here. She’ll want to be part of that someday. I know it.”
“Thanks for the pep talk, Professor Bradshaw.”
“Anytime.” He hugged her again. “I’ve got a class. Got to run.”
Niles stood a few feet away, ensuring their privacy but ready when she turned to him.
“Your car is ready.”
Outside, Liberty 2.0 waited on the curb. This model was a flat, smoky gray. The butterfly doors slid up when she approached, and the car greeted her with a chime. She slid inside, buckled the belt, and let the doors seal closed around her. She contemplated the building that had been her home for most of her adult life from behind the tinted glass. It was good to know part of her would always belong here. But she had changed, for better or for worse, and for always. She belonged somewhere else now, and that place no longer resembled a building.
“Let’s go home, Libby.”
The car slid away from the curb.
Epilogue
Isela’s blade sang, missing a clean slice of Lysippe’s jugular by millimeters.
Lysippe bounced back on the balls of her feet, an unexpected combination of a featherweight’s deadly speed and a street fighter’s efficient grace. She bared her teeth, grinning and touched her neck. Isela smelled the metallic tang when Lysippe lifted her fingers.
Dory’s laughing voice rose over the shouts of the rest of the Aegis. “First blood!”
It was all she was going to get. But at least Lysippe was magnanimous after giving Isela her thrashing.
The older woman gave her a hand off the floor. “You’re improving.”
“I’m learning to stay alive,” Isela said, thinking of Gus on her way to her new territory. “And to dance.”
Lysippe gave her a curious look, but before Isela could explain, Azrael materialized in front of them. A roomful of warriors sprang into guard. Lysippe, who’d reached for her weapon before recognizing him, scowled when she relaxed her grip.
Isela pressed a hand to her rib cage. “I’m not sure, but a heart attack might still kill me.”
Azrael’s expression was a mixture of eagerness and youthful pleasure. Once rare, it was becoming increasingly familiar to her. Wherever he’d come from, he smelled of damp wood and fresh drizzle. His hair was definitely askew, and was that mud on his shins?
“Still perfecting the arrival,” he said. “Are you finished, Lys?”
Lysippe dismissed her with a nod.
“Good.” He stepped forward, wrapping an arm around Isela. “Come. I have something to show you.”
She thrust her hands against his chest the moment she realized what he intended, but it was too late. A slap of air pressure and they’d arrived at their destination. Isela stepped back, bracing her hands on her knees as she tried to catch her breath. The world materialized around her in shades of rain-darkened green and afternoon gold. For a moment she focused on just breathing.
“I don’t think I like this new power.” She sealed her eyes shut as a wave of dizziness swept her.
“Let’s not keep her waiting.”
“Her?” Isela straightened, taking in their surroundings. She smelled a wood-burning stove.
They were in a garden recently reclaimed from a wood. The grassy slope they’d appeared on was circled by a driveway leading out to a gate both physically and magically guarded. The sounds and smells of the city were muted from here. She could tell by the light they were somewhere southeast of the castle. She turned after Azrael and took in a breath.
On the other side of the driveway was a small villa bristling with scaffolding and builder’s materials. The rectangular, tile-roofed building featured sgraffito borders of dancing nymphs and satyrs, gods and goddesses running below the roofline on the walls. The grounds were an arboretum of trees with breaks for paths and stretches of grass that promised haven to patches of sunlight on warm days. Warm gold lights spilled from the windows onto the gardens before it. On the opposite side of the circular driveway, a carriage house was under similar reconstruction.
Azrael circled her hand with his. When her eyes met his again, his were alight. The joy in them stole her breath again. “Welcome home.”
Surprise made her lag behind on the way to the broad oak doors pitted with age and neglect. Her fingers slid over the cool, carved wood. He pushed open the doors easily.
“It was the estate of an industrialist in the prewar days,” Azrael said, pulling her into the entryway. “It was mostly abandoned when I remembered it. The family lost their fortune. I made them a generous offer.”
Isela stared up at the vast ceiling. The whole place smelled forgotten, like damp leaves, old cigarettes, and unturned earth. Faded graffiti marked the walls, and burned places scored the warped floor. But it also smelled of paint and fresh materials. There were signs of construction everywhere—scaffolding and ladders, ropes and buckets. She turned a slow circle on the cracked tile floor, Azrael striding around her as he explained work planned to restore the house and the grounds.
“We’ll need to make some improvements,” he said, sniffing lightly.
Before she could ask, he dragged her on a tour.
“There’s an industrial kitchen also, of course,” he said, “should you like to entertain. But I thought this would suit for everyday use.”
This kitchen was mostly complete; appliances and features draped in sheets of plastic to protect them from the ongoing work. Except, instead of the sleek, modern feel of his apartment in the castle, this one had an enormous cement farmer’s sink and—
“Are those from my drawers?” Isela murmured, touching the familiar mismatched pulls on the wooden cabinets. Under plastic was her old dining table, ringed by the assortment of chairs she’d collected from antiques dealers and auction houses.
She spun on him. Emotions—surprise, delight, gratitude—battled their way up her chest into her throat, fighting for her voice.
“I was told by Director Sauvageau that you wanted to have everything thrown out,” Azrael tsked, disapproving. “What a terrible waste that would have been. You have excellent taste for a young creature.”
He broke the moment with that newly familiar reckless grin. “Not done yet.” He grabbed her hand.
Away they went. Isela staggered away from him, gasping when they materialized at the top of the stairs on the second floor. “You. Have. To. Warn. Me.”
/> Azrael’s expression held a new feature. Mischief. “The stairs aren’t quite stable yet.”
“I think I’m going to hurl.”
“You can see the rest at your leisure,” he said idly. “You’ll have plenty of time, after all, to make it your own. But this is for you.”
He spun her around and pushed open a door.
Bright hardwood floors greeted her. She let her fingers trail along the barre on the nearest wall. Three walls lined with mirrors, the windows overlooking the trees and a ruined vineyard. She raced to the middle of the floor to plant her hands and press into a handstand, wiggling her toes in delight. Upside down by the door where she’d left him, Azrael looked beside himself with satisfaction. When she returned to him, she couldn’t keep the grin off her own face.
“What… when… how did you… why…” She broke off.
“I need to present a face to the city, to be a presence. The castle suited me for a while. But it’s been centuries since I’ve had a home. It’s close to Vyšehrad and your family. But far enough that we won’t endanger them with our proximity. I thought… Well, I didn’t think. I just gave orders.” He shrugged. “It’s an old habit. And when the director’s office called about your belongings… Well, it just seemed natural that they should be here. With you. Us. Also, this was recovered from the car.”
He let his voice drift into the silence of the room as she followed his gaze to the plastic bag hanging from the door and the box beneath it. She froze, fingertips pressed to her lips before she bounded across the floor and slid to her knees. She looked back at him as she withdrew a second zippered plastic bag.
“The bag held up well,” he said. “But in case it still smells too much like the river, I asked Bebe to send over another box. She says the children are working on another gift; next time they’d like to give it to you in person.”
Isela couldn’t see through her tears. The bag tore easily with her strength, and she pressed her face into the faded black threads. A little muddy, but beneath that, everything she remembered. She laid it down on the box, rising before launching herself at him.
He staggered backward with the force of her crashing into him. Laughter rocked his chest as he tried to catch her, keep his footing, and meet the kiss all at once. Her feet left the floor, and he settled her on the barre. The hand in her hair squeezed, tipping her head back so he could explore her mouth more thoroughly. She locked her legs around his hips. From downstairs came a crash and he looked up with a little sigh. “Ah, one more thing. Are you ready?”
“In more ways than one.” She leaned forward, but he took her hand and a step away.
“I thought we’d take the back stairs,” he said, leading the way. “I don’t want to scare her.”
Isela let herself be pulled along. “You should know I’m not into threesomes.”
He cast a look over his shoulder, one brow arched, and she felt the tips of her ears growing warm.
“Well, just the once.”
Off the kitchen, in a small washroom with a door that opened to the back garden, a small pen had been set up. A young dog the color of ripe wheat pressed against the fence, her tasseled ears and tail shivering as she yipped her excitement at his arrival.
At the sight of Isela, the pup went silent. Isela held her breath, afraid to hope. She’d wanted a dog as a child, but her mother always managed to find a good reason they couldn’t have one. The one time she had brought home a stray, the poor dog had wet itself at the first sight of her brothers and run away. Now she understood why. Some dogs rolled onto their back and cowered with tails planted firmly between their legs and could not be roused from an almost stuporous terror. Others started barking and refused to stop.
The pup cocked its ears forward, tilting its head and taking a long series of deep inhales. Its eyes never left her.
“She is the descendant of a long line of dogs bred for companionship and hunting,” Azrael said quietly as the two made up their minds. “When I was a boy, dogs like this were trusted among children and stock, though they were known to take down bears and wolves, in packs. They know no fear. Let her scent you. She will know that you are her pack.”
When the pup didn’t come unglued, Isela crouched down, offering her hand. The pup ambled forward. Oversized paws planted themselves firmly on the ground before Isela, and the long neck craned forward as her nose wrinkled and twitched. The warm gusts of air tickled Isela’s fingers. She wanted to smile but didn’t dare.
At last the pup took two cautious steps, close enough to touch, and slipped her tongue against Isela’s knuckles. Content, she closed the distance, coming up on her hind legs to plant her forepaws on Isela’s knee. Her silky, plumed tail wagged fiercely.
“What’s her name?” Isela breathed finally, trying a smile.
The pup rolled her eyes at the sight but did not back away. Good sign.
“We will have to think of something,” Azrael said.
Isela stood, ignoring the paws dancing at her knees. “She’s going to be big.”
Azrael cocked his eyebrow in question.
“Big feet.” Isela laughed. “You should have seen Markus as a teenager.”
“The wolves,” Azrael began, then corrected himself. “Your brothers. Your family will always be welcome here. They should come by soon so she grows accustomed to their scent and presence. If this went well, I’d hoped we could add others in time. She belongs in a pack.”
“Gregor will love that.” She laughed to keep from crying.
His hand found the back of her neck, kneading warmth gently into the muscles on either side of bone. She focused on the puppy. Her fingers traced long lines in the silky coat.
“I know you don’t like surprises…” Azrael’s voice rumbled against her back like distant thunder as he slid his arms around her.
An incredulous laugh tangled with the emotion in her throat and she coughed. “This is not a surprise. This is unbelievable. Pinch me.”
“Why would I do that?” He was so earnest and concerned that she smiled.
“This must be a dream.”
She leaned her weight back into him, and he brought them to a seat on the dusty floor. Seeing her opening, the puppy leaped into Isela’s lap, licking furiously at her throat. Azrael pushed the tasseled head down and away with a chiding noise in the back of his throat. His free hand found Isela’s cheek, pausing at the wetness he found there.
“On second thought, don’t,” Isela said, voice thick. “Wake me, I mean. If this is a dream, just let me stay here.”
“Only if I can stay in it with you,” Azrael murmured against the shell of her ear.
“Always.”
Acknowledgments
An author writes a book alone but never without help. This book would not be complete without a grateful acknowledgement of:
Nina, Izzy, and Jamison Murphy, Kim Szczepanski and the Someone Just Pooped crew for welcoming us back to Prague.
Authors Camille Griep, Eva Moore, Beth Green and Ariel Meadow Stallings for inspiration, support and opportunities.
Supporting organizations GSRWA, SVRWA, Clarion West and the one and only Old School Romance Book Club.
My pit crew: Shelley Douma, Mark Cook, Jason Dittmer, Jo Bryant, Wes Green, Gita Krishnaswamy, and the incomparable Graham Family for providing essential provisions (food, coffee, and cocktails), opportunities to escape the writing cave, and lots of cheerleading.
My husband, Oliver, who is still convinced I’m doing something amazing, and supports me in every way possible. My mom, who regularly morphs into the Best Grandma Ever so I can disappear into the cave without guilt.
Readers, reviewers and friends of Death’s Dancer for giving me an excuse to do the happy dance on a regular basis.
My Mamas: Jen, Silvia, Megan, Kyrie, Jill, Nina, Lucie, Caroline, and the whole crew at The Inc. I had no idea what to expect when I joined the village, and your love and support have kept me afloat.
And last but not least, the people that m
ake the book in your hands look good: Chrissy, Alisha and the team of Damonza, and Victory Editing.
About the Author
Jasmine Silvera grew up sneaking kissing books between comics and fantasy movies. She’s been striving for the perfect balance of romance, fantasy and adventure in her writing ever since. A semi-retired yoga teacher and an amateur dancer, she lives in the Pacific Northwest with her partner-in-crime and their small, opinionated, human charge.
Thanks For Reading
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Interested in more from Isela, Azrael and company? Be the first to find out about new releases by subscribing to the mailing list or head to www.jasminesilvera.com where you can also find deleted scenes, extras, and other goodies!
Also by Jasmine Silvera
Death’s Dancer (Grace Bloods #1)
Best Served Cold (A short story based in the world of Death’s Dancer)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, events, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2018 Rashida Scholz
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Published by No Inside Voice, Seattle, WA 2018
Dancer's Flame (Grace Bloods Book 2) Page 34
