She sipped her wine, letting the heat warm her belly as the sugar and the alcohol went to her head. A twisted smile wrinkled her mouth. Might as well keep him busy.
Isela hadn’t bothered to do her Christmas shopping. She dipped into the next shop, pushed back her hood, and smiled beguilingly at the shopkeeper.
“Paní Vogel,” the woman said with a little gasp as other customers glanced up. “It’s our pleasure.”
Twenty minutes later, Isela emerged with a bag draped over her arm. She made her way through the shops before the Charles Bridge, buying at least a little trinket from each and attracting a small crowd of followers.
On her second cup of hot wine, she reached the Charles Bridge with an entourage and second thoughts about the intelligence calling this much attention to herself. A crowd this size could get dangerous, quickly. The effort it took to avoid limping turned the distant throb in her hip into a steady ache. She hurried on, packages dangling from either elbow. As she stepped into a hole made by a missing cobblestone, her hip buckled.
Damn it, not again, she thought.
A strong arm caught her around the waist, another hand finding the small of her back for support.
Isela glanced up into chill blue eyes. His smile cut like ice, but that didn’t make him any less gorgeous.
“Fräulein Vogel,” Gregor chided cheerfully. “You must be careful. It is too easy to take a wrong step in these old streets.”
The crowd had drawn away, and when she glanced past him, she could see the rest of Gregor’s men had formed a loose circle around them. Not all men, she noted. A woman almost Gregor’s height dipped her chin once, giving an all clear. She was sleek and fierce in a leather jacket lined with bright fur that stood out against the dark skin of her square jaw.
Isela clamped her mouth shut and tried not to stare.
Exposed now, there was no mistaking who they belonged to. The crowd began to disperse; her popularity could not diffuse their fear of anything close to the necromancer.
“Shall we?” Gregor withdrew to take her elbow, keeping his other at the small of her back.
Isela shifted the bags on the crook of her arm. The woman canted her head, and a six-and-a-half-foot tall Nordic blond with impressive facial hair stepped forward, taking the load from her. She flushed with embarrassment.
The dense crowds on the bridge parted as they crossed, the pressure of so many eyes on her like a physical weight. Three quarters of the way across, she stopped. Curious, Gregor raised an elegant eyebrow at her.
“Just a moment.” Isela sighed, ignoring the shift in his expression to amused disbelief as he realized where she was headed.
Usually she made sure only to cross the bridge in odd hours so she had the most likely chance of slipping in to touch the gold plaque without having to wait. Her father had instilled the tradition when they first arrived in Prague, and it stuck with her, no matter how illogical it was in this age of necromancers and gods.
It was rare for the statue of St. John of Nepomunk to not be thronged with people. Tonight was no different, but as she slipped through her escort, the crowd peeled back. Isela found herself face-to-face with the statue and the little plaque, bronze polished with the touch of so many hands.
Tradition dictated touching the plaque of St. John would grant luck and a certain return to Prague. She dusted her fingers lightly over the plaque, then walked on a few meters to the bronze cross embedded in the stone. She was dimly aware of the flashes going off from a hundred little devices as she closed her eyes, touched the cross, and made a wish. When she rejoined Gregor, there was something else in his smile now, and the ice seemed to melt a little from his eyes.
“Well, that’s a shot for the rags, if I’ve ever seen one,” he said in a droll tone that managed to capture amusement and annoyance in the same breath. “Godsdancer wishes for reprieve.”
“You don’t know what I wished for,” Isela snapped as they moved on.
“I suppose I’ll have to wait a year and a day to see if it comes true,” he said lightly, unable to be baited.
Isela huffed as the rain began again. Gregor slipped the umbrella from her grasp and opened it in a single deft move.
“I hope you’ll have something far more interesting capturing your attention by then,” she said and meant it.
“You don’t give yourself enough credit.” His icy blue eyes glinted at her. “I find you fascinating.”
On the other side of the bridge, the familiar cadet blue Tesla sedan was waiting at the curb. Niles opened the door as she approached, taking the umbrella from Gregor when offered. She bridled at being loaded in the car like one of her packages; however, nobody seemed to be paying attention to her anymore. The door shut, and she saw, but could not hear, the exchange between Niles and Gregor.
As they pulled away from the curb, Isela exhaled and sank into the seat, all her restless energy spent and a slight wine-induced headache buzzing behind her ears.
“How did you know?” she asked.
“Divya received a call.”
Isela rested her forehead in her hands, wondering what other stupidity she might be capable of committing in the next few hours.
“I’m sorry, Niles,” she said, though she didn’t know if she was sorry for dragging him back out to rescue her or for putting everyone she loved at risk just to irritate Azrael’s head of security.
Silence answered her from the front seat. They entered the subterranean parking garage across from the academy.
“I’m glad you were able to get your Christmas shopping done at least,” Niles said mildly as he helped her load packages into the elevator.
Isela glanced at him to see an almost smile on his weathered face.
“Want to know what I got you?” she asked mischievously.
“I wouldn’t dare presume.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Isela closed her apartment door behind Niles, resting her forehead against the solid wood.
“Next time you intend to spend all day in a black hole, do you think you could warn me first, Vogel?”
Isela jumped with a little scream at the sound of the voice overhead. She jammed her palm to her chest to reinforce her ribcage against her hammering heart and glared up at the six-foot-tall danseur staring down at her.
“Kyle, you scared the shit out of me,” she muttered, climbing the stairs as her heart rate returned to normal.
“My, we’re high-strung,” he said, drifting into the kitchen behind her.
“It’s been a long day.”
“No shit. It’s almost ten.”
Isela glanced at the clock, amazed. No wonder she was exhausted. She brushed past him without meeting his eyes, flipped the switch of the kettle, and the water begin to boil almost immediately. His key, on the chain she’d given him in the shape of a pair of red wayfarer sunglasses, sat next to the kettle.
“Should be hot, I just made a cup,” he said.
When she turned around, Kyle lifted a cup of tea in one hand, free hand crossed in the crook of his folded elbow. He was doing his best to look irritated. But with brown eyes turned down at the edges in a perpetually rueful expression, he resembled nothing so much as a wet Labrador puppy.
“You had a massage today,” he said. “After your dance. I waited around for twenty. I came back this afternoon, and you had obviously been here and left again.”
“I’m so sorry.” She sighed.
In all the commotion, Isela had forgotten. Her body began to twinge with the usual aches and pains from dancing, not to mention the tension from the last few hours.
Because godsdancing was drawn from so many traditions, academies became known as the great repository of knowledge for dance all over the world, attracting an international student body. Each of the academies had its specialty. Praha students who did not go on to be godsdancers often found careers in ballet companies and modern dance troupes.
Kyle had been sent to the Academy for ballet but had converted to godsdancing a yea
r later. As the only other American in their class, they’d bonded. They were both outsiders.
“I had a meeting with the director,” she said. “You know the old lady. Duty first.”
Kyle set down his cup and retrieved a second one, returning to the hunk of fresh ginger and a few slices of lemons waiting on the cutting board. “I know that. Who do you think the first person was I went to?”
“And you managed to find her?” Isela said, trying to lighten the mood.
“I have my ways,” Kyle said with a little smirk, before a deep furrow carved his brow. “Actually, I badgered Niles while he was trying to finish Divya’s correspondence. He said you’d be home ‘soon’ and absolutely nothing else. So I brought my book and made myself comfy.”
She could see the place where he’d curled up on the couch with a throw blanket and the latest in a series of steamy murder mysteries he was addicted to. Kyle was a Luddite when it came to technology. Isela had given him a reader for his last birthday, but he hated the pop-up ads and insisted on old paperbacks. That might work in her favor. No doubt pictures of her little shopping expedition with Gregor was all over the web. If she could just make it until tomorrow, she could come up with a good cover story—
Isela forced a little smile. “You figured you’d camp out here and drink my tea as payback?”
“Your mom sent me a message, for the gods’ sakes.” Kyle looked up, and she could see the concern in his eyes. “I promised I would wait here until you got home.”
Her family had always been tight-knit. Like most refugees, they relied heavily on one another during the first years of their new life and only a little less so as they settled in. Leaving to go to the Academy may have limited their relationship in some ways, but it hadn’t severed their connection. Beryl Gilman-Vogel always seemed to know when her daughter was in a tight spot and called or came by to see her.
Isela fixed her eyes on the steam rising from her cup as he poured the water. Of course her mom would reach out to Kyle if she couldn’t track down her daughter. He’d been a fixture at Sunday dinners for years. He’d even helped with the remodel of the downstairs studio. He was family too. She should have warned him.
Kyle gave her a long look, then, based on whatever he saw, opened the jar of honey and put a good dollop in the steaming cup. It would be difficult to keep secrets from Kyle, but if it kept him from the danger of being involved in the necromancer’s job, she would break his heart.
“I had to meet a new patron,” Isela said, sliding her fingers around the cup when he offered it.
“Right after a dance?”
She shrugged and blew gently on the tea.
“Who was it?”
“Some hoi polloi friend of Divya’s,” Isela shrugged again, drifting toward the window.
“You’re using that word wrong.” Kyle sucked his teeth. “Hoi polloi was a reference to common people, not the elites.”
“Originally.” She grinned. “But once the common people got ahold of it, it was over.”
Kyle laughed, and she was relieved when he let the subject change stand even if the new one didn’t make her feel any better. “Your hip is bothering you. I can see it from here. Lay down, I’ll give you quick once over, and we can reschedule your full.”
“Kyle, you don’t have to,” Isela protested as he herded her to the bed.
“Just a few minutes,” he said. “Do it or else, Vogel.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
Isela only feigned reluctance. Kyle gave better massages than the Academy’s therapist.
She handed over her mug and flopped gracelessly on the bed. Kyle pressed long, dexterous fingers into the flesh above her hip bones. She whimpered.
“See,” he said. “I told you. Now breathe and be still.”
Isela obeyed. But her mind drifted immediately back to the necromancer’s study. How was she supposed to help Azrael?
When Isela closed her eyes, she saw his face. She’d never been attracted to cocky men. Growing up with brothers, she recognized most male bluster immediately as a way of covering up insecurity. But Azrael’s arrogance lacked bluster. Instead, it seemed backed by a level of self-possession she had never known. He knew exactly what he was capable of. She wondered if he was that confident in bed.
Isela shivered.
“You gotta keep ahead of this, Issy.” Kyle broke into her thoughts. “If you don’t want to take the doctor’s advice on surgery.”
“And thereby end my career.”
“You don’t know that,” he chided. “Anyway. If you’re not going to at least entertain the idea, you have to keep up on your massages, especially after a job. The body is going to try to support you, even though it can’t do it properly, and you’ll pay for it.”
“Yes, Doctor Bradshaw,” she teased. “How’s Jiří?”
His thumb found a knot that made her wince.
“He still won’t see me,” Kyle said, an audible smile in his voice. “Such a drama queen.”
“I thought you had that covered?”
“Trust me, Vogel.” He laughed outright. “This man has me outclassed and outgunned in that department. All because of one picture.”
“Of you wrapped around that sexy Flamenco dancer from Sevilla?” Her raised brows pressed into the pillow.
“He was a guest lecturer,” Kyle insisted. “And he was demonstrating a hold.”
“Is that what they’re calling it these days?”
“Don’t be such a prude.”
“Jiří’s just mad because you’re not spending enough time wrapped around him,” Isela pronounced. “You could fix that easily, but you won’t, stubborn man.”
They were quiet for a long minute.
Isela felt the words fighting their way up her throat, thoughts of the stunning heat of Azrael’s gaze. She swallowed to keep herself from wondering aloud how it was possible Azrael’s eyes actually glowed silver.
Kyle gave one last expert pass before sitting back on the edge of the bed. “I like Jiří a lot but. . .”
Isela sat up, laying a hand on his knee. “Life is too short for buts.”
“Thanks for the love advice, Doctor Nun.” Kyle bumped her shoulder with his. “Feel better?”
“Worlds.” And she truly meant it. “You are a magician.” She stood, sipped her tea, and contemplated the quickest way to get rid of him. She yawned and stretched out an arm.
The door chime rang.
“Christ, what now?” she muttered, earning one of Kyle’s trademark side-eyes.
“Yana was down in the lounge earlier when I was looking for you.” He laughed. “You know how quick everybody knows everything around here. Come in!”
In true principal ballerina form, Yana Petrova sprung up the stairs like a gazelle and skipped across the hardwood floor. She pirouetted before the bed, ending in a curtsey the lead dancer of every ballet company in the known universe would have envied.
Only when her little performance was complete did she toss the thick black bangs out of her eyes and gaze up at them with her more familiar, mischievous expression. Born in Prague to a Russian family, Yana overcame the weight of her powerful family connections to earn her place as a principal in the Academy ballet troupe.
“And I’m the drama queen.” Kyle laughed standing up to kiss her cheeks. “Show-off.”
Yana was a moonlit night to his sunny day—all pale skin and etched cheekbones with pouty, bee-stung lips and the bluest eyes Isela had ever seen before Gregor’s had bored into her. Yana’s height en pointe was a match for his. With complementary lines and contrasting coloring, they made a perfect pair for pas de deux.
They’d even dated for a couple of weeks as teenagers, before Kyle had come out. “Da,” Yana accepted the news nonchalantly. “I only mourn what a beautiful couple we made. We will remain heart-to-heart, yes?”
She was dating a handsome young Formula One driver within the week.
“Gods’ tears.” Kyle had laughed. He broke the news to Isela while
they stretched during a class break. “I love her, but I’m glad I’m not in love with her. She would destroy me. And have you seen the guy? Those cheekbones. I could die!”
They still danced together occasionally, and Yana became one of his most loyal friends in the Academy, which earned her a special place in the pantheon of Isela’s heart.
“You’re here, butternut.” Yana had a half dozen pet names for her favorite people.
“Where else would I be?” Isela sighed.
The ballerina clucked, her eyes narrowing. “With Azrael’s head of security. It’s all over in the news. I came to tell you, Kyle.”
Kyle scowled, and the heat rose in Isela’s cheeks.
Yana produced a little tablet and flipped the screen to show them images from the latest entertainment newsfeed: Isela walking across the Charles Bridge while arm in arm with Gregor.
Isela stared at Kyle, watching the assumption that Gregor was her new patron light up his eyes. It was foolish to think she could have hidden it from him. Yana pinned them both with a look.
“What are you two up here caballing about?” she scowled.
“Caballing. . .” Isela began.
“That isn’t a word, Yana,” Kyle finished, fixing Isela with a look that said her secrets were safe, for now. “Issy just got back, and she’s tired. Maybe we should pester her tomorrow.”
Isela could have wept with relief. The last thing she needed was a debriefing—with two people who knew her as well as family—about a meeting she couldn’t talk about and her response to a man she had no words for.
They all looked up at the sound of knocking. A key jingled in the door. Apparently, her apartment was Grand Central Station.
Yana smiled, crossing her arms over her chest, and answered before Isela could. “Come up.”
Kyle shrugged helplessly at Isela. “In, Yana. Come in.”
“You are American, yet you school me in English?” Yana sucked her teeth at him.
Isela sighed. The new arrival, a petite woman with sparkling eyes and bronzed, freckle-dotted skin skipped up the steps.
“Trinh, you’re back!” Isela couldn’t hide her joy. “How was Vietnam?”
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