“I have the worst jet lag.” The smaller woman yawned and hoisted a bottle of wine. “But I got this beauty, along with my fee, for dancing this morning, yesterday morning. Whenever. The floods have been terrible at home. I just wanted to come up and see you before I crashed. And confirm the rumor you have a mysterious new patron?”
Isela squirmed as three sets of eyes went to her.
“A ’61 Bordeaux!” She snagged the bottle of wine and headed to the kitchen. “Most of these were lost in the war. Right, Kyle? I’ll get some glasses.”
“Riiiiight.” Kyle’s expression stated his verdict on her clumsy attempt to divert the conversation.
She clenched her teeth and waited for Yana to put two and two together.
“The necromancer’s head of security is your patron?” Yana asked.
Isela sighed. Well it was better than the truth. “His name is Gregor.”
When she looked back, Yana turned the tablet toward Trinh.
Incredibly, Trinh gasped, mock-clutching her chest, and staged an elaborate spiraling swoon onto the nearest chair. “He has a name.”
“And you can have him,” Isela muttered, popping the cork and fighting the urge to put the bottle to her lips. “He’s an arrogant peacock of a man.”
“Sounds like an affair for the ages.” Kyle winked, handing over glasses.
“Was this a meeting with a new patron or a date?” Trinh asked suspiciously as she and Yana swiped through pictures. “Cause it kind of looks like—”
“I know how it looks.” Isela focused on pouring, ignoring the traitorous heat in her belly at the thought of Azrael’s hands on her arm. “And I can’t talk about it.”
“You know how it is,” Kyle said. “Some of the patrons are weird about hiring dancers. We’ve all had to hold our tongues. It’s not fair to ask Issy to tell—”
“Mein Bitte-Pferd,” Yana said skeptically, appraising the glasses. “Just one sip. French wine is overrated.”
Kyle flapped his lips in disbelief. When Isela poured his glass, he waved his hand to indicate more.
“There is nothing to worry about.” Isela sighed, handing off glasses. “Yana, you just called me a ‘please horse.’”
The self-proclaimed student of language seized every opportunity to practice. She picked up key words—mostly swears—and made up the rest.
Yana scowled. “I do not like this. I have friends who can take care of this person for you, little pony.”
“Thank you for offering to sic your dad’s people on him, I think.” Isela waved off her concerns and lifted her glass. “It’s a job. You all know the drill.”
“Except Yana.” Kyle laughed, bumping her shoulder as he lifted his glass. “She’s too good to dance for gods.”
Yana sniffed but raised her glass. “This man bothers you, you say the word. He will disappear like that.” She snapped her fingers.
“Whatever. He’s smoking hot.” Trinh winked and brought her glass up. “I’d totally tap that.”
Kyle rolled his eyes. “T, you are shameless.”
“How’s the view from your glass house, Bradshaw?” Their glasses clinked.
Kyle grit his teeth. “For the last time, I was demonstrating a hold.”
Trinh’s full brows arched in response, but she returned the conversation to Isela and Gregor with a sigh. “All that danger is kind of sexy.”
In spite of herself, Isela wanted to laugh. Surrounded by her friends in the safety of her own home, it was almost possible to forget she’d stood before the Allegiance of Necromancers a few hours prior, drenched in a cold sweat.
Isela toasted with them but set her cup down after a sip. Wine loosened her tongue easily, and there were things she didn’t want to say. She needed to keep it together.
Trinh teased her for a bit longer about the image of her shopping with the ‘tall, German hunk of handsome’ that was sure to be on the society pages the next day. Yana sulked until the car arrived to escort her back to her palatial flat overlooking the river.
Isela found herself curled up on the couch with Kyle, his arm tucked around her and her head pillowed on his chest. A silence as warm and comforting as down settled between them. She blew out a long breath of air, and he squeezed her shoulders.
“It’s not that guy, Gregor,” he said after a long moment. “Your new patron.”
Isela jerked her eyes up to him, mute with both relief and horror. She knew she should say something—evade, joke, lie outright if she had to. But he spoke first.
“Don’t bother,” he said with a sad little smile. “You’re a terrible liar. It’s him, the patron, isn’t it? The necromancer.”
Her chin ducked into her chest, and she felt his lips press against her hair.
“I won’t say anything,” Kyle murmured. “But I’m here for you. You know you can tell me anything.”
The shock wore off, leaving only the realization she alone had been trusted with an impossible task that might cost her everything even if she succeeded. She already knew too much about necromancer politics and how far they were willing to go to protect their own. What would keep them from making her disappear when this was all over to hide their vulnerabilities? After watching Azrael among the others, his promise to Divya seemed laughable. Who would enforce it? It was suddenly too much. If there was anyone she could trust, it was Kyle. He would understand the need for secrecy. And having someone to share the burden with would make it less heavy.
Isela opened her mouth to speak, and nothing came out.
She tried again. The words bubbled up in her chest. She knew what she wanted to say, but nothing escaped her throat. She gasped, choking on impotent breath. Kyle stared at her wide-eyed, watching her struggle with words that twisted in her mouth and forced themselves back down her throat.
“What is it?” he said.
Stricken, her eyes met his.
Isela opened her mouth once more to speak, understanding Azrael’s words to her had not been a threat at all. He’d done something to her. Something that prevented her from speaking of their agreement to anyone. What else was he capable of?
“I can’t.” She choked. “I want to, but the words won’t. . .”
Kyle slipped a second arm around her as she broke down. Tears came when words would not, and she gave in to them. He held her silently. Outside, the first snow of the winter began to fall.
CHAPTER SIX
Isela woke on the couch under her comforter with a stuffy nose and a headache. Kyle had washed the wineglasses and filled the water kettle. She unfurled herself from a fetal ball, peeling off the previous day’s clothes and smelling the faint odor of her own fear. Slipping into salwar pants and a halter top, Isela turned up the heat in the apartment. She stepped onto the unrolled mat beside the biggest window like a drowning woman climbing onto a raft. Outside, the first snowfall had left the world dusted in a thin layer of white. It might all melt by noon, but she loved the sight of the early light through air that sparkled, heavy with frozen moisture.
Isela didn’t bother with music, folding her body into a seated position and tuning in to the sound of her own breath. After a few moments of stillness and measured breathing, she unfolded her limbs and moved into a sequence of postures as familiar as the feel of the mat beneath her feet.
Her mother would chide her that sun salutations should be done facing the east, but she loved the occasional view of the waking city before her. After a dozen or more progressions, her warming body began to release some of the tension that had crept into her muscles and joints overnight. Her breath deepened as her ribs expanded, and she moved into more difficult postures. She flowed between them, feeling the edges of dance creep into her movements, giving the transitions grace and fluidity.
In the midst of a transition, Isela had the sensation of being watched. She brushed it aside as impossible; no one, not even Kyle, intruded on her morning sessions. Irritated that paranoia had crept into her practice, she redoubled her attention with a few extra breaths.
Balancing on one leg, she hooked her free ankle in her hand, extending the leg above and behind her as she controlled the counterbalance of her upper body lowering toward the floor. She reached her other hand behind her to catch her toes and flexed both elbows away from the foot so that her upper body and leg formed a teardrop shape balanced on the standing leg.
Out of the corner of her eye, something flickered—a flash of gold like the glint of sun off metal. The feeling of being watched increased. But now there was also a smell. Cardamom and rose hips. She breathed deeply, letting the scent fill her lungs. An unearthly chime echoed inside her skull, and for a moment she simply was not there. The weight of her limbs disappeared, and there was empty space where the world around her should be.
Isela came back into her body, startled and panting, suddenly exhausted. She could barely lower herself out of the posture without falling down. She glanced at the clock. Five minutes had passed.
What the hell was that all about?
What else had Azrael, or one of the other necromancers, done to her?
Isela glanced around. Still alone, the smell and sound were gone, as well as the sensation of being watched. The hair rose on her arms and neck, and a slow, subtle warmth circulated in her body.
She repeated the posture on the opposite leg, unable to hold it for anywhere near as long, and went into her resting state.
The phone buzzed once from her bag. She scanned the text from her mother. It’s been almost two months—see you on Sunday? Dinner at seven.
It was less an invitation than a command.
“Shit.” Isela thumbed a quick response. Of course. Crazy busy!
She allowed herself the vague hope Azrael would be finished with her by then. How long could a necromancer take to solve a couple of murders? Even if it required her to boost his powers.
This was not going to be like any other dance, no matter how Azrael tried to bluster his way into her easy compliance. She wasn’t going to let the inability to speak to anyone stop her from figuring out how to do her job.
Isela showered, ate, and headed down to the library. She logged into the network, checking her personal and business mailboxes. Her jaw dropped when she saw her bank balance.
“Too many zeroes,” she murmured. “Fuck me.”
That earned a stern glare from the librarian. She checked her calendar. It had been cleared, and her profile blocked off as indefinitely retained.
The library was mostly empty at this hour, save for a few students cramming for winter exams, but those nearest to her were staring.
One whispered, “Necromancer,” and the other paled.
“Sorry,” she whispered with a little wave. “Hi.”
Isela logged out and crossed the room to the door near the back. The main library had long ago been digitized, but upstairs was reserved for instructors and professionals. It was full of old books that were not in the digital system. Receiving a security code had been a rite of passage when she’d graduated.
Isela keyed herself in and paused for the retinal scan before hearing the door lock click open. The door slid shut behind her as she climbed the stone steps to the top floor. The smell of old books hit her first. Most of the manuscripts were dated obscure references, irrelevant except to those doing in-depth study of a specific area. The cataloguing system was just as dated.
That was why they had Madeline. The keeper of the Academy’s restricted library sat at a huge, elevated desk in the center of the room.
“Bonjour, Isela. You’ve been a stranger, petit.”
“Bonjour, Miss Maddy.” As broad as she was tall, Madeline moved with a gentle rolling motion on her way down the three steps to the main floor to give Isela a hug. Isela’s nose twitched with the familiar scent of lilacs and vellum.
“I heard you got a big job, girl.” Madeline squeezed Isela’s shoulders with surprising strength. “I’ve been told to give you any help you need. Sit yourself down.”
Isela had the inner library to herself. Shelves lined the hexagonal-shaped room, two stories tall, the tops reachable by ladder, which was kept on a brass track. Beneath the scent of ink and old paper, she caught a whiff of cedar. Books, some of them appearing centuries old, were packed into the shelves by no discernable system. She had long suspected there was a reason it was kept visibly uncategorized. Only Madeline seemed to be able to locate anything in a reasonable amount of time. There was no computer on her desk, not even a card catalogue.
“Say the word, and I will bring you every book with any reference to any subject,” she chimed. “Where do we begin?”
Isela wanted to laugh and cry. Divya had done this. Madeline was the gatekeeper to every bit of the most secret wisdom in the Academy. Now she had unlimited access. If only she could figure out how to ask for what she needed without triggering the spell Azrael had put on her.
Isela tested out a few words.
“Dancing and necromancers?”
Madeline gave her a helpless look. It wasn’t enough to go on.
Drawing powers from dancers didn’t come out at all. Neither did killing a necromancer. Frustration made her eyes well up. Madeline patted her on the shoulders.
Isela gritted her teeth and tried again. She might be able to approach it indirectly.
“Dancers helping necromancers,” Isela said. “Power transfer.”
Madeline nodded a few times, her sharp eyes taking on a distant look as though she were somewhere else entirely. Isela had another idea.
“The necromancer’s security.” She could talk about the others without restriction. What had Vanka called him? “What’s a Hessian?”
Madeline filled the room with laughter. “They were German mercenaries, known for being hired to fight the patriots in the American Revolutionary War. They were fierce in battle and had the reputation of having supernatural strength and abilities. But after the Brits were defeated in the revolution, they went out of vogue. Where’d you hear that?”
“Gregor,” Isela barked. “His head of security. The necromancer called him that.”
“Is he undead?”
He didn’t have the lackey boy’s paleness or lack of respiration. “I don’t think so,” she said. “But he’s—different somehow. Like how he talks, he’s so formal and nobody uses fräulein anymore.”
Madeline gave her a peculiar look. “If you think necromancers and false gods are the only strange things in this world, chéri, you’ve got an education coming. Wait here. Let me get started.”
She ignored Isela’s offers to help, returning with an armload of books, moving quickly for someone who had to be approaching her seventies. Many of the titles were in other languages or simply faded away; most of the books Madeline had brought to her predated the godswar.
Madeline set down a tablet, flicking the screen on with a tap and bringing up a series of images. Isela recognized the German in photo after photo. Gregor had been at Azrael’s side since the allegiance had come forward, and neither one seemed to have aged in the last thirty years. If they weren’t immortal, they were close enough to it.
Isela noticed a familiar woman among the group that comprised Azrael’s security team. She was as tall as any of the men, with full, handsome features and dark, ropy curls.
“Looks like an Amazon,” Madeline said when she saw Isela’s finger hover over the image. “If I was assembling an Aegis, you’d believe I’d recruit a few of those.”
Isela’s head came up. “Aegis? What’s that?”
Madeline hesitated, drifting away from the table to tidy a nearby shelf. “The breastplate of Zeus? That fearsome sigil bearing the countenance of the Gorgon’s scaly crown and worn on the left arm of Athena ? A word perhaps stolen from the Libyans by the Greeks, claimed by the necromancers to name the men and women they’ve chosen to accompany them through time.”
Isela scanned the photos again. Hessians and Amazons. She spotted the two giant twins that had guarded the door in the faded sepia images, looking fierce in Polynesian garb. Just how
long had Azrael and his cronies been around?
“This is fucking weird,” she muttered before catching herself. She glanced at Madeline, chagrined.
“Call it like you see it.” The older woman shrugged and strolled away. “Want some coffee?”
Isela brightened. She’d never liked coffee, but Madeline’s was a singular experience. “Café Touba?”
Madeline splayed her palm on her ample bosom, the rich, deep brown of her skin a contrast to her bold yellow-and-red-patterned dress and called out something in creole too fast for Isela to catch before finishing. “Is there any other worth drinking?”
Isela started with the first few books about necromancers but emerged with only unsubstantiated rumors and stories. She pushed them aside and clapped her hands as Madeline presented a steaming cup of coffee infused with cloves and black pepper.
“Miss Maddy,” Isela hesitated after delighting her nose with a long inhale. “How old are you? Really?”
Madeline taught the library studies course to all First Years. As a late enrollee at the Academy, Isela had been the oldest in her group and stood aside self-consciously until Madeline took her hand and pulled her close. “No excuse for not learning, petit.”
In all that time, the librarian seemed unchanged. Isela had attributed it to genetics, but with everything she’d seen in the last twenty-four hours, she couldn’t help but wonder.
Madeline shook her head, sucking her teeth lightly. “A lady never tells her age, petit. Especially not to nosy little girls.”
She chucked Isela under the chin and winked before returning to her stacks. Isela flushed, embarrassed by her own rudeness. Dancing was her skill. It was what Azrael wanted her for. She needed to stop looking for mysteries and stay focused on doing the job she had been hired for. The allegiance had promised a generous payment. The only way her life was in danger was if she couldn’t figure out how to do what they wanted. She hoped.
Like most dancers had been taught, she assumed it worked one way: patrons asked, she danced, the gods delivered, or didn’t, as it pleased them. The allegiance seemed convinced Azrael could draw on the power of a god directly through her dancing.
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