Perhaps the failure of the summoning hadn’t been her fault. It had been a lost cause to begin with. Most summonings were conducted at the site of death for a reason. He had thought it safer to bring the body back to castle where his wards could provide protection if anything went wrong.
The murderer had known what they’d been doing—by obliterating all traces of the brain and organs, they’d blocked his attempt to recall the victim. Luckily, no snares this time. Only the wall: a powerful block that expanded in all directions, ice-cold and shuddering with a force matching his own.
This time—likely thanks to Isela’s dancing—he’d gotten close enough to batter himself against it for hours. His inability to break through the wall made him even more uneasy than when he’d accepted the task of finding the killer. Eluding snares and overcoming other necromancers’ defenses was his specialty. The kind of power and skill it took to block him was beyond a minor necromancer. Not for the first time, he considered whether the killer might be among the allegiance.
Well, he had volunteered, he reminded himself.
And not one of the other members of the allegiance had protested his enlistment. He’d never known them to agree unilaterally on anything. As the newest member of their group, he had the distinct impression he’d been set up.
And saddling him with a dancer like Isela. Why couldn’t they have picked anyone less. . . tempting.
He rubbed his hand over his eyes as the door opened behind him in response to his telepathic summons.
“Have Gregor follow them,” he said. “Make sure she gets home safely. We’ll need her again soon, I’m afraid.”
“Done.” Hesitation emanated from the long pause that followed.
“Yes, Lys?” he queried carefully.
“She has a fierce heart.” If anyone would know, it would be Lysippe, the first of his Aegis. He trusted her judgment when his own was clouded.
“I know.” Even dangling from his hand, Isela had been unrepentant.
“But she’s not a warrior,” Lysippe said, troubled. “And something is wrong with her. She hides it well, unless she’s tired. Then she limps.”
When the door closed, Azrael thought back on the moment in the library. She had danced for hours without wavering. No wonder she had collapsed. Exhausted and confused, the physical drain on her body reminded him of how fragile she was. And he had fallen on her like an animal in heat.
The combination of sweat and her natural scent was an aphrodisiac stronger than any perfume. Azrael hadn’t known why he’d touched her, or exactly when, only that he did. He couldn’t stop himself once he had the sensation of her skin against his fingertips.
He read the subtle response of her body to him and discounted the strength of her will. She pricked his pride by insinuating he would coerce her. Twisting her mind to keep her from speaking the wrong words to the wrong people was for the security of their mission and her own safety. The thought of having her come to him under duress or spell for his own pleasure disgusted him.
Azrael was not as handsome or charming as Paolo, but he had never had a problem seducing women. They came gladly, and he never took from them without giving amply in return.
He was out of practice, he realized shamefully. And this little dancer drew him, even when she was putting him at arm’s length. It would be a nice diversion from the gravity of his assignment. The allegiance made it very clear what the consequences would be if she showed any signs of following the steps of the ill-fated Luther Voss.
Azrael wanted Isela to come to him willingly out of desire that overrode her fear. He resolved to show her another kind of dance, one ending with her sweaty and satisfied, longing for his touch. That, he would enjoy immensely.
“Hiding up here in your dusty old attic won’t save you. We have the keys.”
Isela rolled herself awake, peering at the clock on the bedside table. It was almost four in the afternoon. She barely remembered staggering into bed. She hadn’t even bothered with a shower. She dragged her aching body from the thrashed pile of pillows and blankets and pulled an old terry robe around her shoulders.
“How did it go? I saw reports. You looked stunning, naturally.” Yana bounded up the stairs, followed by Kyle and Trinh.
“My gods,” Kyle said as they reached the top. “You two must have had some night.”
Yana slammed her elbow into his ribcage as Trinh pushed around them both.
“I can’t believe you kept this from us for so long,” she cackled gleefully. “You should see the gossip sites. You are all over them.” She paused. “What the hell happened to you?”
“That bad, eh?” Isela winced, pushing the tangled mat of her hair off her face.
“Sweet sugar patties,” Yana whispered. “Have you seen yourself?”
They followed her to the mirror. The face that stared back was a stranger’s: hollow cheekbones and dark circles under her eyes.
“Well, who doesn’t want to lose an extra pound or two?” she said, trying to keep her voice light.
“More like ten,” Kyle said, earning another jab in the ribs. He pulled a square, black box made of heavyweight board that must have come from a jeweler from behind his back. “Surprise. I guess this must be a makeup present for whatever happened last night?”
“Makeup present?” she echoed, glancing at the box, then the mirror.
Hours of dancing couldn’t have done this to her. Maybe she was coming down with something.
Necromancer fever?
Kyle cut into her thoughts. “Tall, dark, and Teutonic delivered this a couple of hours ago—”
Trinh interrupted. “What the hell did he do to you?”
“I will have this man killed, butternut.” Yana pounded her palm with her fist.
“He told Niles not to disturb you,” Kyle finished, furious. “If we had known—”
“Nothing happened. I’m fine. I had to dance, and it was. . . bizarre, but no one hurt me. I promise.” Tears smarted her eyes as relief swept visibly through her friends.
Isela set the box on the dresser, ignoring their dismay. If it was from the necromancer, she wasn’t sure she was ready to know what was inside.
Yana looked indignant at the idea that a token from an admirer wasn’t given some sort of priority. “You won’t open it now?”
“After I shower and eat,” Isela said. “And drink another gallon of water. I’m starving. Please tell me I smell croissants in that bag.”
“Gods, you have a nose like a bloodhound.” Trinh shook her head, lifting the paper sack from her favorite bakery. “Go on then.”
Trinh emptied the fridge of a half dozen, almost-empty jam jars, and Kyle scrambled eggs while Isela showered. Isela loitered over their breakfast-for-dinner, accepting the crumb-filled plate of baked goods Kyle pushed across the table at her.
While Yana retrieved the box, Isela busied herself slathering the last croissant in jam, taking her time with every bite until Trinh impatiently removed her plate.
“You godsdancers eat like herds of starving elephants.” Yana sniffed, poking three-quarters of a muffin on her plate. “I would never fit in my tights.”
“I think she could use it,” Trinh said.
“She’s not even hungry anymore,” Yana snapped. “She’s delaying. Open the box already.”
Isela wiped her hands and eased the lid off, dreading what lay inside.
Inside, was a smaller velvet box. The hinge creaked softly as she opened it, revealing a hair brooch the size of her hand. Rows of cranberry-red jewels of varying sizes set in a plain metal base created elegant lines and whiplash curves evoking the wings of a songbird. It was an unmistakably old piece, commanding and delicate.
“I guess he liked that shirt,” Kyle murmured, his voice hushed.
“What’s not to like.” Yana scowled. “Isela has lovely breasts. It left nothing to the imagination.”
Isela choked on her water.
Yana sniffed. “Those aren’t rubies—is that even gold? I don�
��t see the fuss.”
“No, you beautiful thing, it’s worth much more.” Kyle said, kissing her cheek. “They’re bohemian garnets. This is turn of the century. Probably around the same time as the Municipal House itself. Wonder if this is Franta Anyz? He did commissions in the dining hall downstairs you know. . .”
Glimpsing something else in the bottom of the box, Isela hurried to take it back before they could see it. She closed it, shuddering dramatically. “Pretty. Well, what did I miss around here?”
Between the three of them, she got caught up on the usual assortment of Academy drama. She was amazed how much could be churned up in less than twenty-four hours. At last Yana and Kyle left to get drinks with some of the other troupe members, dragging a reluctant Trinh with them.
When they were gone, she dumped out the hair brooch and fished for the slim black rectangle she’d seen earlier. A data stick. She booted up her laptop. After the retinal scan and security clearance warnings, she clicked through folder after folder of scanned documents. One appeared to be the notes of a dancer. Not unusual, as most dancers kept records of their choreography, searching for patterns and successful sequences to incorporate in jobs. Madeline had pulled all the stored notes of former dancers in the library, but she had never seen these. She made out initials: LV. Recognition thrummed at the edge of her awareness, along with excitement.
Her phone buzzed. She set down her computer and raced across the room. She didn’t recognize the number, but she was certain of the caller’s identity, even before she answered.
“I apologize if I treated you briskly last night,” Azrael began without preamble. “Your dancing was, in a way, successful. I was able to get closer than before to the answers we seek.”
A bit of righteous pride surged in her, but she was too stunned by his admission to pay it much mind.
“Please accept the token and my regrets for my actions,” he said.
“You can’t buy me with a hairpin.” Isela came to her senses.
“I should hope not,” Azrael said evenly. “But I trust it provided a convenient cover for the real delivery, which you have just accessed on your computer.”
Isela flushed. Stupid, stupid, stupid mouth.
“Yes,” she admitted finally. “It was. Thank you. The information is—well, there’s a lot of it, and I think it will be helpful, but it will take some time to go through and try to understand it all. Will we try again?”
A long pause followed her question. She thought some people might have been made anxious by those pauses, but she found herself soothed by the steadiness of them. Unlike the last time, when he had rushed through her concerns, she got the impression he was actually considering her words.
“Not with this one,” Azrael said finally. “But yes, we will try again. I expect we’ll have another opportunity soon.”
So Isela didn’t have much time. But at least she had better leads.
“I don’t think I need to tell you that the information on that device will not be readable by anyone but you,” he went on.
“This message will self-destruct, yeah, yeah, yeah.”
Silence.
She cleared her throat. “I understand.”
“Good.”
“Azrael?” The name felt foreign in her mouth, like she was speaking in the tongue of a long-silenced language. Did the quiet grow that much more still on the other end of the line? Should she have called him ‘sir’ as Gregor advised? Too late now. She plowed on.
“I wasn’t very diplomatic last night,” she said haltingly. “But it’s always a bad idea for dancers to become—involved—with their patrons. Professional boundaries and all that.”
“Of course,” Azrael said smoothly. His next words brought a flash of heat to her core, taking her right back to the drawing room the night before. “Deny your attraction to me if it makes you feel safe, Isela Vogel. But you will beg for me before we are done.”
The air went out of her lungs. Despite her intention to start off on a better foot, Isela hung up on him.
CHAPTER NINE
Isela spent the rest of the week cross-referencing information from Azrael’s data and Madeline’s library. His research validated her suspicion that the gods were not morally superior beings, responsible for the creation of humanity. According to the necromancers, the beings known as gods were attracted to humans out of simple curiosity—lacking mortality or corporeal form, they were drawn to interfere in the short lives of those with physical bodies. The human body in motion proved an irresistible lure.
This was what the allegiance needed her for—her dancing could be used to attract a god so that Azrael could syphon off the greater power to boost his own.
According to the dancer’s notes, it had been done. Dancers coded their notes to prevent exact replication, but with a little experimentation, she was able to grasp the basics of the sequences. Divya had designated a practice studio for her, removing it from the availability schedule of the school. Isela spent her afternoons there, tearing up her old choreography and incorporating what she had learned.
Claims of possession by gods ran rife in every religion in which dance played a part. But those were human exaggeration. Something in Azrael’s data confirmed the dog-eared page she’d found in Madeline’s library: gods had possessed mortals who opened themselves. Dancing for Azrael’s intention was opening herself up in ways she hadn’t before. It explained the time loss and what she thought of as the “bubble” she disappeared into when she was dancing. If the bubble was her ability to turn herself into a conduit for the gods’ power, maintaining her awareness of it and controlling how far she went was critical.
On Sunday, Isela broke her self-imposed isolation. She donned old blue jeans, mud boots, and layers of long-sleeved T-shirts under a down jacket, tucked an old Ford baseball cap over her pigtails, and snuck out of the Academy.
At least she tried to.
By the time she reached the ground floor, word had spread and the hallways were mysteriously clustered with young dancers. She debated facing the mob versus fleeing when Divya clapped her hands sharply.
“What is this?” Without raising her voice, she sent the entire assembly retreating against the walls. “You have nothing better to do than create a fire hazard in my halls?” Her dark eyes pinned Isela where she stood. “Miss Vogel, my office. You’re late.”
“Ma’am.” Isela bit back a smile as she hurried through the dispersing crowd.
She had to jog to keep up with Divya’s pace. They passed the office and headed down the halls to the kitchens.
“Ma’am, where are we—”
“Don’t ‘ma’am’ me.” Divya cut her off. “You haven’t ever before, don’t start now. You think what’s in the hallway is bad, what’s outside will straighten your hair. Take the back entrance. Call Niles if you need a ride home.”
Divya hustled her out the kitchen, and she slipped into the snow, unwatched and unnoticed. Isela skirted wide of the Academy’s front doors where an army of photographers was camped out.
Isela wanted to throttle Gregor, Azrael, and the bloody PR person who had come up with this crazy idea. She wanted her life back.
She hopped on a tram that ran along the Vltava heading south. Leaving Old Town behind, the frenetic pace of holiday tourists quieted within a stop or two, and she was able to find a window seat facing the direction she’d come. She let the announcements of stops in muffled Czech lull her as an early sunset turned the gray sky pink around the edges. At a glimpse of the castle, framed by rose gold, she wondered what Azrael was up to at this hour.
Popular myth claimed that necromancers were creatures of the night. She thought Azrael might fit that description better than most, with his carved-from-marble face and luminous eyes. Maybe he didn’t even get up until dusk. The image of him rising from a tomb like Dracula made the corners of her mouth twitch.
But his last words echoed in her head, sobering her. A little chill raced up her spine, and it had nothing to do with fe
ar. He was beautiful, in the dangerous way of a predator whose survival hinged on its ability to strike without notice. His quiet demeanor was mesmerizing. He was like a hooded cobra, with eyes that could hold its prey captive until it struck.
To entertain the idea of that man in her bed was insanity.
It was how Azrael said it that had wormed the possibility into her head. There would be no awkward conversation afterward in which she blamed her focus on her career for her lack of ongoing interest in a relationship. There would be a beginning and an ending.
Isela didn’t miss the implied pleasure either. Begging was a pretty bold claim. From a normal man, she would assume it was, at best, an empty boast. It sparked the defiant intention to resist him, but lurking curiosity tugged at her. She was a fool if she thought a man who’d been around for a couple hundred years hadn’t picked up a few tricks.
Holy shit, she was considering fucking a necromancer.
Isela tucked her head onto her knees and almost missed her stop. She had just enough time to fling herself out of her seat and dive between the closing doors. Outside, she slipped on the snow-slicked cobblestones and landed in a slushy puddle. Her hip complained, and she was forced to sit still for a moment until the wave of pain passed. The startled onlookers gasped, but she waved them off.
“All part of the show,” she grumbled, accepting the hand of an elderly gentleman with a surprisingly strong grip.
He winked one bright blue eye at her, and his neatly trimmed silver beard quirked up in a smile. The scent of tobacco and old books drifted from his flapping lapel. When he spoke, his thickly accented English was a comfortable second language. “And a fine one. May I suggest avoiding an encore performance? I don’t believe your trousers can withstand more abuse.”
Isela reached around to find she’d split her pants in the fall and groaned. The jeans were an old pair and her favorite. She swore in three languages, and the man chuckled.
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