Death's Dancer

by Jasmine Silvera

  When she looked up, he had unwound the scarf around his throat and held it out to her. She started to protest.

  “Go on now,” he said. “Take it.”

  Isela demurred, switching to Czech, which clearly delighted him. “But I can’t.”

  Most people assumed at a glance that as a foreigner, she could not speak Czech. But her mother had insisted on mastery of the difficult tongue to make their new country home, and as her celebrity grew, it endeared her to her adoptive city.

  “It’s so rare I get to play the gentleman.” His Czech was the most formal she had ever heard. He leaned in, sharing a confidence. “And to a renowned dancer of the gods, no less. I insist.” He reached into his breast pocket and fumbled out a business card. She noted, beneath his heavy winter coat, his tweed suit and a vest with a dangling pocket watch chain. “If it is convenient, you can have the scarf sent to my business, payment on delivery.”

  The split in Isela’s pants was letting in cold air. She took the card. The scarf unfolded to reveal a lovely strip of black fabric embroidered with red and gold roses. It wrapped tidily around her hips, blocking the draft.

  “Děkujeme.” She thanked him with a little curtsey.

  He tipped his cap.

  The next tram sent a gust of wind onto the platform, and he hooked the umbrella to his forearm. “That’s my tram. Good evening, young lady.”

  When the tram was gone, she slipped between cars to cross the street.

  Isela’s family lived in an old neighborhood at the foot of Vysehrad; the ruins of a medieval fortress turned park at the south edge of the city. When they’d come to Prague, property had been cheap. Her father bought not just one flat but an entire building—a shabby, old, art nouveau thing that needed as much repair as it was worth. It had given him something to do in the first few years when work had been inconsistent, and it kept the boys out of trouble.

  Her mother joked that her three sons were rambunctious, rebellious, and handsome—a terrible combination for a mother. The two eldest were two years apart, and though Isela had been close to her youngest brother, all three were closer in personality.

  Once the eldest, Mark, hit puberty, her parents had bought a small cabin in the Czech forest where her mother took the boys most weekends to let them run wild, leaving Isela and her father to play card games and work on the building. It was impossible not to feel a little abandoned. Once she’d been accepted to the Academy, the demanding studies had solidified the space adolescence had built between them.

  Initially, the family lived on the top floor of the eight-unit building, and the lower units provided rental income. Later, they converted the ground floor shop into a studio where her mother could teach yoga.

  These days, her mother referred to the building as the “Vogel Compound.” Two of her brothers lived with their families in units below the family flat. The youngest was working on renovations of another with the help of his girlfriend.

  Isela loved her brothers without question, but their wives had earned their spots in her heart. After all, any woman who could break through the pack loyalty to isolate and win the heart of one of the Vogel boys had to be more than average. One by one, they turned the bachelors into responsible alphas, heads of their own households.

  Her sisters-in-law were cautious around her at first—she spent so little time at the house that she was mostly family legend. She envied their bonds with one another and her mother. She’d been away from home for so long, in the most important ways, she’d almost forgotten her place.

  And then one year, Isela received a pair of teardrop silver hoop earrings as a birthday present, signed, “your Sisters.” The first time she wore the earrings home, she saw the pleasure in their eyes. They dragged her into the kitchen, plied her with margaritas, and begged her to tell them old stories of the boys. When she came down with the flu, they brought soup to her apartment. They dragged her along on enough girls’-night outings that she stopped being reluctant to intrude.

  The Sisters had closed the distance the Academy had created and assured her that the safety net of the family would always catch her too.

  Now it was up to her to protect them. That cooled any thoughts of itch scratching with the necromancer.

  Isela let herself into the building with her key, following the long hall to the stairs. An elevator had been installed at some point, but old habits died hard. On the way up, she greeted Mrs. Simpson, another North American refugee, who had lived in the building since Isela was a kid.

  Lukas Vogel was the kind of landlord that made tenants stick around. Only one apartment in the building wasn’t held by a long-time resident: a shoebox studio he kept “for emergencies.” At any point in time, it was occupied by a single person or a family in need. Sometimes they were students from her mom’s free weekly community classes. Once or twice, it was somebody her father met on the street on his way home from work. In any case, they had a free place to stay until they were back on their feet. The apartment was on Mrs. Simpson’s floor, and she kept an eye on the tenant.

  The heavy aroma of a home-cooked meal reached her before Isela got to the top floor. The door was cracked, and the sound of laughter and conversation drifted out. She let herself in as the steamy wave of food-scented air blasted her nostrils. She paused in the entryway to peel off her boots and coat and call out a greeting.

  A petite woman with a halo of curly hair rounded the corner: her middle brother’s wife, Bebe. “Just in time! You can settle a debate. Mark says Chris lost his virginity to a Russian hooker, who he thought was his girlfriend for a week and a half before someone let him in on the fact she was a working girl.”

  From the kitchen behind her came peals of laughter and male voices raised in protest or agreement.

  Isela sighed, a smile rising unbidden. Just another family dinner in the Vogel house. She hugged Bebe with all her strength.

  “Oof, what’s that for?” Bebe pushed her back after a moment. “And what are you wearing?”

  Evie drifted into the entryway: taller, thinner, with wispy blond hair tied back in a loose ponytail and a flushed face from the heat of the kitchen. One of her twins, Thyme, snuggled contentedly on her hip. Evie flipped up the hastily tied scarf to reveal the grimy slush marks from her fall. “Ach, your pants!”

  “You know me,” Isela shrugged. “Clumsy to the last.” She raised her voice to be heard in the kitchen. “And I think the lady you speak of was actually Ukra—”

  Evie cut her off. “This is not a conversation for little ones with big ears to be hearing.”

  “Sorry, Evie.” Isela tweaked her niece’s nose.

  The taller woman kissed her on both cheeks. “Bebe, get Issy some pants. Those are ruined.”

  Bebe dashed out the door before Isela could stop her, trotting down the stairs to her own flat on the floor below.

  “Come, come.” Evie herded her inside. “You’re freezing.”

  Isela squeezed her niece’s nose. “Hallo, Thyme.”

  “Hi, Tante Issy.” The four-year-old slid down from her mother’s hip.

  “Now go play with Lil, Tavy, and the boys,” Evie insisted. “Big people are being inappropriate. . . again.”

  The girl wrinkled her nose. “I don’t want to play with the babies.”

  Evie rolled her eyes at Isela but took her daughter’s hand. “Come. I’ll play with you for a while.”

  They went their separate ways, her eldest sister-in-law following the sound of kids in the living room. After Evie and Markus’ twins, Bebe and Tobias’ three had come in quick succession. Her mother, Beryl, joked if they kept up, they’d be able to field a family football team. The din, Isela considered, was rivaled only by the adults in the kitchen.

  In the humid, packed room, preparation and conversation immediately swallowed Isela. Markus, with his hickory-brown skin and coiled dark hair, was standing at the stove, stirring something that gave off mouthwatering aromas of onions, garlic, and venison. Tobias, the second son and the mir
ror image of their father’s lanky build and oversized features, chopped tomatoes for salad, making a mess of it. The youngest, Christof, teased for his shockingly handsome face under a fringe of tawny hair, lounged with a beer beside the fridge. His arm cradled a lanky, cinnamon-skinned woman with an easy grin that everyone had high hopes would pin him down.

  “Hey, sis.” Christof slid his arm free to greet Isela.

  “Little brother,” Isela elbowed him out of the way to hug his girlfriend. “Chris, If she hasn’t run away by now, I think you can keep your paws off her for five minutes. Hi, Fifi—”

  Her mother interrupted. “Fifi is a small poodle.”

  “Yes, Ma,” Isela said, smiling conspiratorially at the younger woman. “Good evening, Ofelia.”

  Presiding over it all, Beryl Gilman-Vogel cradled a glass of wine in one hand, looking like a queen from the top of the silver-threaded dreadlocks piled neatly on her crown to the fuzzy yellow and black bee slippers that had been a birthday gift from her grandchildren.

  She never claimed to be a good cook, and the quality of the meals had vastly improved with the addition of the Sisters. Still, Sunday dinners had been a tradition since Isela was in diapers and continued after she’d left for the Academy. With the demands of her studies and dance training, getting home even once a week had been tough. After graduation, Isela made an effort at least once a month, but this had been a longer gap than usual, with rehearsing her demo performance for the gala and doing publicity work for the Academy in addition to her normal schedule of dancing.

  Her mother put down her glass to embrace Isela. It was the kind of hug only a mother could deliver, and Isela felt her whole being settle. Thoughts of the necromancer and his kind vanished.

  Beryl smelled like lilacs and the incense she used in her studio. Her flawless, walnut skin was smooth and warm against Isela’s cheek. She was stronger than most women half her age. The hug wrung Isela out, cleansing her of all the accumulated worry, reminding her who she was and that she was home.

  “Missed you, Little Bird,” her mother murmured in her ear.

  “Missed you too, Mom.” She heard her own voice crack.

  “Papa’s in the library.” Beryl let her go. “Go say hi before dinner. Said he had a headache.”

  Isela nodded, taking the glass of wine Mark offered.

  At the end of the long hall was a small room their father had converted into a library. In it were a few books but mostly his machines. He’d been into computers as long as she’d been alive, working as a software engineer until his retirement.

  “Caught you nappin’,” she said, tapping the lowered newspaper spread on his lap.

  She folded to her knees at the foot of his chair beside the window.

  Startled, her father looked down at her, and her eyes met their match. Once, their hair had been the same color too—a shade of dark chocolate feathered with caramel—but now his was mostly gray. How long had it been since she had been home? Her schedule had been full, and she’d missed a few Sunday dinners. But no more than a few months, surely. He appeared older. Her memories were of a strong man that hefted her as easily as a bucket of paint. She noted how the paper trembled when he put it down to greet her.

  “Little Bird.”

  Unlike her mother’s hug, her father’s left her worried. His arms didn’t close completely, and she detected the faintest tremor in his hands. His sweater, an old favorite her mother had been begging him to toss out for years, hung from his frame. His usual scent, dry and warm, like beach sand with the hint of hazelnuts he always snacked on while he worked, had a curious and slightly unpleasant tang. He looked frail.

  But his mind was still as quick as ever. When she sat back, he tapped his paper. “Tell me about this boy of yours.”

  Isela groaned, glancing at the photo on the front of the society section. The montage featured shots of her on the bridge, arm in arm with Gregor, and slipping into the black sports car.

  “Oh, Papa.” She sighed.

  It was no better at dinner.

  Bebe fixed Isela up with a pair of flare-legged corduroy pants in her own signature style: hippie bohemian. Isela promised to return them next week, but Toby shook his head.

  “She can’t even button them anymore, sis.” Toby tossed a forelock of wavy brown hair out of his eyes as he pushed his glasses up his nose. “Keep them.”

  Bebe’s glare would have sliced a brick in half. “Three beautiful children and you’re disappointed I don’t fit in my college cords anymore?”

  “Baby, you’re even more beautiful than you were in college,” Toby said and refilled her wineglass. Isela nodded approvingly, and he winked. “I’m slow, but I catch on.”

  “Psst, Issy,” Fifi said when Beryl was distracted. “Tell me about this guy, Gregor.”

  The Hessian? She almost said in response.

  “What about him?” Isela queried slowly as she tried to decide how much they knew and what would be safe to tell them.

  Fifi rolled her eyes, giving Bebe one of those “do you believe this one” expressions she must have picked up from Evie. She fit right in. If Chris didn’t marry her, Beryl was surely going to adopt her.

  “He’s a total hunk.” Fifi wagged her eyebrows.

  “Excuse me?” Chris chimed in, tugging at her elbow.

  She pushed him away. “How long have you been dating, really? You never mentioned him. And is he as scary in real life as he is in the pictures?”

  “Scary?” Isela peeped, suddenly aware that all eyes were on her. She dragged her fork through the remnants of her goulash.

  “You know he ripped out some guy’s eyeballs and stuck them to the guy’s door for disobeying his boss.” Mark jabbed his fork into his remaining dumpling for emphasis.

  “Mark, the girls.” Evie glared as their daughters’ eyes fixed on their father.

  Mark lifted his weighted fork, waving it in their direction. “Which is what happens to people who don’t follow orders, like when it’s time to brush teeth and go to bed.”

  “Mark!” Evie smacked his bicep as two pairs of eyes saucered.

  “No, I—” Isela said, shaking her head. “I don’t think he. . . did that.”

  “You don’t think. . .” Toby pushed his glasses up his nose.

  “Well, it hasn’t exactly come up in conversation.” Isela sighed, exasperated.

  Maybe coming to a family dinner before this was all over had been a bad idea.

  “Yeah, that’s not the kind of thing you mention over dessert, Tobias,” Mark said, pitching his voice high to mimic Isela. “So, the eyeballs, were they squishy, or did they pop?”

  “Markus Garvey Vogel!” Beryl barked.

  “Sorry, Ma,” he said as he stuck his tongue out at Isela.

  “Not my fault you are a total blockhead.” Isela wagged hers back at him. “Lilach, Thyme, your papa is a Cro-Magnon. Can you say that?”

  Thyme shrieked laughter and tumbled out of her chair, throwing herself into Isela’s arms. Lilach still looked to be losing her war with tears.

  Isela scooped up her nieces, inhaling the smell of sweet nutmeg and crayons, and cradling their warm bodies against her own. Even the jab of bony elbows and knees as they settled more comfortably against her felt right.

  “Seriously, Issy,” Chris pressed. “This guy, Gregor, he’s good to you?”

  Isela tried not to think of how terrified she’d been when he led her to the basement morgue. “Yeah, he gave me an incredible hundred-year-old hair clasp.”

  The defensive lie came easily to protect her family. The Sisters cooed. Evie gave Mark an elbow, and he glared at Isela.

  “I mean, he treats you right?” Chris asked, one eyebrow raised.

  Of all her siblings, she was the closest to him. They’d shared a room until she’d left home. Mark and Toby were older, tougher, and it wasn’t until she and Chris formed an alliance that they were able to keep the older boys from ganging up on them. But she’d gone to the Academy to study, and he’d h
it puberty and become one of the pack.

  “He’s a good guy,” Isela reassured them. “Loyal. And he’s not the guy to mess around with either. I’m safe with him.”

  That was true, she thought. Mostly.

  Chris didn’t look satisfied, but Isela saw the tender way Fifi put a hand on his forearm. He shifted, going still.

  Their secret language made her heart twinge. She was happy for them. Of the three brothers, Chris had always been the best-looking and taken the least seriously. He’d been mocked for the girls that fawned over him, even as his heart repeatedly led him astray. He deserved to be loved, and Fifi had been better than anyone Isela could have picked for him. Isela had never seen him so quietly confident as he was with Fifi. She seemed to ground him in a way he desperately needed. Her eye caught the sparkle on Fifi’s slim finger, and she grinned.

  “Baby brother, you didn’t!” she scolded teasingly, mock glaring at them both as she grabbed for Fifi’s hand. “Since when?”

  Ofelia flushed, a beautiful rosy glow in her cheeks, and Chris snugged his arm around her shoulders. “It should have been the other way around, but. . .”

  Isela cocked her head, finally noticing the slight fleshiness in the girl’s cheeks. “You’re pregnant.”

  Chris expression widened to that big, male, self-satisfied grin she recognized well after three nieces and two nephews.

  “And the Vogel fertility once again asserts itself,” Beryl grumbled.

  The whole table dissolved into laughter.

  “I’m due in June,” Fifi answered her next question. “We’re getting married over New Year’s. It’s going to be a bit of a shotgun affair. Can you be there?”

  Isela smiled and answered without thinking, “Of course! With bells on.” The next thought came before she could check it. If I’m still alive.

  After dinner, she found herself banished to the living room with the women and children while the men took over cleanup and dishes.

  “Mom,” Isela said, looking up from playing a game of Memory with Thyme. “Is Papa all right?”