Death's Dancer

by Jasmine Silvera

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Isela fought back the sobs, forcing herself to breathe. “He’s hurt, and he gave me the strength to run.”

  “Hush,” Beryl said, stroking her hair and face. “Come on, let’s get you inside.”

  “It’s done,” Evie said quietly from behind them, nodding at the open doorway. “The boys are home.”

  Isela turned in her mother’s arms, and a cry escaped her.

  Three wolves emerged from the park through the snow. The larger two—one all black, the other black and gray—moved in an easy jog. Their heads came up to the side mirrors of the cars parked along the curb.

  The smallest was lean and less broad in the chest than the other two. He cavorted in the snow that matched his pale coat, bucking and snapping. It transformed first, shaking his head and his fur like a wet dog as he bounded toward the house. Between one stride and the next, four legs became two with arms swinging easily alongside as Christof trotted down the street, naked as the day he was born. Fifi ran out to meet him, a blanket in her hands. She swaddled it around his hips before he lifted her off her feet, tossing her easily over his shoulder. Barefoot, he spun in circles, impervious to the cold, as she shrieked and beat at his shoulders with her fists.

  “We showed that son of a bitch,” he barked, throwing up his head with a wild howl. “Didn’t we, boys?”

  Markus and Tobias came next, with more dignified transitions. Bebe and Evie met them with blankets.

  “Last time I checked, it was Toby who did the work.” Mark rolled his eyes.

  Toby spat into the snow a few times. “I’m never going to get that taste out of my mouth. Next time, you’re on jugular.”

  “Fair enough.” Mark picked at something in his teeth. “Oily bastard.”

  Chris bounced Fifi on his shoulder until she squealed.

  “Well, sis, you sure have some taste in men.” Chris laughed.

  Fifi wriggled down, and he nipped at her neck and chin with little barking noises.

  “Bad dog,” she chided, prying herself loose.

  “I’ll show you a bad dog,” he bared his teeth, chasing her back into the house.

  Bebe rolled her eyes and handed her husband his glasses. “My God, were we ever that bad?”

  “Worse.” Toby sighed. “You were disappointed I couldn’t keep my tail.”

  Isela tried not to let her mind linger on that image.

  “Really, Issy.” Toby went on. “What were you thinking? You can’t play with the necromancer’s toys and not get your hands dirty.”

  “Young wolves,” Isela stammered as their eyes went to her.

  It was how she’d always thought of them; from the time they were kids, they had operated like a pack. Even Chris, once he’d hit puberty, had been theirs, more than hers. She looked at her mother in question.

  “It’s your father’s fault,” Beryl said with a little shrug.

  “Papa is one too?” Isela could barely bring herself to ask it.

  Beryl shook her head. “It’s a recessive gene. I don’t have it, so it shouldn’t have manifested, but—” she shrugged. “What could I do? Puberty came, and it was either teach them to survive, or let them get themselves killed.”

  “The cottage?” Isela said.

  “I had to get them out of the city,” she said apologetically. “I wanted to tell you so many times, but we decided it was best. . .”

  A look passed between Mark and their mother. Beryl nodded and returned her attention to rubbing her daughter’s left forearm. Something in her touch brought sensation back to the numbed out places and, with it, pain.

  “Come on, you’re bleeding,” she said. “You need to get inside.”

  Isela thought of Azrael and resisted.

  “Gregor Schwarz can handle himself, Issy,” Mark snarled. “I should have taken him outside earlier this evening, and maybe he wouldn’t have gotten you into this stupidity.”

  “It’s not Gregor’s fault,” she found herself arguing as Beryl herded them all inside. “He’s just following orders.”

  “Do you hear yourself?” Mark asked. “Following orders? Sound familiar?”

  “Shh, you are going to wake the girls,” Evie chided above them on the stairs.

  Hissing, Isela snapped. “I can’t believe you would go there.”

  “I can’t believe you are defending him,” Mark growled.

  “I’m not,” she said. “It’s just not his fault we were there. What were we supposed to do, tell Azrael to fuck off?”

  The whole party went silent at the mention of the necromancer. Above them on the stairs, Chris abruptly let go of Fifi and turned. Isela flushed. She was tired and angry, and she’d said too much. Where was that damned silencing spell when she needed it? She had never seen her mother so furious. Or focused.

  “Girls, downstairs,” she ordered. “We’re going to need something stronger than our usual wards. Fifi, get Lukas, the kids, and Mrs. Simpson to the safe house. Boys, find something to eat and get ready.”

  “Ready?” Isela looked between them. “For what?”

  “Let’s hope he doesn’t survive whatever he called up tonight,” Beryl said. “Because I’m not going to let him put you in danger again.”

  They split up, Beryl leading her downstairs flanked by the Sisters. She took them through the studio, past the serenely smiling Buddha at his altar, to another door that opened to her private office. Inside, the back wall opened up to reveal an inner passage.

  “Where are we going?” Isela asked. “What’s going on, Mom? What are you?”

  “There are many ways for a coven to form,” Beryl explained patiently as they walked. “In my case, I bore sons that drew other women with the ability together. In the old days there were sons for protection, four wives for the directions, and a coven formed.”

  Isela hesitated. “But you didn’t have four sons.”

  “No,” Beryl said softly, a smile lighting her face. “I had three boys with a recessive Were gene and one daughter who talks to gods when she dances.”

  Isela wondered if she was passed out in the snow in the park somewhere and this was all some strange dream. But everything was real, from the feel of her mother’s arms, to the familiar smell of the studio. The hall opened up into a bigger room, and a sense of déjà vu swept Isela as she entered the second secret room of the night. Her stomach turned with the memory of carnage in the first room, but this one was empty of blood, and when Bebe swept on the lights to reveal a clean, bright, walled space, the feeling passed. The furniture was colorful and startlingly modern. Bebe put on the electric kettle and busied herself with the rack of herbs and a book on an angled pedestal.

  “You’re witches?” Isela said as Evie guided her into a reading chair beside a lamp and table.

  “It only takes three to make a coven,” Bebe chimed in. “The rule of fours is old school.”

  “And once Ofelia grows out of her awkward-love-spells phase, she’s going to be a force to be reckoned with,” Beryl added.

  “If,” Evie murmured, taking a damp washcloth to Isela’s face. “That girl. She took herself to Chanel after that latest spell. For maternity clothes. I didn’t know Chanel made maternity clothes.

  Beryl waved her off. “She’s young.”

  “It’s hard to argue with her when she’s making money hand over fist with love potions and charms,” Evie said wryly. “Hold still, Issy.”

  Isela winced as painful sensation began to return to her left fingertips.

  “Let me see,” Evie said, gently cradling her palm. The fingers were an angry pink, but the tips were black. “It’s like frostbite. Bebe.”

  When the kettle finished, Bebe brought over a mug full of something that smelled of mint and herbs Isela had no name for.

  “Just breathe this in for a bit,” she said. “It will warm you up and take the edge off the pain. Mark said they tasted cold. Did you have metal in your hand?”

  “My blade.” Isela nodded. Evie turned her palm over a
nd ran a fingertip over the black edge imprint of a slim hilt.

  She rummaged through her little basket and found a paste that went on smelly and oily but absorbed quickly into her skin.

  “Is that magic?” Isela asked as the feeling came back into her fingertips and the black mark faded.

  Evie laughed softly. “It’s herbs that will help speed the healing, in a lanolin base.”

  “And something extra.” Bebe winked.

  “But are you licensed?” Isela asked.

  All three women looked at her sharply.

  “Azrael said the necromancers are licensed to do the things they do,” she said.

  A coded look passed between them. Bebe went back to the counter and her mixing.

  “Don’t you worry about us,” Evie said firmly, squeezing her good hand.

  Isela began to shake so hard she spilled hot tea over her hands, and Evie had to take the cup.

  “If he finds out,” Isela said with fearful certainty. “If you get caught practicing. . .”

  “Necromancers owe all they are to witches,” Beryl stated. “I would like to see him try.”

  Isela’s head spun. She sat back in her chair. A few hours ago, she was protecting her ordinary family from a dangerous world of power. Now she was being protected from a necromancer by werewolves and witches. Her family.

  She must have dozed off, because she was startled awake by a glimmer of light in the corner of her eye, which she had come to recognize as prescience, a warning. “He’s here,” she breathed.

  The numbness and pain in her arm was gone. She glanced at her hand; the marks on her fingertips had faded. Her sisters-in-law were witches, she reminded herself.

  “Need more time,” Bebe muttered from the countertop, surrounded by books and herbs.

  Beryl cocked her head as if she were listening to a sound only she could hear. A curious smile curled her lips.

  “I can handle this one,” she said, grabbing a little box from the table beside Isela’s chair. “Isela, come.”

  Isela lurched to her feet, surprised to find the pain in her hip no longer so sharp. They went back through the studio to the front door of the building.

  A limo was parked out front. Before the buzzer could ring, Beryl Gilman-Vogel swung open the door and stared up into Gregor’s unsmiling face.

  His blade was no longer visible, but Isela knew it was there—as if the image of him drawing a smoky hilt from between his shoulder blades was a negative imprinted on her brain. He looked polished as always, as if a few hours ago he hadn’t been slicing his way through a pack of creatures too bizarre to be real. It was almost dawn.

  “I’m pleased to see that you are in better condition than my car,” he said to Isela.

  Her mother held up a hand. “You are not permitted here, creature.”

  A smile quirked the corner of his lips. “Forgive me, Frau Vogel. Isela must come with me. For her own protection.”

  “My daughter returned here bloodied and chased by demons four hours after you took her away,” Beryl said. “I think we’ll take over from here.”

  Gregor’s sword was beginning to fuse together at his back, shadow taking form.

  “Mom—” She tugged at Beryl’s arm.

  Gregor lunged for her, and Isela flinched away before she realized an invisible wall had stopped him. She would remember the flummoxed look on his face forever as he tried again, pushing up against the barrier with one hand. He drew his blade and swiped at it. The blade bounced off. He snarled.

  Beryl crossed her arms over her chest and lifted her right hand. Pinched between her finger and thumb was something so small Isela barely recognized it. A hair.

  “You left something,” Beryl said quietly. “You ought to be more careful.”

  “Witch,” he said, a curse and a realization.

  “My grandmother taught me a few things,” she said without an ounce of smugness. “Tell your master to find another dancer. Ours is not for him.”

  Gregor swept backward, his coat flaring out like a cloak. She saw him as he had once been, when the blade was steel and not made of consolidated power. “No one defies the necromancer.”

  From the shadows beyond the lamplight came low, thunderous growling. The hairs on Isela’s arms stood on end.

  Gregor turned, laughing, as he lowered his sword to face the three wolves stalking slowly into the light. They outnumbered him, but Isela had seen him in battle. And the boys were itching for a fight.

  She tugged her mother’s sleeve. “You have to stop them. You don’t know what he can do.”

  Beryl put a hand on her arm. “The boys can look after themselves.”

  “I have my instructions,” Gregor promised them all. “The dancer goes with me.”

  The black wolf lowered his head, ears pinned to his skull, and slipped between Gregor and the limo. Isela remembered Toby teasing Mark about it being his turn to take the dangerous job—going for the jugular.

  “It’s been ages since I’ve had a wolf pelage,” Gregor mused, not the least bit concerned by being flanked. “Markus, is that you? I will wear your pelt to your funeral.”

  Markus snarled, canines flashing. Isela heard Evie’s sharp breath and thought of Lilach and Thyme growing up fatherless.

  Gregor’s cold blue eyes fixed on Isela, full of threat and warning.

  You have something Azrael needs, Isela reminded herself. Use it to protect them.

  Isela ignored the cries of the Sisters and started down the stairs.

  Tobias, the black and gray, inched closer to Gregor, saliva dripping from his open jaws. He snapped with devastating power, and the hackles on his back flared. When Isela grew close, he hesitated, crowding against her thigh.

  “Gregor,” Isela lowered her voice. “Please.”

  “No harm will come to them from my blade,” Gregor said. “If you come with me.”

  “Not good enough,” Isela said, shaking her head. “Make Azrael promise. Make him swear. I go back with you. I will keep helping him, but no harm comes to any of them.”

  Gregor’s raised brow told her how incredulous he found her demand.

  Isela insisted. “I know you can communicate with Azrael, tell him. Call him if you have to. If you don’t, I’ll help my brothers rip your throat out or die trying.”

  He cocked his head, hesitating for the first time. Isela kept an eye on the wolves. She slid beside Christof, her hand settling in his hackles.

  “Fifi needs a wedding, not a funeral,” she whispered. “Don’t do this.”

  The wolf dropped his head but did not back down. Isela was close enough now. When the bargain was struck, she knew what she had to do.

  “All right,” Gregor said finally. “You have a deal.”

  “Isela, no!” her mother shouted.

  Isela threw herself between Markus and the sword as the black wolf lunged. Markus twisted midleap to avoid crashing into her, jaws snapping shut inches from her face. Snow crunched beneath him, breaking his fall. He scrambled to his paws, snapping and snarling. Tobias was at his side, ready to defend him while he recovered. She heard Christof growl and swept to the other side, putting herself between the youngest wolf and Gregor, and their backs to the limo.

  Gregor laughed, sheathing his sword.

  Isela’s eyes found her oldest sister-in-law. “Evie. Don’t let them fight this. Please. I can’t live with myself if. . .”

  She thought her sister-in-law nodded. It was enough. Evie took Beryl’s hand and Bebe’s. The wolves fell back, pacing and furious.

  Gregor opened the limo door. Isela hesitated.

  Christof whined, sinking belly down in the snow, and looked as miserable as only a young animal could. Markus growled and turned his back on Isela, trotting toward the house.

  Only Tobias remained, silent and watchful, as she slid inside. Her last sight before the door closed between them was of her middle brother’s ashen eyes. He lifted his head and let out a long, low howl of mourning.

  CHAPTER FI
FTEEN

  “Here.”

  Inside the limo, she’d moved as far away from Gregor as possible, drawing her knees beneath her on the seat. She jumped when he flicked his wrist, tossing a small, black, rectangular bit of plastic at the seat beside her. She reached for it a moment before she recognized the Audi logo: the key fob to Gregor’s car. Her hand withdrew.

  “I thought you might like a souvenir,” he muttered. “Not sure exactly what part of the word run involved the word drive.”

  “I’m sorry about your car,” she said, then added defiantly, “Sorry it didn’t burst into flames and explode after I wrecked it.”

  “I will have another one made,” he remarked casually as if they had been talking about the weather. “It will take time. I have nothing but that.”

  “Can I at least stop by the Academy first?” She asked tiredly as the city blurred outside the window. For a bite to eat and the chance to lock myself in a room and scream until my lungs burst.

  Her clothes were damp and bloody. She reeked of that particular tangy metallic odor she now associated with blood and demons. Her braid had come undone, and the bulk of her hair floated in tangled wisps. She must have looked awful.

  Gregor’s satisfied smirk was her confirmation. He had apparently found time to shower and change into fresh clothes before taking up the task of retrieving her. He adjusted his lapels, brushing off imaginary lint.

  “My master would like to confirm certain events of tonight.”

  Isela bit back a sigh. Azrael wanted to do a postmortem right away. Of course he would want to figure out what had been powerful enough to catch him by surprise.

  “I have been advised not to delay any more than absolutely necessary,” he said. “Hence my lack of a new cape.”

  “I should have let Mark rip your throat out.”

  He laughed. “Perhaps one of these days, you will get to watch him try.”

  The limo passed beneath the battling titans at the castle gates, and Isela looked away from the brawny men. She’d had enough violence for one night. The limo came to a stop in the inner courtyard before a familiar illuminated door. Ignoring the driver—a stern-looking man she was certain was undead—Isela flung herself out. The door opened, revealing the sheepish young undead man in the expensive suit.