The more things changed, the more they stayed the same, she thought, as Gregor snarled at the catering assistant lingering too long in the sculpture hall, transfixed by Michelangelo’s David.
Thank goodness she had a little help.
Kyle stepped between the Hessian and the cowering man. “It’s fine, just head into the dining room.”
When the man was gone, Kyle tilted his head, staring fearlessly into the scowling face of the necromancer’s enforcer. “Cool it, handsome. You’re scaring the help. . . again.”
He patted the taller man’s shoulder and started off down the hall.
Isela laughed. Of all her friends, Kyle handled the changes the best. As he told her the first morning Azrael had allowed anyone in the castle, “You’re still my friend, Vogel. Even if your new friends are a little—frightening.”
“Mistress, the narrow chap with the funny hat would like to know the desired placement for the groom’s cake,” said a rusty voice behind her.
She turned to see the Nordic bruiser, Aleifr. They were the first words she’d ever heard him utter. “Aleifr, it’s just Isela. Or Issy.”
He grunted assent. She sighed.
“Chuck the damn thing in the garden,” she said, knowing she was fighting a losing battle. “Or the stag moat. At the bottom of the Vltava. I don’t know.”
Her brothers had volunteered to be in charge of the groom’s cake. In all the chaos, they’d managed to keep it from her until that morning. Smart move on their part: she would have put the kibosh on a cake shaped like the stag in Gregor’s family crest, done in red velvet so that when sliced, it appeared to bleed. The Vogel boys. Young wolves, all.
“And for gods’ sakes, keep it from Gregor until the last possible minute,” she called after him.
She caught the wily grin cast over the Viking’s shoulder and knew she had been right to lay down the command. Undoubtedly the rest of the Aegis who had caught on were having their fun with it.
“Tell the others too,” she thought to add before he was out of earshot, muttering under her breath. “I want this to be a wedding, not a funeral.”
“There you are.”
Beryl Gilman-Vogel came down the hall in flowing purple robes, looking a bit like a goddess herself. If anyone had told Isela that her mother, as High Priestess of Prague’s first official coven, would have been wandering down the halls of the necromancer’s castle a year ago, she would have suggested they avoid the hallucinogens.
“The Sisters are looking for you,” Beryl said. “It’s time to get dressed.”
“Already?”
“Time waits for no immortal,” Beryl said, her smile taking on a hint of sadness. “Even a newly born one. They’re so golden today.”
Isela understood her surprise; she still hadn’t gotten used to seeing her own reflection in the mirror. Some days her eyes were still an earthy gray. Others, they glowed like sunlight rippling on water. She let her mother hug her for a moment.
“I’ll be right there,” she said. “I just have a few things to check on.”
Isela sprinted down the hall. It was old habit to favor her hip and move with slow, steady control to avoid aggravating it. But the throbs of pain she’d grown accustomed to had been gone since emerging from the tomb: another one of the goddess’s tweaks. She healed faster, and it took much more to injure her now.
She skidded to a stop in the dining room. The theme was a winter garden, and all week, exotic plants had been arriving by the truckload. The settings were silver and gold, with white runners and snowflake lace so fragile she was afraid to touch most of it. A group of the silent undead moved around the last of the decorating. Isela couldn’t say she was entirely comfortable in their presence, but she was trying. She cleared her throat. The leader, the one she was beginning to think of as Azrael’s version of Niles, looked up from arranging a delicate explosion of peonies and ivy in the center of a table, and his empty eyes fell on her. She gritted her teeth to keep from shuddering.
“Everything good?” she called.
He folded at the waist and resumed his task. Assuming that was affirmation, she grimaced and moved on.
Her last stop was the wedding site itself. Azrael had picked the garden of paradise, and in spite of her objections to him using his power for something so trivial, he’d heated the whole space. Ever the green thumb, Bebe had coaxed verdant grass around the cleared paving stones, framed in turn by a fresh dusting of snow. On the bare stone, lines of chairs in white and silver angled toward a long aisle carpeted in green. The weak winter light was boosted with torches glowing with something she knew was too rich to be firelight. At the front of the isle was an altar so simple and elegant it stole her breath.
Tyler escorted a final group of arriving guests to the reception area. He looked handsome in a slate-gray suit, complete with tails.
“Looking good, Ty,” she said.
“Thank you, Issy.” He bowed slightly.
Isela turned her attention to the guests.
It was a small affair, but she suspected this was the first time the castle had so many human visitors in some time. A few expressed surprise to see her, and she greeted everyone with smiles. Divya hugged her so tightly her ribs ached.
“We expect you back at the Academy,” she informed her, brushing dampness from her cheeks. “There is a teaching position opening up in the spring.”
“We’ll see.”
What she would do now was still an open debate, although Azrael assumed it had been closed when he made the decision that his consort would not continue as a godsdancer. She agreed it wouldn’t be right to dance for patrons any longer, but dance was her life and the Academy her family. Not even a necromancer’s power could keep her from that. Azrael would realize eventually.
“Niles,” she addressed the suited man at the director’s shoulder.
“Miss Vogel.” He inclined his head, surprised when she threw her arms around him.
“Issy!” Bebe leaned out the window of a room above the courtyard. “Hurry up!”
“Gotta go.”
Isela ran. Not because she had to, though Bebe had sounded out of patience, but because she could. She gloried in the freedom and strength of her body. Repairing the damage to her hip has been only the beginning. She was faster and stronger now than ever before. She had begun training with the Aegis, because the god seemed content to honor her word and remain an observer.
The suite designated for the bridal party was a flurry of hairspray, silk, and flowers. Isela closed the door behind her and hurried into the thick of the chaos. Bebe snapped her fingers and the last dress left on a hanger drifted obediently across the room. Isela sneezed at a whiff of Ofelia’s perfume—a heavy bouquet of mixed blooms dusted in honey—and collided with the levitating garment. She swore, tangled in lengths of fabric.
“You are going to be the death of me,” Bebe said, exasperated as she rescued the delicate material from Isela’s flailing.
Isela kissed her sister-in-law’s cheek and flung off her clothes. “Dying has worked out OK so far.”
“That’s not funny.” Evie chided as she put the finishing touches on her lipstick. “Either of you.”
Bebe rolled her eyes and Isela stuck out her tongue. Evie glared at them in the mirror before glancing at her reflection. When she pursed her lips critically, the color of her lipstick shifted to a more flattering shade.
“Nice trick,” Isela said, ducking her head as Bebe helped her into her dress.
“I taught her that,” Ofelia chimed proudly.
Isela sat patiently as her hair was piled into a simple upsweep off the back of her neck, fixed with the garnet clasp that had been a present from Azrael. Tiny tendrils slipped loose almost immediately, and no amount of hairspray would hold them. Bebe focused on makeup next. She spun Isela’s chair to face the mirror. “There.”
Isela looked into the face staring back and, for the first time, saw the familiar before the changes. The makeup was simple: soft, neut
ral lips, the hint of blush and a deep brown eyeliner that made her eyes—freshly minted gold today—stand out beneath the long, dark lashes.
“Ready?” Kyle poked his head in the door and sighed dramatically, one palm flattened against his chest at the sight of the four women. “Stunning. It’s go time, ladies.”
“Let’s get this over with before I start puking again.” Ofelia sighed, one hand on the tiny mound of her belly.
Isela came down the aisle at a stately walk, cupping a blooming peony in her palms. As the petals unfurled over her fingertips, sparks of gold flickered down her hands and cascaded to the floor. It was a startlingly easy bit of illusion that had taken a single afternoon of Bebe’s careful tutoring to master. The effect, each woman treading on the previous’ trail of light as she passed, was worth the effort. The afternoon sun had turned the garden golden, and with the heat radiating off the tiles, she barely felt the cold in the sleeveless crimson gown.
At the altar, her mother waited. The boys were lined up on the groom’s side, looking spectacularly handsome in charcoal suits with Markus, composed and watchful, at the end. Toby, his left arm still in a sling, adjusted his glasses and tried not to fidget. Chris, roguish as always, winked at her from Azrael’s side. She scanned the assembly, familiar faces, friends, family, and her heart ached for a beat at the one face that was missing.
She caught a glimmer out of the corner of her eye as she reached the front. A chair had been set aside, but it was not quite empty: it held the suggestion of a body not fully formed. Her ribs expanded painfully as she fought the urge to let a tear escape. A tendril of warmth reached out to her across the aisle, and shining silver eyes met damp gold. She nodded recognition and moved to stand beside Bebe, turning to face the aisle.
The music changed, the long, low, resonate tone of the cello before the melody. Isela had insisted on a real string quartet. If they’d left it to Fifi, it would have been speakers thumping a dubstep wedding march remix. The gathered rose.
Ofelia came down the aisle. In spite of her nerves and nausea, she looked radiant. A single spill of bone-white satin draped her body flatteringly and turned her swelling belly into an homage to fertility. She’d forgone a veil, and when her eyes locked on Chris’s, Isela heard her brother’s breath catch.
Isela smiled at the word Azrael murmured to him. “Steady.”
She had promised herself she would not cry. But at some point during the rings, or Chris’ vows, she felt the first tears and the handkerchief Bebe pressed into her fingers.
It had surprised everyone when Azrael offered to hold the wedding at the castle. Isela suspected it was a gesture of good faith and thanks. Lysippe claimed it was an act of strategic alliance forming with the coven. Gregor blamed it on creeping insanity.
Fifi had been unable to contain herself. If not for Chris’s hold on her, she might have just hugged the necromancer. The boys came around to the idea eventually, mostly through Beryl’s intervention.
Now if only she could keep the peace through the cake cutting, Isela thought, this might be real progress.
When it was over, Azrael wrapped his arm around her shoulders vaporizing the last of her tears with the heat of his mouth. He still moved stiffly, suggesting the depth of the wounds from which he was still healing. From the edge of the garden, they watched Chris and Fifi receiving their guests on the way into the reception hall.
“Antiquated human ritual, eh?” she challenged, pressing her nose into his collar for a deep whiff of the agarwood and toasted cinnamon coated in molasses she’d come to love.
“It has its merits.” He traced her bare bicep with a finger.
“Consort has a much nicer ring to it.” She hooded her golden eyes and gave him her best come hither glance. “Sounds more dangerous.”
A feral smile licked the corners of his mouth and sent curling heat into the pit of her belly. “You’ll break a man with that look.”
“Good thing you aren’t a man.”
“Good thing,” he echoed. “Come, consort, your guests are waiting.”
“Just a minute,” she said, glancing back at the empty chairs.
He let her go.
She walked to the chair at the front. The light flickered around the suggestion of a human shape. She sat down next to it, not sure this wasn’t part of her longing for the impossible.
“We miss you, Papa,” she whispered. “But I promise, I’ll take good care of them.”
She stayed until the sense of him was gone. When she turned to the hall, Azrael was waiting, silver eyes warm.
“I hoped you’d do that soon,” he said quietly, slipping an arm around her waist. “A necromancer with a haunted house? I’d never live it down.”
Her questioning eyes met his.
“A necromancer’s purpose is not only to summon the dead,” he affirmed. “We have the responsibility to release them when they’re stuck. Mostly, they just need to be told it’s all right to go,” Azrael said, pausing to touch her damp cheek. “Don’t do that. You’ll give Gregor an aneurism.”
“Might be worth it,” she said shakily, wiping her cheeks.
Azrael took her hand. “We have one more hurdle to face. Are you ready, consort?”
Isela drew a hard breath and felt the god stir under her breastbone like a second heart beginning to pump.
They had been waiting for this moment. She shouldn’t have been surprised it would come now—when the allegiance would undoubtedly think Azrael was at his most vulnerable.
She nodded and laced their fingers together.
Azrael felt them as the celebration began to wind down and most of the human party had departed. He mentally prepared his Aegis and sent a tendril of warning to Beryl, testing her resistance to mental communication. Unlike her daughter, she had no qualms about accepting his connection—and the warning. She would prepare the others.
By the time he and Isela stepped into the banquet hall, the remaining guests were silent, resting at their tables face down, fast asleep. All except his own warriors and the wedding party.
This part of the plan Gregor had agreed on with bared teeth. It was only a matter of time before word of Azrael’s success would reach the allegiance, and the rumors of how he had achieved it—and his unorthodox allies—would surely follow. Necromancers had placed themselves above all other creatures when they took over, ruling with tight fists. That Azrael would allow witches to practice, and ally with wolves, would be seen as a threat even if it was in his own territory.
Rather than waiting and reacting to whatever action they might take, Azrael proposed they force the conversation. What better way than to lure the allegiance into the open. What better way to bait the trap than offer the opportunity to confront Azrael and his new allies at once, with their guard down.
Or so they would expect.
The wedding party and his Aegis fell in behind Azrael and Isela, leaving the banquet behind to enter the great hall, just as the enormous front doors blew open and seven shrouded figures entered. Behind them came their respective guards, no one’s equal to Azrael’s, but in combination, and a force to be reckoned with.
“They do have a flair for the dramatic,” Isela said lightly as Azrael closed all doors to the room with a flick of a finger.
He thought about squeezing her fingers to caution prudence, but this was his Isela. A low growl sounded from his left. The Vogel boys lined up beside Gregor. The growl came from Markus, of course. They maintained human shape, but the inhuman sound left no doubt that they were more than human.
The seven figures formed a long line on the other side of the room, shoulder to shoulder. They wore ceremonial shrouds, he noted, the same worn in appearances during the takeover and division of the countries. He thought of his own, packed away with the things from the old days. Some of them had continued to embrace their fearsome otherworldly image, but he’d long ago given up the need. He would be savage when required, but he would never hide his face. His Aegis and undead would know whom they
served, and the humans would know the face of the one they answered to.
But in choosing to wear the shrouds, the allegiance was making a statement clearer than any words. He had transgressed and must be brought to heel. He wondered briefly if this was how they had come for Róisín. Or had they worked on her slowly, one-on-one, convincing her everything she held was threatened by her lover.
Yes. They would know better than to try that with him. They had come to see their will done by force if necessary.
“To what do we owe this pleasure?” Azrael addressed the allegiance as calmly as the wedding guests.
Isela almost smiled.
Having a god inside her was like having another sense. This one tuned to power of all kinds. Now, as well as feeling his total and complete stillness, she was aware of the power amassing within him. This close, it made her tremble.
But the tremors were no longer fear. She tasted a gritty eagerness as the power in her rose to full awareness, perhaps sensing the threat—or opportunity.
“Many goings on in your territory are being spoken of Azrael.” Paolo brushed back his hood, and the others followed. “Disturbing rumors.”
She had no doubt these were not projections as they had been the first time she saw them assembled. The power from the collected line swelled across the distance. At once, it seemed to dwarf Azrael, and her own golden strength flickered like a candle in the wind.
“You came a long way for rumors,” Azrael said, voice still light but edged with something darker. “Into my territory, unbidden and uninvited. Surely you have not forgotten the rules of our allegiance?”
“You speak of rules, and yet you piss on them,” Vanka snapped, her green eyes flashing. A sneer curled her upper lip. “Consorting with wolves and witches.”
Markus’s growl gained a new depth.
“I have but one consort, Vanka,” Azrael corrected. “But you insult my allies.”
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