Dancer's Flame (Grace Bloods Book 2)

by Jasmine Silvera

  There were no days off, no rests. Yana wrenched her ankle badly. She danced on. When the pain moved to her knees and her hips, she kept dancing. She’d been a performer too long to show an audience her pain. She cared for her bloody, broken feet as best she could.

  On this day she could not avoid limping as she walked to the dancing space. Her body hurt. She’d twisted her shoulder falling the day before, and now her arm was dead weight attached to a collection of needles pressing into her shoulder. Each twist drove the needles deeper.

  I am never going to see the winter sun again, she realized as distant light flitted from the frosted skylight glass.

  Something inside her, nameless and boneless, broke. All her life she thought she’d chosen the right path, the safe path, by becoming a ballerina. How ironic that it was her inability to godsdance that might get her killed, or worse.

  Anger, deep defiant rage, boiled up from the place she thought had gone dormant when she’d bowed immediately to the necromancers’ demands. The anger she could not take out on them now pumped blood into her extremities. A light sheen of sweat coated her brow.

  The only thing she had left to attack was the one person who was responsible for all this. If not for her, Yana would be in her apartment with her cat and her latest lover. If not for her, there would be a career ahead of her; now, even if she survived, she knew her broken body would never recover. If not for her—

  Isela, her brain stuttered out in its uncaring rage. This is all your fault. I am going to die here, and it is all your fault. I hate you.

  Usually it was only one or the other necromancer present when she danced. For days it had been Vanka, and she feared she was closer to death than ever. But today Paolo’s mournful eyes searched her face as she entered. The knowing look, the look she came to associate with her violation, crossed his face.

  “Finally, the anger comes to you, carinho,” he said. “You realize who is responsible for all this? You will want to help us now?” He looked over his shoulder at the redhead in the shadows. “You have prepared the dosage?”

  He took the cup. An ordinary mug, the interior stained with a dark ring of coffee, passed into her hands. But what was in the cup was not ordinary. It glowed with a faint sheen and sent off a distantly sweet aroma.

  “It’s not too strong?” Paolo called over his shoulder. “She is mortal. Too much and—”

  “I know my work,” the redhead snapped. “You doubt me, do it yourself.”

  Paolo sighed, taking in Yana with his liquid caramel eyes. “Drink up; it will give you strength.”

  Give her strength or kill her. She wished she were brave enough to wish for the latter. But she didn’t deserve death, and the rage returned to her chest at the knowledge. She shouldn’t be wishing for death. This was Isela’s mess.

  She drank the cup down. The liquid burned a hollow out of her insides, racing out to her fingers and toes. She no longer felt the pain of her limbs. She began to dance.

  She gasped when a thick, powerful darkness, broiling with sparks like fireflies in a bottle, entered her. Everything she was strained to breaking. A scream rose in her but died immediately without anywhere to go.

  “You called me.” Her voice was no longer her own. “I came. What do you seek?”

  “Master.” The necromancer flopped to his knees, babbling in delight. “You grace us with your presence, O great lord of darkness and light. Ruler of life and death—”

  “Enough.” Her voice splintered as the presence within forced its way through. “This vessel is no longer suitable for my presence. If it is to be of use, it cannot be broken, and you have driven it too hard already. Speak quickly.”

  “It is us who extend effort for you.” The redhead flung herself off the wall, ameliorating the defiance in her voice with a quickly added, “Great lord.”

  “For a price.” Yana thought the voice inside her might have been laughing.

  Vanka extended her arms, lowering her upper body in the approximation of a curtsy.

  “We offer you the chance to take the betrayer,” she said. “In exchange for your power, that we may bring the one who summoned her to heel.”

  The great mass inside her stilled. It was almost peace and quiet. Almost. The enormous presence strained, and a low, buzzing hum vibrated through her. It reminded her of a great cat, purring.

  “You assume I am interested in the betrayer,” Yana’s voice rumbled finally. “Why would I care? I have this young, beautiful body and my freedom right now.”

  It gave Yana distinct pleasure to see Paolo look nervous. The great presence inside her was amused by her humor, and the straining ceased. She could have wept with relief.

  “As you said, great lord…” Vanka never lost her cool. Not even once. “This body is weak. It will not last long with your presence, and you cannot exist on this plane without it.”

  Yana wanted to scream as the presence swelled angrily. “Arrogant git. You dare threaten me.”

  “I state only the obvious.” Vanka inclined her head, but her eyes did not lower. “Great lord.”

  “I should rend your pretty head from your body,” Yana’s voice grumbled.

  “Perhaps,” Vanka murmured, nodding at Paolo.

  Yana didn’t recognize what he held in his hand, but it had the same crimson glow she recognized from his touch on her skin. When she looked back to Vanka, a gold-orange glow sparked from her fingertips. They were creating something between them. A wind picked up from nowhere, and the air smelled damp as if with rain. The presence inside her recognized it. For a moment it paused and seemed torn between rage and laughter. She prayed for laughter but sensed the rage and squirmed into as small a ball as possible inside herself.

  “You threaten me?” the presence said, and Yana heard her own voice fall away. She wanted to warn them—they didn’t know what they’d summoned up, what this thing was capable of. But what warning could she give, and why should she give it? She owed them nothing, and karma was a bitch.

  Paolo spoke first. “Pardon, great lord. If it’s a body you truly desire, consider the betrayer’s host. She shows no sign of the deterioration. Perhaps she is different. Of use to you if you wish to continue on this plane.”

  And then the presence subsided. Paolo visibly exhaled, but Vanka smirked as the glow faded from her hands. Yana felt the quiet inside her, but it was not a peaceful one. A great humming stroked her, like a cat curling around a petting hand. But anyone who knew cats understood a moment of contentment could be ended by sharpened claws.

  “You have a bargain,” it said.

  After a few moments of haggling over particulars that seemed strangely detail oriented to the dazed Yana, the bond was sealed by a melding of powers—sunset gold, crimson, and the firefly-in-a-bottle-tinged blackness that came from her own fingertips and left blistering burns. As the presence retreated, Yana felt it turn to her as if acknowledging her presence for the first time.

  I will see you again, my beautiful one, and soon.

  She shuddered at the promise before collapsing to the floor. She was too weak to protest the zombie hands that lifted her up, obeying Vanka’s command to return her to her cell. She lay where they left her on the bed. She hadn’t the strength to sit up, wash, or even feed herself. She didn’t know if it was minutes or hours later that the door opened and Paolo entered.

  It was all she could do to emit a strangled cry. Escaping him would be impossible.

  “Relax, carinho,” he murmured.

  He stepped aside and three women entered. Wordlessly they undressed and washed her. They bandaged her blistered hands and combed her hair, dressing her in warm clothes and tucking her into the changed bed. She didn’t even care that the watchful eye of Paolo never left her. He monitored every spoonful of soup they plied her with, snapped something in Portuguese when they fed her too fast and she vomited it all up.

  When they were done, they stepped aside at the snap of his fingers, and he sat on the edge of her bed. Yana wanted to shrink
from his touch, but it was surprisingly gentle. He brushed the hair away from her forehead. As she watched, the women patrolled the room, turning over every bit of furniture and cushion in the spare space. They removed anything sharp, she realized.

  “You do not understand,” he said, “how easy it is for us to disregard your fear after being so long without it ourselves.”

  “I hate you,” Yana muttered between clenched teeth.

  “Good,” he said. “Hate is a powerful emotion. Use it. It will make what happens next more tolerable.”

  She felt the bile rising in her throat.

  He laughed. “You think I would—? Ah no. You are not for me. Vanka, on the other hand—well, you are more useful to her in other ways. You should be proud of yourself—you succeeded in the task we gave you.”

  “That was a god?” she breathed.

  He nodded. “You have been chosen by the god for the honor of possession. It will be a short-lived honor, but one that should not be taken lightly.” He pointed up at the ceiling to the discreetly placed cameras. “You will be cared for very well to make sure no harm comes to you, our precious vessel. You must be at strength when the god calls on you again.”

  “I am going to die, aren’t I?”

  “Yes.” He smiled broadly. “But everything dies in the end.”

  Yana lay back on the pillows. She’d known it the moment the presence had first entered her. Resignation weighted her body. “It isn’t going to be your cat’s-paw. It’s more powerful than you know, and it doesn’t care what you want.”

  Paolo watched her steadily. Once, his unblinking gaze had unnerved her. Now she met his eyes without fear. Paolo looked away first.

  “Prepare her for transport,” he said to her guards before addressing her. “Take comfort—at least you will be able to die in the city you love.”

  Yana laughed. She couldn’t help it. It tore from her wildly with a trapped animal’s desperation. She’d always hated Prague.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Isela rounded the corner to find Azrael standing in the doorway of the closet, buttoning his shirt. Navy blue today, tailored to fit him like a second skin. A black duster, with its impossible, alluring scent of reptile, saffron, and magic, was thrown over the reading chair. She paused a moment just to watch him. Each button complied with a quick twist of fingers, and a final sharp tug on the collar drew everything into place.

  She’d caught a glimpse of Gus in the halls, her long hair braided tight to her skull in three thick rows and then together to a single plait down her back. A leather racing suit zipped to her chin and armored at the wrists, knees, and elbows covered her skin. Bristling with blades and wearing lug-soled boots that looked capable of liberating teeth from their sockets, Gus appeared to be about the business of murder and destruction. Azrael might have been going to a business lunch with a favored client.

  Isela smiled anyway as Azrael fussed with the fold of his right sleeve. She crossed the room without a word and took the fabric in both hands, cuffing it neatly. She turned her attention to the second sleeve, tweaking the first cuff to match. She lingered, fingers stroking the skin of his arm beneath the shirt as she struggled to find a reason not to let him go.

  “I would know your mind, consort.”

  “This should be armor,” she chided, startled by the roughness of her own throat.

  The bruising from his rounds with Gregor was gone. He looked as capable and deadly as Isela had ever seen him. “I have an Aegis. In the battle I fight, armor and blades will be useless.”

  “Yet still.”

  He swept the coat off the chair. She held the collar as he slid his arm in, then lifted the other sleeve. It was lighter than it looked, and up close the flat black appeared more like interlocked diamonds. Gold’s sight revealed only an obfuscation geas to make the wearer blend in, chameleonlike, with the environment. But her senses said defenses against magic were embedded in every fold. On impulse, she leaned in and took a deep sniff of the material.

  “What does your nose tell you, little wolf?”

  “Well, it’s not leather,” Isela said, crossing her arms over her chest and standing back as he shrugged twice and the material settled into a familiar position around him.

  “It is of a kind.” A smile full of memory bloomed on his lips. “Wyvern.”

  Her brows rose. “You are wearing dragon skin?”

  He shook his head. “Two legs, no fire. Though they are pretty much impervious to it. I found out the hard way.”

  “You slayed a dragon. Of course you did.” She threw up her hands and stalked across the room.

  “Wyvern,” he said. “And I believe slew is the proper past tense.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Not you too.”

  His mouth turned down quizzically. Isela fidgeted, bouncing from the balls of her feet to her toes.

  Azrael sighed, sitting down. “And?”

  “I thought you said we would do this together,” Isela said, her words rushing out. “Take on the Allegiance. And you are leaving me behind again.”

  He spread his thighs and braced his elbows on either knee, opening his palms. Isela went like iron filings to a magnet. His cheek pressed against her belly through the fabric of her sweater.

  “This isn’t the Allegiance…,” he began.

  She coughed. “Two. Allegiance. Necromancers. I don’t like those odds. And don’t even mention Gus.”

  The thrum of his laughter against the skin of her belly woke desire even through her concern.

  She buried her fingers in the thick waves of his hair and made a fist. Azrael’s head drew away under pressure. “Are you jealous, consort?”

  “Of your surly teenaged protégée?” Isela laughed, sobering quickly. “I know that you trust her—and Tariq and Dante—implicitly.”

  He squeezed her waist. “It is as I promised—I will explain whenever I can my decisions.”

  “Paolo and Gus have history,” Isela filled in.

  “You know about that?”

  “Dante.”

  His brow furrowed. She waited until he was finished considering the quickest way to tell her. “It’s true she has spent much of her life running from him. But it is also true that I have never seen a necromancer advance so fast since… Well, Vanka.”

  “But is she strong enough?”

  “She’s ascended, Isela,” he murmured. “She’s masking it well. Better she let him believe she is still weaker. But look at her eyes. Really look. Ask your little friend for help.”

  He tapped her breastbone with the folded knuckle of his index finger.

  “She wants to end Paolo more than I do, I’d imagine,” he said. “And that ravening desire is my dearest ally now. You need time, Isela. And training. One day we will stand shoulder to shoulder against the Allegiance. But today I need you to protect our city so that I can devote myself to the enemy. There is no one I trust more. Can you do that?”

  Isela cradled his face in her hands, soaking in one more moment of those silver eyes, alight and earnest. “I will.”

  Isela stood at the barre in the Academy godsdancing ring, doing her best to appear composed as she moved through a brief series of stretches to keep her muscles warm. When she’d reached out to Divya, she hadn’t been prepared for the director to agree so willingly. Within a matter of hours, Divya had the schedule cleared—clients be damned—and the school closed to students and public alike.

  Isela took a long breath. She would not be nervous. Tell it to my nerves. So much rode on this, the least of which was Yana’s life. If it worked, they might be able to stop an attack on the city and keep Paolo and Vanka from calling down a second god. If it failed, it might waste critical time they needed to figure out another plan. No pressure.

  Gus strolled toward the mirror, resting on the barre close to Isela’s hand. “You would have words with me, señora?”

  Isela looked at her as Azrael had advised. Gold obliged, revealing Gus’s irises under the carefully cons
tructed geas. The obsidian now held a rainbow sheen, reflecting light like a spill of gasoline on asphalt. Isela withdrew in surprise.

  Isela spoke after a moment’s hesitation, “I hope you break Paolo into pieces.”

  Now Gus smiled, all teeth and fury. “May your words guide my hand, señora.” Gus touched her lips and bowed with less mockery than Isela expected.

  Isela snugged her slippers and watched Gus rejoin the others. Azrael’s Aegis wore the protection of their preference. Gregor chose the stripped-down armor of a modern-day black knight. Rory needed only the tattoo work under a leather holster for his massive, carved machete. Ito looked unarmed in the soft black cotton designed for stealth, but if she tilted her head just right, Gold revealed his well-hidden weaponsDory stood slightly apart, no longer counted among them. Only Azrael was a still presence in his midnight coat of wyvern skin.

  The rest of the guard was stationed outside the Academy for her protection once Azrael and his team were away.

  For her part, Isela had dressed modestly in a long-sleeved leotard and tights with leg warmers stretched over her knees and soft-soled canvas slippers on her feet. That didn’t stop Azrael from drawing a breath when she skinned out of her warm-ups. When she faced the barre to get in a few last stretches, the wave of heat that made sweat bloom on her skin made her acutely aware that the leotard was backless.

  It’s standard practice clothes, Isela chided. The choice to look like a ballerina wasn’t an accident. Nor was the place she’d chosen to dance. She needed to tap into everything she and Yana had in common. What any ballet dancer would wear to a company class.

  You are not any dancer. You are mine.