Death's Dancer Read online

  “There’s been another.”

  She glanced out the window. “Shouldn’t we be headed to the Academy? I can’t dance in this.”

  “Your bag is in the trunk,” he said. “Director Sauvageau was good enough to pack for you and provide me with your location. After a little persuasion, of course.”

  “Did you hurt her?”

  He sucked his teeth. “You think so little of me.”

  “You just threatened to kill my family because I didn’t pick up my phone.”

  “Only the adult males, according to the hunter’s code,” he clarified. “And no, I didn’t hurt your mentor. Azrael prefers more diplomatic techniques. As his servant, I oblige whenever possible.”

  He sounded disappointed.

  “Why aren’t we going to the castle?”

  “The body is not at the castle.”

  “Why wouldn’t it be in the morgue?” she drilled, still processing what she had heard. Azrael preferred diplomacy. At what point had diplomacy been exhausted and he’d decided to remove that man’s eyes and nail them to his front door?

  “Since the last attempt was unsuccessful, Azrael thought it best to return to the traditional way of summoning,” Gregor said, interrupting her thoughts.

  She understood that much from her reading. “At the place of death?”

  “Prepare yourself, dancer,” he murmured, whipping the car off the main road into a dingy neighborhood south of the fortress. “As they say in America, things are about to get very interesting.”

  Gregor pulled the car into an open slot in front of a shabby, functionalist building covered in graffiti. Isela recognized the bearded Viking look-alike from the night on the bridge and one of the stern-faced Polynesians out front. Otherwise, the street was quiet. If there was a murder here, she would have expected the police, at least out of an appearance of duty. But the street was silent as any other.

  “That’s not really an American saying,” she muttered, climbing out of the car. “Most people do it with your accent—à la Freud.”

  Gregor sucked his teeth again, pulling a familiar bag out of the trunk. “Freud was Austrian and a fool. I am German.”

  “And an ass,” Isela muttered, slamming the door so hard his smile flattened into a thin line.

  “Such a filthy mouth, for a pretty little bird.”

  Isela shouldered her bag and let him lead her through the snow to the door of the ground-level store. Over the door hung a sign, Antikvariat. She took a deep breath and walked into hell.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Something about the address and book-lined walls, interrupted only by dusty antiques, tugged at Isela’s memory. She had never been there, but she knew this place. The shop was quiet as only a bookstore could be. The ground floor was a warren of twisting halls and side rooms. She followed Gregor to the stockroom and down a short hallway.

  A tangy, burnt metallic stench grew stronger as they moved deeper into the building. It had been the same at the morgue but fainter, more sterile.

  The hair rose on the back of her neck. She almost collided with Gregor’s back.

  “Eager to dance with the dead, are we?” he murmured. “Stay here.”

  Gregor opened the door on a small room at the end of the hall.

  She peered around his arm. The room was a tiny apartment: kitchenette, sofa, reading chair, and a small TV. It had been tidily kept, done in earthy fabrics that made the windowless room feel more like the den of some small animal.

  “Rory.” Gregor greeted the second of the Polynesian twins standing guard just inside.

  “He’s waiting.” The bigger man grunted.

  Gregor beckoned Isela forward.

  She stepped through the doorway to his side. Because of the darkness and the colors, it took her a moment to recognize the source of the pervasive odor.

  She had no idea how much blood a human body contained, but she was certain whoever had lost this much hadn’t survived. Knowing academically that someone had died at her destination was one thing. Being confronted with the blood all over the walls and floor, pooling and congealing into dark puddles, shocked the breath out of her body.

  “Exhale.” Gregor sounded as if it was coming from a great distance. “You must exhale.”

  She shook her head doggedly, because inhaling again meant taking in more of the smell. A hand forced her chin around. Gregor’s blue eyes stared into her face as her own eyes darted back to the room around him.

  “Look at me,” he whispered. “Dancer. Look at me and exhale.”

  She jerked her gaze into his, and the breath left her at once. She followed it with an inhale, then a slow, steady exhale.

  “You’re much better at following orders when you’re frightened,” he said, smiling cheerily. “Now keep breathing. Nasal fatigue will take over soon.”

  She tried to nod, but he held her fast.

  “Are you going to vomit?” When she didn’t answer, he repeated his question, giving her a little shake. “It’s going to get worse from here, better to do it now.”

  She shook her head, swallowing hard. “No, I’m fine. Let go.”

  “Follow me,” he ordered as he removed his hand. “Watch your feet.”

  The bigger man stepped aside to let them pass. Isela didn’t want to go any farther, but she followed anyway, tiptoeing around the red on the floor. At a second doorway, Gregor paused. When he looked back, he was careful to block her view.

  “Put your arms around my neck,” he ordered.

  The only thing worse than walking through a room-turned-abattoir might be that command, she considered. She sighed and obeyed anyway. He slid one arm around her waist, lifting her easily, and took a leap. She looked back at the pool of blood they’d crossed, and her stomach quivered. She buried her face in his shoulder, and his hand swept behind her knees. He smelled like sun-soaked earth with an edge of steel. She breathed in deep and closed her eyes.

  “Master, I’ve brought the dancer.” Gregor’s voice rolled through her chest, bringing her head upright fast.

  The dark warren opened up into an enormous space, much bigger than should have been possible from the shop outside. One wall was lined with cabinets, the countertop full of bowls and vials. The smell was worse here.

  Impossibly, there was more blood, and there were pieces. Body parts. In the center of it all, with the cat-eye shine in his gaze, stood Azrael. He wore a long black duster that had to be leather but moved with a velvet softness and absolute lack of reflection as he turned to them.

  Suddenly aware of how intimate it must look to have her hands wrapped in Gregor’s lapels and her face in his neck, she tried to let go. His arms locked around her like metal bands. She wriggled, but it did no good. She knew that shine in Azrael’s eyes now for what it was: hunger.

  And Gregor—who must have known what kind of game he was playing—was enjoying himself. He ducked his head casually and took a deep sniff of the skin behind her ear. A shiver went through her, and the light in Azrael’s eyes flared.

  She sensed being between them might not be a good idea.

  Abruptly, Azrael turned his back on them.

  “I’ve cleared you a space in that corner of the room. Will it do?”

  Gregor dumped her unceremoniously on her feet and fastidiously tugged at his lapels. Isela stared.

  “An answer,” Azrael barked. His voice sheared through the jumble of thoughts as she tried to reconcile all the pieces, trying to make a man out of the parts scattered around the room.

  She jerked her eyes away from the mess to follow his gaze. “Yes—it will, I can—yes.”

  Isela tiptoed across the room, trying not to look, but a bit of shine on the floor caught her attention. It was a gold chain, attached to an ornately carved pocket watch from another century. Her mouth began to form words, even as her stomach roiled.

  Gregor took a step toward her. “Dancer.”

  Her eyes darted between him, Azrael, and the floor as she fumbled through her jacket, with
drawing a small blue rectangle of paper. All the elements came together: the address, the pocket watch, the smell of tobacco and old books. The intelligent, mischievous eyes. Oh gods, were those his eyes in the corner? She saw Gregor moving toward her through a blur of her own tears, and she held up her hands to ward him off. Darkness crept around the edges of her vision.

  “Fuck, she’s going to blow,” Gregor said.

  Some small part of her brain was pleased she’d annoyed him.

  “I know him,” she said, her eyes careening around the room one more time.

  Both men stilled. Azrael’s shoulders snapped up, his nostrils flaring, and he held out a hand to stop Gregor.

  “I mean, I just met him, tonight,” she murmured. “He loaned me his scarf when I fell getting off the tram. He was a nice old man. He recognized me—most people don’t if I’m dressed. . . like this.”

  The worlds tumbled out of her, and her stomach won the battle.

  Gregor was fast, she gave him that. He had an antique pot under her face and an arm around her waist before her stomach clenched. He slipped the card from her fingers as he eased her to a clean spot. She braced her palms on the floor, shoulders hunched, letting her body give up its recent meal.

  It was going to be a long night.

  Azrael watched Gregor crouch over her as she emptied her stomach, supporting her weight easily with one hand. He tucked a stray curl behind her ear, murmuring a few comforting words in German. It came naturally to him, even though he’d buried the last of his bloodline when old age took them a century before.

  That was when he’d truly gone cold, Azrael considered. Gregor’s family had been all that tethered him to humanity. After that, he’d become a purer solider than even Azrael had intended. In the last hundred years, Azrael had begun to wonder if Gregor had become too detached, too dangerous.

  He should have been relieved to see this sign of his old humanity. Instead, that insensible, possessive fury threatened his calm. He felt Gregor’s eyes on him but was helpless to quiet his rage. When Gregor smiled, Azrael realized he knew exactly what danger he was in. Just as when he’d entered, he taunted Azrael by continuing to stroke her hair. Maybe Gregor really was losing his mind.

  “Can you stand?” the Hessian asked her, the edge returning to his voice.

  Isela bobbed her head, wiping her mouth with the back of one hand. Leaning on his arm, she clambered to her feet. She withdrew herself from Gregor’s support as quickly as possible. The color had drained from her face, save for two flushed spots under eyes shining with moisture. She didn’t seem to be aware she was shaking so hard her teeth chattered. Gregor shed his coat, draping it over her shoulders. He examined the card and crossed the distance, passing it casually to Azrael.

  “Havel Zeman,” Azrael murmured. “Antique books and curiosities.”

  “That was Zeman’s cover.” Gregor nodded. “He’s been licensed to practice in the city for almost fifty years. Scrying and past-life recollection mostly.”

  “He was a psychic?” Isela chimed in hesitantly.

  “Tell us everything,” Gregor ordered.

  Isela took a breath, relating the story. When she was done speaking, her voice had stopped trembling, and some color had come back into her face.

  “He touched you,” Azrael said.

  Isela misread the tone of his question for jealousy, frowning as she glared at him. “He helped me up. I fell. . .”

  Zeman needed physical contact to read minds, Gregor said telepathically.

  Telepathy was a simple matter of projecting thoughts and emotions. Mind reading was more complex. The ability to read minds varied by the strength of the reader and the mind of the subject: weak readers could pick up the occasional stray thought or emotion, but it took a strong reader to view memories without the subject’s participation. A much stronger reader than Zeman had been.

  Azrael shook his head. Isela’s mind is too strong to be picked apart with a brief touch.

  Willpower tempered human minds against casual exploration. He knew from experience Isela’s mind was strong, hardened likely by the discipline it took to master dance.

  He recognized her, Gregor pushed. If there is chance that Zeman picked up that she was working for the allegiance. . .

  For him. The ties between them were growing tighter, drawing Isela deeper into association with him. He’d assumed only one dance would be needed to break down the barrier preventing him from identifying the killer. Then the allegiance would pay the balance of her fee, releasing her from service, and he would hunt down the killer with his Aegis.

  But did our killer bother to read Zeman, Azrael countered. Or did they get what they came for already?

  We can’t know that. Gregor thought grimly.

  There’s one way to find out.

  Isela’s gaze swung between them. Azrael felt her frustration building at the apparent silence. “Am I. . . Did someone kill him because I’m helping you?”

  “No,” Gregor snapped, distractedly.

  Azrael weighed telling her the truth against keeping his suspicions secret.

  “I don’t think so,” Azrael said, ignoring Gregor’s scowl of disapproval. “But he may have learned you were brought on by the allegiance to assist me when he touched you.”

  “If the killer knows we’re onto him,” she said. “Because Zeman read my mind. . .”

  He watched the realization solidify on her face. For a moment her eyes grew wide and wet as shock went to horror. Azrael needed to get her dancing—occupied.

  “I’m going to find out exactly what Zeman knew when he was killed,” he said. “And what killed him.”

  Isela nodded, rolling her shoulders back and lifting her chin as determination hardened her face. “And I need to dance.”

  “Lysippe and Dory will keep anything outside from coming in,” Azrael said to Gregor. “You and Rory hold the next room. I want the others on alert.”

  When Gregor was gone, he faced her. She stared up at him, jaw clenched.

  “If you are going to vomit again, do it now,” he advised. “Once we begin, we can’t stop until it’s done.”

  Her cheek twitched, but she shook her head.

  “I can’t let you change elsewhere,” he said, gesturing to her bag. “But I will turn my back, if it pleases you.”

  “Thank you.”

  He listened to the whisper of fabric, contemplating the mess before him. As before, the brain and offal were gone. But this time the killer had been in a hurry and hadn’t competed the immolation. If he was lucky, he or she hadn’t been able to construct the barrier that had blocked Azrael from the other victims. He might gain some information that would lead him to the assailant.

  “So what does that mean?” Her voice broke through his concentration. “Licensed to practice?”

  “Necromancers are regulated,” he said with the hope that giving her information would keep her from focusing on the carnage. “We track who and how many are in each territory.”

  “How many are there?” she asked.

  “A few thousand,” he said. “Minors, mostly. Their powers are limited and always will be.”

  “Not all of them are as powerful—”

  “As the allegiance?” he said, beginning to craft the sequence for summoning in his mind. “No. Some of them may, in time. If they live that long. But most will never be more than fortune-tellers and readers. It’s how we survived for so long among humans.”

  “So you mean the psychic hotlines?” she quipped, a thin element of humor returning to her voice.

  He laughed softly. “A few, yes. But they’re mostly just bored housewives who know how to tell people what they want to hear.”

  “Is there a high death rate among necromancers?”

  “Are you finished?” he asked, turning.

  She pulled the sleeved sweater wrap around her chest, covering the swell of her breasts in the thin leotard beneath. “Yes.”

  “Among the most powerful, existence can be”�
�he paused, searching for the word—“cutthroat. The weak don’t survive.”

  “And Havel was—”

  “Just collateral damage,” he said. “I believe. But old enough to be able to defend himself against most attacks.”

  Her nipples jutted against the fabric as she stepped quickly through what looked like a stripped version of a dance. She nodded to herself and began the process of limbering up.

  Azrael could just make out the outline of the low profile blades she kept on her thigh as she moved. Little help against what might come for them here, but if they made her feel confident, so be it.

  She closed her eyes and came to a stillness at once profound yet pregnant with potential movement. Thought escaped him. He’d never seen a human capable of so much centeredness, so quickly.

  “I’m ready.” She opened one eye, and he realized he had been quiet too long. She was waiting for him.

  “Let’s begin,” he said finally.

  Isela closed her eyes and, this time, began to move, slowly unfurling her arms as her spine snaked. He watched her for a few moments. It was a very different dance than the previous one: less elegant and acrobatic and more powerful, intentional. She moved in the four directions, stamping her feet and snapping her wrists in time to a beat only she could hear. The movements were more primal, less controlled. She grew tall, tightened, and writhed side to side. Every movement seemed bigger and more pronounced. Her braids came apart, sending dark hair flying this way and that, making her seem even more vast and alluring. This wasn’t a lure, this was a summons. He could not look away.

  Without having to reach for it, the power surged against him like hounds before the hunt. He spread his fingers as if to catch it all, and it clung to him, racing over his skin leaving behind the sensation of a million tiny sparks.

  Azrael sucked in a breath. Summoning at the location of the death made connecting to the soul easier but did not have this effect of drawing power. This was Isela. Whatever she had learned, whatever she was doing differently, it was working.

  He spoke the final incantation to push his spirit into that gray space he called the In Between. It was an echo of the present world, superimposed over the slaughtered necromancer’s aedis, the hidden room where he practiced his craft. Immediately the wall blocked Azrael from the scene. But this time it was not opaque. Beyond it, he could see the flickering form of Zeman as he had been, whole.