Dancer's Flame (Grace Bloods Book 2) Page 4

  They followed the twisting streets narrowing into one-lane passageways between centuries-old buildings, deep into the oldest part of the city.

  Fleetingly, she remembered stories of how the Czechs had resisted military invasion by removing all the street signs. It wasn’t hard to see how effective that would be as she found herself disoriented by their pace. Now would be the moment. She should break his hold.

  Yet she stayed. The memory of his eyes made her wonder how much pain a being could stand—how much he had stood—before he’d made his life forfeit by grabbing her. The moment she became Azrael’s consort, she was marked as being under his protection. It had been a way to safeguard her from the rest of the Allegiance, but every nonhuman in his territory would know it as soon as they were in her presence.

  Once Azrael found out, and he would, this creature would pay the price for his transgression. Not because Azrael took pleasure in it but because the seven most powerful necromancers in the world would see any sign of weakness in him as an opening.

  Isela hadn’t thought her situation could get any worse. Then they emerged in the heart of Old Town, on the square ringed by the Astronomical Clock and the spires of Our Lady of Týn. At this hour people packed the open area from the monument to Jan Hus to the ring of restaurants and gelato stands bordering the opposite side of the plaza. Lined up on the curb, horse-drawn carriages waited to give scenic trips in the city. Tour guides moved groups like flocks of flightless, graceless birds from building to building, waving colored umbrellas to distinguish them from one another for their patrons.

  “What is it?” she hissed, impatient now.

  People were staring. Across the plaza, the pairs of horses threw up their heads and called out in panic. Animals always honored their sense of the supernatural.

  Her guide staggered sideways, for all appearances a drunk. She knew better. The skin on her wrist was hot. He pointed at the clock, grunting.

  “We don’t have time for charades,” she snapped. “What is it?”

  “Time,” he said. “No time. No time. No time. You will not be the only one.”

  “No shit.” Isela glanced about. More than a few devices were aimed at them, recording the entire scene.

  “Listen to the time,” her abductor muttered.

  Enormous beads of sweat pooled and raced down his cheeks and neck. Waves of heat rolled off him. The color leached from his face. He swayed on his feet.

  Isela slowed his fall, and the impact on the cobblestones bruised her knees.

  The sound of a throat clearing caught her attention. An older black man, dapper in a three-piece suit and wool coat, emerged from the crowd. He folded a newspaper and tucked it under one arm to hold out his gloved hands in a gesture of peace.

  “Pardon me, lady.” His voice had the smoke-and-whiskey-soaked lilt of an old blues song. “May I be of some assistance?”

  Necromancer, the god filled in.

  Isela’s guard went up. The god doubled her vision, showing her broad, curling strokes of navy blue that rose from his exposed skin. He was old and powerful. Dizziness swept her, and the god switched the overlay off.

  “I mean you no harm, lady,” he said, sweeping the battered fedora to his chest and revealing a mahogany-colored pate fringed with groomed, curly white hair. “Dante Abraham, at your service. We have a mutual friend up on the hill.”

  He tilted his head toward the castle but kept his eyes on her. They were an ordinary, loamy brown. No metallic shine. He wasn’t Allegiance level.

  The filthy man muttered, “A word, a word, a word. I need a word.”

  Dante’s eyes switched to him. He laid his paper down and came to one knee on top of it, addressing the man. “I’m sure you do, my friend, but now is not the time or the place.”

  The man groaned. Intense heat rolled off his body, turning the slush-covered gray cobblestones muddy. When he opened his eyes, the red gold of fresh flame had overtaken the green.

  Isela forgot her alarm at the look of concern on Dante’s face. “I met him on the tram. He wanted to show me something important.”

  “I’m sure he did,” Dante murmured, checking the man’s pulse. “But he’s in no condition now.”

  Dante looked up at the crowd. He smiled, and his voice took on that singsong quality she recognized as geas.

  “That’s all there is, y’all,” he said, his accent growing deeper with the command. “Just a man needing some medical attention. And I am a doctor. Move along and give us some space, ya hear?”

  The crowd drifted, though they did not disperse. Across the square, the horses screamed, rearing in their traces.

  “I’m not strong enough to clear this place,” Dante said. “And that’s what needs to happen. In a moment he’s going to combust. Judging by the eyes, he’s been holding it back, so instead of the usual self-immolation, he’ll take half the square with him.”

  Isela shook her head, clearing her questions. There was no way they could empty the area in time. “What can I do?”

  Dante frowned, wrinkled his brow. “Imagine that little friend of yours might help. But I’d start by thinking this man into a container. Wrap him up in cold blankets in your head and draw that heat off him. Easy does it. Just a trickle or you could hurt yourself.”

  Oh, he’s good, the god said. The intention is what counts, but visualization is a nice trick.

  The unconscious man’s eyes rolled up and his body shook, a thin line of foam trickling from between his lips. Isela turned inward. We have to do this.

  That much power will attract attention. Are you sure, Isela?

  So will destroying a plaza full of people, Isela said.

  The god took over. Isela’s body jerked to the man sprawled on the cobblestones. She placed her hands on either side of his face. Heat flared but didn’t touch her. The man arched, mouth falling open and a gibberish wail escaped him. The wave of power that emanated from her knocked Dante back. People fled, screaming.

  Her eyes closed. A few words of the singsong god tongue left her lips, and then the heat abated.

  Isela shivered in the sudden cold as the god retreated. Her body was her own again. The man was still unconscious, but his tremors had ceased. He appeared to be sleeping. She checked his pulse, just in case. Still thrumming. The power inside him had been subverted.

  She’d done it.

  Whatever “it” was.

  Devices and curious eyes turned to the scene before them, a few not only curious. The man on the ground twitched, and Isela pressed a palm to his head in comfort.

  A shout drew her attention.

  “Die, necromancer whore.” A rock hurtled out of the crowd.

  Isela flung up her arm, hunching to block the impact. It never came. When she looked up, the rock hovered inches from her face.

  Little ingrate, the god snarled.

  Isela felt a wild pressure building up inside her, straining against her skin. No. Don’t—

  A gust of air brushed her cheek as a massive bronze hand snatched the rock out of the air before her face. Dory, her favorite of Azrael’s ageless guardsmen, flashed a grin down at Isela. The mountain of his shoulders cast a shadow over them. Then he squeezed, and when his palm opened, crumbled stone and grit trickled out. The crowd broke in fear. A group of young men lingered. Thin and pale, their cheeks red with cold or fury, their eyes shone with animosity. Dory turned. They fled.

  Dory cocked his head with a wily grin. “If you’ll excuse me, Issy.”

  Tear them limb from limb, big man.

  “No,” Isela whispered, but with enough force to stop Dory in his tracks. “If you start punishing them for things like that, it will never end. Let them go.”

  “Issy, you’re no fun,” he said, but his fists loosened and he smiled at her again. “What have we here?”

  “He found me on the tram,” Isela said. “He has a message, but then he almost killed us all.”

  She sat back on her heels. A sharp ache grew behind her right eye; she fought
the urge to rub at it. A side effect of possession, she thought humorlessly.

  “Perhaps we should resume this conversation in another location,” Dante suggested, troubled. He picked up his paper, frowning at the soggy, unreadable contents.

  Dory lifted the unconscious man as easily as a small child, leading them toward the Range Rover parked on the edge of the square. Isela followed, scanning the crowd that was eyeing her with mistrust.

  “Dory, how did you know I was here,” she asked.

  “The Matai sees all,” he said loftily.

  Isela’s groan ended in a laugh. “Now you sound like your brother.”

  “Made you laugh though, didn’t I?” He grinned back at her as he swung the tailgate open and deposited the sleeping phoenix inside. He closed the hatch and stood for a moment.

  She rested a hand on his arm. “Thank you.”

  “Anytime, Issy,” he said, bumping her chin with his knuckle. “Gregor got a call from your attaché. Whatever your little friend did wore off when Tyler got to the castle.”

  Isela groaned and flung herself into the back seat, ignoring Dante at the passenger door.

  Dory climbed in, grinning at the necromancer. “She hates it when you hold the door.”

  Chapter Three

  Near the west bank of the Vltava river, the sliver of an island named Střelecký ostrov was connected to the city by the Legion Bridge. Once a royal garden, Shooters Island earned its name as a popular location to practice archery, and later firearm skills. In heavy flood years, the entire island had been submerged. These days it was a city park.

  It was also, tactically, an excellent location to avoid an ambush.

  Azrael descended the stone stairs from the bridge to the island. The offer of information that would be useful to him made him risk a face-to-face meeting.

  He was no fool. At worst, it was a trap. It could be just an attempt to gauge his strength, to measure his ability to defend his territory from attack. He was not going in unprepared. Rory had dropped him off at the entrance to the island halfway across the bridge and now waited on the west side. Gregor held the east side, no doubt enjoying a tiny espresso in a café within sight of his latest automobile. Other members of Azrael’s Aegis held unobtrusive posts close enough to step in if required.

  He found himself hopeful that he wouldn’t need the strategic advantage provided by the island.

  A deep cold settled in the city this time of year, and close to the water he felt it acutely. It hadn’t snowed in days. Most of the accumulation had softened, leaving the ground sticky with mud where grimy snow hadn’t frozen in slick chunks. But the clouds hung weighted above him; it would snow again overnight and coat the world in the soft white glow that removed edges and softened the sharpness.

  The island was empty of all but the most determined: old men sat on the few sunny benches, bundled up mothers pushed prams along the paths, and the ever-present swans, moving in graceless, waddling strides, picked at the grass beneath the snow.

  Isela would not approve of this. Too many civilians in proximity. But also, he considered, out of a concern for his safety that he still found amusing. His fierce dancer, so mortal still in spite of the fact that she had only ever been superficially human. With a witch for a mother and three werewolf brothers, her blood was never more than passing for human.

  On the northern tip of the island, sitting before the most stunning view of the snow-shrouded castle, was a man Azrael was not quite ready to call an ally. One had to start somewhere. But a few matters must be settled first.

  Raymond Nightfeather lounged on the bench in jeans and motorcycle boots, as oblivious to the cold as the swans that squabbled over the bits of bread he tossed at regular intervals. A collarless black jacket stretched over his broad shoulders; his braided hair was so long and dark it blended into the beaten leather folds.

  Leaning against a nearby tree, the captain of his Aegis did not disguise her presence or the two slim swords at her hip and waist. At least not from Azrael. He detected a low level shielding that made human eyes skitter away. Unable to focus on her, they would be drawn to the castle, or the river, or the scenic buildings on the opposite bank. The slight tilt of her head showed awareness of his approach, a courtesy and warning to him. Like Gregor, she managed well the balance between fearless duty to protect her own master and a healthy respect for his equals in the Allegiance.

  She stood guard, not over Raymond but two hunched figures huddled on the next bench. A quick scan revealed no life, though they were still animated. Undead. He hadn’t thought traveling with servants was Raymond’s modus operandi.

  A bitter wind whipped up as he approached, sending broken leaves dancing over the frostbitten earth. Azrael didn’t take offense—the elements could be impossible to control near another necromancer of similar strength, especially when the terms were uncertain. The heat radiating off his own skin betrayed that.

  “How is Lysippe?” Raymond asked as Azrael joined him on the bench.

  Azrael bristled, feeling his teeth snug together. So much for diplomacy. “You should know better than to mention her name in my presence, Ray.”

  “Fair,” Nightfeather said without smiling. His face was as sharp and unforgiving as the sheer cliffs of the Pacific Northwest coastline. Dark eyes, obsidian sheen recalling his indigenous heritage, stared back at Azrael. “But best to get out what lies between us, isn’t it? I don’t sense her among your shield today. Thought there might be a reason.”

  “Lysippe is away on business.”

  Ray shrugged in feigned carelessness, but his eyes drifted out over the water. Gregor confirmed Ray had come alone except for his second.

  “Word is Paolo and Vanka are teaming up on something big,” Ray said without further preamble. “They’re making the rounds, but so far no one will bite. Seems you’re a force to be reckoned with these days.”

  Azrael said nothing. He wasn’t surprised, but it was good to know they were the only ones he had to contend with.

  “Paolo paid me a visit,” Ray said. “Under the auspices of studio contracts with several Suramérican locations. Wanted to take my temperature about your transgression.” The word was snarled with disdain. “I told him you’d made your rules understood. I wasn’t interested in overreaching my bounds.”

  “How did he take that?”

  For the first time, emotion flickered across Ray’s expression: humor. “Like a hound with a nose full of porcupine quills. He’s never had much of a poker face.”

  “Didn’t know you and Paolo were so close.”

  “Can’t stand the guy,” Ray admitted. “All quickstep and a greasy smile.” Ray focused on the nearest swans, tossing a few chunks of bread.

  “You stood with them against me in my home.”

  “I’ve gone along with his fearmongering twice.” Ray nodded. “Now he’s playing the bogeyman with rumors you will use the god at your command to take control. Far as I can see, you’ve kept your word about staying out of everyone else’s business. That’s more than I can say for him.” Ray snorted, bracing his elbows on his knees and casting Azrael a plain, unguarded look. “I’m damn tired of being trotted out like a bull by the nose every time he needs extra muscle, all while he weasels into my territory.”

  Azrael had no idea that Paolo had been so aggressive. He sat back against the bench. The enemy of your enemy might be an ally, but that didn’t make them a friend. “Why come here?”

  “As a gesture of good faith.” Ray dusted his hands of breadcrumbs and spread his palms. “I come bearing gifts.”

  He glanced over his shoulder. The swordswoman strode forward and gave the nearest undead a sharp push. He tumbled off the bench into the mud, limbs askew.

  “Up, worm,” she barked at the other.

  The second, also male, rose from his place, weaving a little, but did not fall. The first levered himself off the ground with the low sound of a beaten animal. Layers of fresh mud increased the already mottled appearance of his bru
ised face. The second seemed untouched, but his limbs jerked and twitched as the two shambled forward. Face muscles slack and unseeing, both looked vaguely familiar, though he couldn’t place them. Raymond made Los Angeles his home and heavily influenced the film industry. These two had the square-jawed, generic handsomeness of leading men. When Isela couldn’t sleep, he often found her on the couch downstairs, curled up watching an implausible action movie starring men like these.

  He wondered if that’s why they looked familiar but for the way they jerked and stumbled, moving with mechanical unnaturalness. Had they been recently converted? Sometimes if there was a gap between death and conversion, their motor skills suffered. He could see no reason why Raymond would choose these two to accompany him.

  “What are these?”

  Raymond did not look away from the two when he answered, and his gaze hardened. “Spies.”

  Azrael was careful not to let his confusion show. All undead bore the unique imprint of their maker; it was obvious that Raymond had turned them.

  “That’s right.” Raymond agreed with his unspoken assumption. “I made them, but it appears someone got to them before me. Sleepers, planted in my home. Ana caught them trying to steal an alchemical spell of great power from my library. They were also transmitting information. I’ve had to downgrade them to what you see now. It’s been the only way to ensure their security.”

  “Paolo,” Azrael said.

  Raymond shrugged, addressing the undead. “On your knees.”

  Both men dropped, heads hanging. One of the two moaned softly. He must have bitten his tongue with the abrupt fall; blood ran down his chin.

  “My gift to you,” Raymond said.

  “Does he know they’ve been discovered?” Azrael asked, unable to look at them.

  Raymond’s smile tightened with malice. “I assigned them work on a production at a studio. A situation comedy known for being somewhat repetitive, and I created a loop to replace their transmissions. They are wired to destruct on discovery. You’ll have a few days before he realizes they’ve been compromised to get whatever information you can from them about why they were sent and what plans their progenitor intends.”