Death's Dancer Read online

  Isela scanned the books on the history of dancing in religion until her eyeballs ached, sipping gratefully at the coffee. There were plenty of references to mortals communicating with gods through dance—from Greek oracles to voodoo priests—but nothing about amplifying power.

  Antsy, Isela stood up to pace and tipped over her cup.

  “Shit!”

  She shoved the books out of the coffee’s path. One tumbled to the floor. Madeline hurried over with rags.

  Isela knelt to retrieve the book, carefully unfolding a page that had been wrinkled in the fall. She fingered the old dog-ear thoughtfully, her eyes drawn to the words.

  Make no mistake: to dance is not a one-way transfer. An open door is also an invitation.

  Isela shuddered, dropping to the floor and dragging the book onto her lap. She was distantly aware of Madeline sopping up the mess. When she tried to help, Madeline waved her away. She paged through the book, careful of the deteriorating binding.

  The language was archaic, Byzantine sentences twisting around one another until she forgot where the paragraph started by the time it ended. She grabbed her notepad and scribbled a few things. When her eyes began to itch, she looked up at the clock to find another two hours had passed. She glanced at her notes. More questions than answers.

  With a sigh, she carefully refolded the dog-ear before closing the book and setting it on the stack.

  “I need to take a break,” Isela announced. “I don’t know how you manage in here all the time.”

  “Old habits,” Madeline’s laugh followed her to the door. “I’ll leave everything as you have it.”

  “Again!”

  At the barked command, Isela dragged her body off the padded wooden floor. Sweat stung her eyes, and she shook the wet hair out of her face to look at the short figure in wide-legged black pants standing a few feet away. Trinh had already turned to address the students seated around the edges of the room, describing the attack and the defense—and its faults. Petite and soft-spoken in person, in class, her voice was clear and direct, punctuated by gesture.

  Finally she returned her attention to Isela, resting her fist in her palm. She kept her face still for the sake of her students, but Isela had known her long enough to recognize the wicked gleam in her dark eyes. Trinh was enjoying herself.

  Isela had three inches and twenty pounds on the woman, but Trinh had earned the master’s belt that closed her jacket. Barefoot and calm as a metro busker at rush hour, she held out a hand.

  “Christ on a crutch,” Isela muttered under her breath as she lowered into a preparatory stance.

  “Wasting the breath on talk,” Trinh barked.

  Isela’s eyebrow rose. Her back to her students, Trinh winked.

  If Isela had thought she would just drop in and spar with a couple of the students to burn off some extra energy, someone hadn’t told Trinh. Of course, that was part of the reason she loved Trinh’s classes; she never took it easy on Isela. There was no favored dancer status on this padded wooden floor. That meant she could let go too. Mostly.

  Isela inhaled, focusing on the last bit of breath entering her lungs. She sipped deeper and unleashed her body on the exhale, marching across the floor with strikes that Trinh evaded and countered. Isela slipped loose of a hold, rolled under a grab, and swept Trinh’s knees from beneath her. She made herself smooth and elastic, each strike coming with a punctuated exhale.

  In these moments, Isela was aware of how much fighting and dancing had in common. And this particular style was much like godsdancing: a blend of defense-based martial training that graduated to assault and immobilize.

  Trinh fell to the floor but managed to wriggle free, getting her feet under Isela and tossing her across the mat. Isela tucked into a roll, pushing out her heels in time to keep herself from sliding into the sparring weapons rack. Without thinking, she reached back and wrapped her fingers around a staff.

  “Improvisation.” Trinh nodded, still empty-handed. “Good. See if you can keep it.”

  Isela came on swinging. She used the staff to keep Trinh at a distance, and it worked, until she stumbled. Trinh directed her fall by the wrist, spun, and slipped the staff from her grip. Now it was her turn to dodge and run.

  She was no match for the martial instructor. She wound up on her back, panting against the end of the staff at her throat.

  “Yield,” Isela croaked, smiling.

  Trinh brought the staff down and offered a hand. The students were applauding furiously, even before Trinh stepped back and gave a formal bow. Isela palmed her fist and bowed in response.

  “One of you may reach the level of Isela and take your chances in open spar with me,” Trinh addressed her students. “Until then, up! Everyone, partners. Defense three and four, attack one and nine.”

  Isela followed her to the weapons rack, exchanging the staff for a towel. Their backs to the sparring students, Trinh kept her voice low.

  “It’s always a pleasure to have you,” Trinh said. “But you were intense today. Does this have something to do with the job—”

  “I just feel like I need all the help I can get right now,” Isela said.

  “Well, you have mine, always, but that stumble was your hip, wasn’t it?”

  Isela had schooled herself long ago not to draw attention to it, so it was easy not to bring a hand to the sore joint, but she winced a little.

  “It’s getting worse,” Trinh admonished gently.

  “Yoga helps, and Kyle’s massages,” Isela said before admitting, “It’s not getting better.”

  “And now a job that requires you to brush up on your combat skills?” Trinh shook her head.

  “Just working off a little steam.”

  Trinh harrumphed. “Hit the showers. We can get lunch after and talk about what you need to work on.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Isela walked into the sterile room, her bag slung over her shoulder, not knowing what to expect. Two days of waiting and preparing ended with Gregor’s chilly voice on the line, announcing she would be needed in three hours for a summoning.

  It gave her just enough time to walk through the choreography once more as a warm-up and follow the rest of her instructions.

  Gregor had said to dress for a night out. She’d done her best, with a little help. Taking a cue from his outfit on the bridge, Yana’d paired a black pencil skirt that tapered sharply at the knee with a gauzy crimson blouse tucked into the high waist of the skirt. The blouse obscured a floral lace bralette designed to be hinted at. Peep-toe stilettos clung to her feet by thin ankle straps. It took both of them and a dozen pins to sweep her hair up in a voluminous imitation of a dancer’s bun. Yana highlighted her subtle makeup with Afghan red lips to match the top. Over it all, a cropped, merino cape draped her shoulders, pinned at the collar. Her dancing gear was stashed in a giant purse from Yana’s own extensive collection.

  Her buzzer went off as they finished. It was Niles calling on behalf of her newly arrived escort.

  Yana appraised her at the door. “Not so bad, as Kyle was too busy courting his little man to fix you up.”

  Isela sighed. “I couldn’t ask him to blow off date night.”

  She was grateful for Kyle’s absence. Every time they saw each other during the week, the line of worry seemed to settle deeper between his brows. She hated knowing it was her fault. By the time he found out she’d been called to the castle, she’d be on her way home. Safe. She hoped.

  Isela said. “Anyway, I look amazing, thanks to you.”

  Yana affirmed her judgment with a scowl. “This is too good for that Scheisse Baum of a man.”

  Shit tree. Well, Gregor was tall. Isela wanted to throw her arms around Yana, but she restrained herself to air kisses to either cheek. Yana looked grateful for that reserve as she folded her arms over her chest and smiled dangerously. “Go now. Make him lose his mind, yes?”

  The first and second year students mysteriously loitering around the halls couldn’t keep from staring
as she walked by.

  Isela hoped all the research she’d done in preparation would pay off. She tried not to think about what might happen if she was unsuccessful. Maybe Azrael would pick someone else.

  The thought left her curiously cold. She wouldn’t wish the responsibility, or the danger, on another dancer. The security guard hurried to open the door ahead of her.

  The flashes and calls from the crowd momentarily disoriented Isela as she stepped through the door. Niles had cleared a path to the curb with academy security, and she felt exposed in front of so many eyes. She pasted on her performance smile, searching for the necromancer’s escort.

  To her surprise, Gregor himself emerged from a midnight-colored Audi roadster with enormous wheel wells that resembled the muscular haunches of a predator and an engine that definitely rumbled with gasoline combustion.

  He ignored the gawkers to take her arm, dusting kisses on both cheeks. His black suit complimented the predatory vibe of his vehicle.

  “You should have warned me you were wearing red,” he said approvingly as he cast a toothy smile at the press photographer. “I would have matched my tie.”

  “So we’re going public as a couple now, eh?” Isela murmured through a frozen smile.

  Gregor’s eyebrow rose as he guided her to the passenger side. “Apparently, PR thinks it’s a suitable ruse to distract the public and an opportunity to—humanize—the necromancer’s security force.”

  Humanize, she thought, slipping into the car and tucking up her heels. Saddling Gregor with a wife, two kids, and diaper duty wouldn’t be enough to gloss over the impression that he was a thinly sheathed blade. No wonder he needed a PR overhaul.

  The mental image made her smile.

  Known as Azrael’s enforcer, the most brutal acts of the necromancer’s rule not attributed to Azrael himself were often credited to Gregor. According to Trinh, it was Gregor who guarded the eyes Azrael had nailed to the door. Rumor had it the eyes belonged to a necromancer who had challenged Azrael. The thought killed her smile.

  “So how long have we been. . . seeing each other?” she questioned carefully. “Just to get my story straight.”

  Gregor shifted into gear and peeled away from the curb, sending the crowd scrambling out of his way. She winced as he bared his teeth in a smile.

  “Since the fall gala at the Academy. If you recall, I escorted Azrael there and remained with him at the social event following the performance.” His voice was emotionless. Calculated. He didn’t like this idea much either.

  Isela remembered the night. Kept busy with introductions to donors and patrons, she hadn’t even seen the necromancer. Trinh, however, had spent the next few days gushing over the “devastatingly hot guy” that shadowed the necromancer the entire night. Mystery solved.

  The touch of his finger moving up the back of her hand to the wrist brought her back to the present. It was all Isela could do not to jerk away. If Gregor got his thrills being the scariest fucker in the room, she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d gotten to her.

  Gregor glanced from the road as he darted through traffic, the stiffer suspension pounding the cobblestones into her back and seat. She fought the urge to brace herself on the door and center console. His eyes slid up her body, and the enclosed space of the car felt stifling.

  “You did well on short notice,” he complimented.

  “You don’t clean up too bad yourself.” She drew her hand away with calculated slowness and rested it primly on her lap.

  He chuckled. “So American, your way of speaking.”

  “My mom,” she said after a pause. “People say I talk like my mom sometimes.”

  “It’s amazing how some habits become so ingrained in us at such a young age. We’re barely aware of them anymore. My accent, as you noted.”

  Isela was so surprised at the admission and the attempt to empathize that she really looked at him for the first time since entering the car. Again, Gregor cast that dangerous smile her way.

  “I was born,” he quipped. “I had a family. Parents. Siblings. Once.”

  “I never would have guessed,” she retorted. “You seem like a pretty self-made man.”

  Gregor chuckled. “No need to be nervous, dancer. I’m not the one you need to worry about.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of,” she muttered before she could catch herself.

  His smile faded. “That’s good. A little fear is healthy. You might live longer.”

  A little fear, she thought, following Gregor down the long hall into what appeared to be a medical facility below the castle. She would choke herself on it if she wasn’t careful. The facility had been a surprise from the moment they’d entered from the garage. She hadn’t spent much time contemplating a necromancer’s basement, but this high-tech setup of bright lights and stainless steel was unexpected.

  Isela kept her breathing slow and steady. They passed a few white-coated technicians on the way. All gave the pair wide birth. If their incongruent clothing stood out, the techs gave no sign.

  Finally Gregor opened a door to a room that resembled a medical theater. On one wall were cabinets and a counter of instruments. Another wall was filled with rectangular, stainless steel squares. On a large table—a gurney, she realized—was a figure draped in sheeting. The stench of charred flesh invaded her nostrils. A morgue.

  Who has a morgue in their basement? Oh, wait.

  Isela came up short, distantly aware of Gregor’s arm sliding around her until it was too late to escape. His fingers curled onto her hip. It was a casual gesture, one that might have fit in with the ruse of their being a couple, but the firmness revealed his true purpose. She could not run.

  Isela tore her eyes away from the sheet to see the necromancer Azrael flanked by the Amazon and one of the enormous Polynesians from the door. Another man, white coated—doctor, lab tech, undead minion?—carefully cleaned and arranged instruments at the counter, his back to them.

  Azrael’s eyes locked on her. She took a half step back into the wall that was Gregor’s chest. She wasn’t sure what rose in her throat—a scream or vomit—but she sealed her lips shut and concentrated on her breathing. She made herself be perfectly still, aware of the man across the room eyeing her with the gaze of a hunting animal.

  Gregor moved away, and the cold air at her back made Isela shiver.

  “Master,” he bowed. “The dancer.”

  Isela could not look away from Azrael. He filled the room with presence. Even Gregor was dampened by it. She wondered briefly if he was compelling her in some way—like whatever spell he’d put on her to keep her from talking.

  “Will you have enough space to dance?” Azrael was speaking. To her. She forced herself to consider the question.

  “You want me to dance. . . here?”

  Silence. His face was a collection of brutal lines and hard angles. It felt like the temperature of the room dropped another few degrees.

  Ok, no more stupid questions. Just do your job, and get the fuck out of here. Alive.

  Isela glanced around, fixing her eyes on the space she would need and ignoring everything else.

  “I need this side of the room cleared,” she ordered. “About a twelve-by-twelve area. It’s small, but it will do.”

  Azrael nodded. “Gregor, Rory.”

  Her escort and the Polynesian began moving empty tables and an instrument stand out of the way.

  Silver eyes fixed on her again. “Anything else?”

  It was impossible not to look at him, so she compromised by studying the brush of dark hair against his collar when she spoke. “I need to change.”

  Isela chanced a look into his face to see his eyes flash again. She realized instinctively it was an emotion of some sort. Anger? Irritation? But he didn’t speak.

  “My clothes,” she clarified.

  He might be used to being surrounded by mindless automatons of his own creation, but she wasn’t a zombie, never mind an impossibly immortal
soldier. She was human, and he needed her cooperation. He was going to have to give something to get something.

  “I will do what you ask.” Isela forced calm into her voice. “I’m going along with this arrangement, aren’t I?” She gestured at herself and Gregor. “But I would like a little privacy to change my clothes, please.”

  The silence rivaled a tomb; it was so complete she imagined hearing the whisper of dead skin cells hitting the floor.

  Gregor exhaled—a laugh?—and the sound of furniture being rearranged resumed.

  Azrael nodded again. The Amazon stepped around him and approached. Sleek and muscled as a hunting hound, her black jeans and fitted turtleneck were interrupted only by the gun holster buckled to her chest. She paused, beckoned and walked on, opening the door. Isela’s forced herself to walk, albeit stiffly, after the woman.

  She opened the door to a small antechamber. “You can change here.”

  She followed Isela inside and closed the door behind them, standing with her back to the door.

  Isela set down her bag. She bit back a frustrated sigh. She’d changed in front of other dancers but never under guard. As if she had any idea where to go even if she did run. She focused on peeling off her skirt and neatly folding the top with it. She undid her hose and gratefully relieved her feet from the stilettos. On went leggings, long enough to slip under her heels, and a fitted tank top with internal support. Considering the temperature of the room, she pulled on toeless socks and a sleeved wrap that tied snugly around her waist. She secured her hair with a few extra pins and repacked her bag.

  The Amazon opened the door when she nodded.

  If she expected Azrael to be waiting for her to return, she would have been disappointed. The sheet had been removed, and she glimpsed raised arms with hands curled into burned claws. Her stomach turned, and she averted her eyes.

  The white-coated man was explaining they hadn’t been able to recover either the brain or the organs.