Dancer of Death Read online

  Of course I am not.

  “Right. You’re a lot scarier and freakier. So don’t stoop to their level.”

  Caleb is correct, of course. “Yes,” he tells Zahira and John. “You may save the mortal.” He looks out over the empty expanse of cracked pavement, and the eagerness in his blood shifts. Now is the time for patience. For stalking. “But first, we must hunt the demon.”

  * * *

  Caleb settled into a chair in the small conference room and stretched. The leather of his coat creaked, and he found himself grinning at the weight on his shoulders. After they’d been taken out of the field, he hadn’t bothered dragging a hundred pounds of elk hide and kevlar into the office with him—no sense if he wasn’t likely to be mauled.

  It wasn’t something he’d thought he would ever miss. He hadn’t signed up for the SPECTR lifestyle voluntarily, after all, and he sure as hell wasn’t a fan of all the blood and screaming. And yet, here he was, glad to be back in the saddle.

  Maybe it was just Gray’s good mood rubbing off on him.

  The door swung open. John and Zahira entered, Zahira carrying files and John coffee. Since he and John shared a single tiny office, and Zahira was stuck in a cube farm, they had to use one of the conference rooms if they wanted to talk with both comfort and privacy.

  “Get any more sleep this morning?” Caleb asked Zahira.

  She cast him a rueful look. “It was almost time for suhur, so I just stayed up.”

  John glanced guiltily at his coffee. “Shit, I’m sorry.”

  Zahira rolled her eyes. “You’re not fasting for Ramadan, are you? Then have your coffee. It’s all right.” She paused. “Actually, I’m curious. You follow Sekhmet, right? Is there any sort of rite or holy days that involve fasting for you?”

  “Kind of the opposite,” John said with a grimace. “At least in ancient times. She was a blood-drinking goddess who lost control, until Her rampage was stopped by, well, getting drunk. Her big festival in Egypt involved everyone getting shit-faced.” His expression turned rueful. “And yes, in case you were going to ask, it’s already been suggested at least some of the stories about Her may have been conflated with a drakul summoned directly into a living body.”

  “Oh.” Zahira looked thoughtful. “Because of the blood-drinking?”

  “And the rampaging, and the need for some last-ditch desperate ploy to stop Her. Not to say I think anyone stopped a drakul by getting it drunk.”

  “Alcohol doesn’t affect me anymore,” Caleb said sadly. “So that would probably be a ‘no.’ Besides, it was supposed to be dyed red so she thought it was blood, right? Maybe it was blood originally.”

  Which wasn’t really a comfortable thought. Human blood wasn’t nourishing for drakul…in the same way alcohol or drugs weren’t nourishing for humans.

  Gray stirred. “We have not tasted John’s blood for a while. Perhaps he will let us again soon.”

  Not the time to be thinking about that. Caleb shifted, glad the table hid his sudden erection. Christ.

  “Hunh,” Zahira mused as she sat down. “Now we know drakul do really exist, I wonder what sort of archaeological evidence we could find for them? I know the Vigilant found a lot of stuff, but what if universities and museums begin their own research? What might we learn?”

  John cleared his throat. “Let’s worry about the case we have in front of us right now.”

  “Yeah, sorry.” Zahira’s light brown cheeks darkened slightly. “I ran a search on the victim’s injuries and found a match. The NHE is most likely a vila.”

  John, of course, was nodding, but Caleb hadn’t gone through the Academy. In fact, before Gray’s possession brought him to SPECTR’s attention, he’d actively avoided learning anything more about the etheric plane or paranormal abilities than the average school kid. “And a vila is…?”

  Zahira took out her tablet and began to page through the report she’d apparently loaded on it earlier. “We get the name from Slavic legend. According to the myths, they primarily possessed young women who had been betrayed by their lovers. They would lure men into the deep forest and make them dance until they died.”

  “They feed on a victim’s life force, similar to an incubus,” John added.

  “I think Gray ran into one of these before.” Caleb rubbed at his forehead, trying to conjure up the flashes of memory. “The scent was familiar to him.”

  “Yes. But it was a long time ago.” Gray considered. “They are very fast. But I was very patient.”

  “It was too fast for him,” Caleb said. “But he cornered it while it slept and ate it. Then some woodsman came along and cut his head off with an ax. Which is probably a detail none of us really wanted to hear.”

  “I am simply being informative.”

  “Some myths say they’re storm spirits,” Zahira said, glancing up from her tablet. “Like you.”

  “Oh hell, no,” Caleb tried to say, at the same moment Gray snarled, “They are nothing like me.”

  It came out as a garbled mush, and both Zahira and John looked slightly alarmed. Shit. Caleb held up his hands. “Sorry. Sorry. Gray’s a little touchy about being compared to, well, food.”

  “I didn’t mean to offend. It’s just, we don’t even know the relationships between etheric entities, if…well.” She straightened her shoulders and looked Caleb in the eye. “I’m sorry, Gray. I didn’t realize.”

  People didn’t speak to Gray directly when he wasn’t manifesting. Not even John, at least not usually.

  “You may tell her I forgive her,” Gray said loftily, like a king granting a royal pardon.

  “He accepts your apology,” Caleb said. “So, what have we got? The victim jilted her lover, and the lover summoned an NHE and killed her in the park?”

  It wasn’t the subtlest conversational shift, but it did the trick. “Maybe.” John opened the file and flipped through it. “The victim was one Kandace Danielson. She was a dancer with the Beaufain Ballet.”

  “A ballerina?” Caleb said. “And she was danced to death? That’s…that’s sick.”

  “You’ll get no disagreement from me.” John took a small sip of his coffee. “According to her roommate, she left yesterday morning to go to the ballet company’s studio. She never returned home, but apparently that wasn’t unusual, and the roommate didn’t worry until the police showed up on their doorstep.”

  “It could still be a jilted lover,” Zahira said slowly, staring at the files spread in front of them. “But the ballet connection…I don’t know. My gut says there’s more to it.”

  “Agreed,” John said.

  “I know one of the dancers with the company,” Zahira went on with a concerned frown. “I met her at mosque. She probably knew the victim.”

  “Excellent. Hopefully your connection will make people more forthcoming when we start asking questions.” John rose to his feet. “I’ll update Barillo with our progress, then meet the two of you in the lobby in fifteen minutes.”

  “Give Barillo a kiss from me,” Caleb called as John exited. He had just enough time to glimpse the obscene gesture John gave him in reply, before the door swung shut between them.

  Chapter 4

  As the door opened on District Chief Michael Barillo’s office, John took a deep, calming breath and reminded himself anger was unproductive. Yes, he’d had issues with the new district chief. Yes, Barillo had made no attempt to pretend he approved of either Caleb and Gray, or John’s relationship with them. But he’d put them back in the field again, and that was progress.

  “Come in,” Barillo grumbled. John stepped inside, carefully shutting the door behind him. Family photos crowded the walls and desk, stacks of files perched precariously on every surface, and loose memos were scattered atop any remaining bit of space.

  “You requested I keep you updated, sir,” John said. “Special Agent Noorzai identified the NHE as a vila, and Gray agreed. We’re going to the Beaufain Ballet’s studio to question the victim’s co-workers, try to find out when sh
e was seen last and with whom.”

  “I’m taking a chance here, putting you back in the field,” Barillo said. He unwrapped one of the butterscotch candies on his desk and popped it into his mouth. He didn’t offer any to John. “I want this case closed quickly and quietly. Do you understand what I’m saying, Starkweather?”

  John nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m giving you another chance because we’ve got our hands full. A lycanthrope running amok in North Charleston, ghoul nests popping up like mushrooms.” The candy cracked loudly between Barillo’s teeth. “Not to mention the rash of disappearances splashed all over the headlines. If it turns out they’re legit and an NHE is behind them, we’ve got to get them wrapped up fast. As much as I don’t like it, you’ve got a good track record there.”

  John ground his teeth silently. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Don’t thank me. After the nonsense on the Cooper River Bridge, I’d rather you spent the rest of your career behind a desk,” Barillo said bluntly. “We’re not going to have a repeat of that incident, are we?”

  John swallowed back a useless protest. They’d done what was necessary to stop the raven mocker, and yes, it had resulted in a bit of a spectacle. But no one else had died, and the NHE had been put down. The old district chief would have called it a win.

  But Indira Kaniyar was off being the Director of SPECTR now, and it was Barillo he had to contend with.

  “No, sir,” John grated out.

  “Good.” Barillo’s gaze met his. “Don’t fuck this up, Starkweather. Keep the drakul on a tight leash, don’t let this turn into front page news, and I’ll think about putting you back on the streets.”

  John needed to keep his mouth shut. But he couldn’t. “And if not? Sir?”

  “There will be consequences.” Barillo’s eyes narrowed. “And you won’t like them. Bring me the vila, in a fucking bottle. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.” John turned away and reached for the doorknob. His fingers trembled with suppressed rage. “I understand.”

  * * *

  “Okay,” John said as he pulled into the parking lot beside the low, concrete building housing the company’s studio, “we’ll interview everyone who might have a lead for us. Caleb, signal me if Gray gets so much as a whiff of NHE on the premises.”

  Caleb nodded from the backseat. “Got it. Anything else?”

  “Let Zahira and me do the talking. And don’t just take off, even if the vila is right there. Let us know first, and we’ll corral and handle it.”

  Caleb bit back a snarky reply. What had Barillo said to John? He’d been antsy as hell the whole ride up to North Charleston.

  Gray stirred. “This mortal has threatened John?”

  Barillo didn’t rate a name, not from Gray. Names were reserved for the humans he deigned to notice, like John. Zahira. A handful of others.

  I don’t know. Just…wait and watch for now. We’ve got the vila to concentrate on.

  A keen edge of hunger, bordering on outright lust. “I have not forgotten.”

  We can’t eat it.

  Annoyance. “I have not forgotten that, either. But we can at least hunt.”

  Heat waves rose from the parking lot. Zahira had texted her friend and asked her to meet them at the studio door. Technically, Caleb supposed they could just barge in and start interrogating the nearest person, but that wasn’t really John’s style. If they had someone to let them into the off-limits areas without having to flash their badges every few feet, they might as well use her.

  When they got to the studio, the stage door swung open to reveal a tall, slender woman with dark eyes and black hair pulled back into a shiny bun. She wore a loose tank top over a leotard, accompanied by tights and pointe shoes. A light sheen of sweat showed on her olive skin. “I just got out of warm-up,” she said. “What’s going on, Zahira?”

  “Rania Wilson, this is Special Agent John Starkweather and Caleb Jansen,” Zahira said.

  “Ms. Wilson,” John said, shaking her hand.

  “Call me Rania.” Her brows pulled together. “What’s going on? Why is SPECTR here?”

  Zahira looked sympathetic. “I’m sorry, but we need to talk to whoever is in charge here first.”

  “Basil?” Rania asked with an uncertain frown. “Sure. Come this way.”

  She led them down a long, cool hall. Framed posters hung at intervals, advertising previous seasons of the ballet. Caleb had gone to a production of The Nutcracker in Charlotte one time, but that was pretty much the extent of his ballet knowledge.

  Rania stopped in front of a door with Director, Beaufain Ballet on it. “Here we are. Do you want me to…?”

  “If you don’t mind,” John said.

  Rania nodded, still looking less than certain about the whole situation as she knocked on the door. It swung open to reveal a thin man with a deep scowl in place. “I said I would make up my mind when I make up my mind!”

  Rania took a hasty step back and gestured at Zahira. “Basil Syrkus, this is my friend Zahira. She’s with SPECTR,” she added, before he could start yelling again.

  The man’s scowl flashed to confusion—then back to anger. “SPECTR? Oh for fuck’s sake. Those fluttering hens have reported us? You don’t have any reason to investigate. I know my rights, and this is harassment!”

  What the hell? Caleb took a deep breath, but the only reek he scented was sweaty feet. No trace of demons. So what was the director so worked up about?

  “Thank you for the introduction, Rania,” John said. She gave him a quick nod and scurried away, probably glad to get out of Syrkus’s sight. “Mr. Syrkus, I’m Special Agent John Starkweather. I take it you’re the director of the Beaufain Ballet?”

  “You damned well know who I am!” Syrkus blustered.

  “Agent Noorzai, would you mind taking notes?” John asked casually, glancing at Zahira. A slight twist of the head farther, and he met Caleb’s gaze.

  Caleb shook his head slightly. No demons here, at least not recently.

  “May we continue this inside your office, Mr. Syrkus?” John suggested.

  Syrkus shook his head. “No. Anything you have to say, you can say it out here.”

  “Very well. When was the last time you saw Kandace Danielson, and why did you think we were coming to question you about her disappearance?”

  All the wind left Syrkus’s sails; his skin paled, and real alarm crossed his face. “Kandace? She’s disappeared? Oh God, does this have something to do with what they’re talking about on the news?”

  “You tell me, Mr. Syrkus. You certainly seemed to, if not expect us, be on the defensive at our appearance.” John’s blue eyes narrowed. “Would you care to explain why?”

  “There’s been a misunderstanding.” Syrkus ran a hand over his face. “Come inside my office, agents. Please.”

  A desk took up much of the space in the small office. Plaques honoring the ballet company covered the walls. A green couch stood against one wall, and a pair of battered ballet shoes lay on the floor in front of it.

  “Forgive me for my poor manners,” Syrkus said. He pulled a flask from his desk and held it out toward John.

  “Not while we’re on duty,” John said.

  “Of course.” Syrkus took a hefty swallow before replacing the flask in its drawer. “I didn’t mean to come across as I did. Over the years, I’ve weathered more than my share of hate mail from the God-fearing people of South Carolina, so I assumed they’d sent you as they continually threaten. You understand.”

  John looked as lost as Caleb felt. “I didn’t realize ballet was so controversial. Can you…elaborate?”

  Syrkus gave them all a withering look down his long nose. “Not fans of the ballet?”

  John shrugged easily. “I’m more of a NASCAR watcher, myself.”

  “A sport with its own intricate strategy, its own stories of drama played out over the course of a season.” Syrkus flashed John a rueful smile. “Surprised? Perhaps you should give the ballet another chanc
e.”

  “I think I will. But why are your performances particularly godless?”

  Syrkus sighed. “Because my signature ballet—not performed every season, but yes, we are doing it this year—is Giselle.” He sank down into the chair behind the desk. “It is one of the great ballets. The innocent village maiden, Giselle, is in love with Loys, a man she believes to be a peasant like herself. But no, he is in fact Duke Albrecht, having his last dalliance with a simple village girl before his wedding to a woman of his own class. Alas, his duplicity is revealed, and the girl devastated. She flees into the forest, where she is comforted by the evil spirit of a vila.”

  Caleb straightened sharply. Okay, no way was this a coincidence.

  “Giselle’s heart is weak, and she succumbs to the spirit,” Syrkus went on, too enrapt with his own description to notice their surprise. “She is possessed! First she dances to death the young peasant man who was in love with her, and who exposed Albrecht’s lie. Then she turns her sights on Albrecht himself. When he comes seeking her in the forest, she forces him to dance, hour after hour. But just as he is ready to succumb, she realizes the atrocity the spirit—the demon!—wishes her to commit against the man she still loves. Rather than murder Albrecht, she kills herself and the demon inside her.”

  “That…isn’t how it works,” Zahira said.

  Syrkus threw up his arms. “Who cares? It is art! It is meant to uplift the human soul! To tell a tale of love triumphing over evil! But oh no, we cannot put on the play, because it will convince young women to summon vila and become possessed. Or so the clucking hens would have it.” He snorted. “I think young women can make their own decisions, don’t you?”

  “Certainly there haven’t been outbreaks of possession after every performance,” John said dryly. “You’re well within your rights to put on whatever ballet you want, Mr. Syrkus. Although I’m not entirely uncertain there is no connection between it and why we’re here.”

  “Kandace.” Syrkus’s concerned look returned. “What happened? Is she missing? She is one of three soloists I’m considering elevating to principal dancer.”