Dancer of Death Read online

  After an hour or so, Caleb headed for the bar and grabbed two bottles of water. He downed one, even though he was the only person in the club not sweating his ass off. The other he carried while he scouted around for Zahira.

  He found her sitting alone at one of the tables. “Where is everyone?” he asked, putting the unopened bottle down in front of her.

  “Thank you,” she said—or rather, shouted over the music. She nodded in the direction of a group of dancing women, and Caleb spotted Rania among them. “Over there.”

  “Not your scene?” he guessed.

  She absently checked the lay of her hijab over her shoulders. “One of them asked me if I shower in the hijab.”

  “Oh. Ouch.”

  “And another asked if my father knew I was here.” Zahira sighed. “I know I should look at it as an opportunity to educate people, but after you’re asked the same question a hundred times…”

  Caleb nodded. “Yeah. That would get pretty old fast.”

  She opened the water and drank. “You’ve been popular tonight, though.”

  “Not why we’re here,” he said with a snort. “Speaking of which, I’d better circulate some more. Wouldn’t want John to catch me sitting on my butt.”

  She grinned. “He’s been popular, too.”

  Gray perked up. “What does she mean?”

  “I think he’s been hit on by half the people in the club,” she went on.

  “I do not like this. John is ours.”

  Calm down.

  Memories flashed behind Caleb’s eyes, but for once they were recent. John had sucked them off in the bathroom of a club, the one time they’d gone dancing after he and John hooked up. “I do not wish him to do these things with anyone else.”

  Pretty sure John doesn’t want to, either, so quit worrying.

  “Caleb?” Zahira asked. “Is everything all right?”

  Shit, he’d zoned out. “No,” he said, because at least he could be honest with her. “Gray’s weirdly insecure sometimes.”

  “Oh?” she looked like she really wanted to ask more questions, but was biting her tongue to keep them back.

  “Later,” he said, rising to his feet. “I’m going to see how John is doing.”

  At least it only took a few minutes to find John. He stood in the corner, idly talking with a red-haired man. His blue eyes swept the crowd, though, and a smile crossed his face when he spotted Caleb coming toward him.

  See?

  The man John was talking to glanced over his shoulder, probably to see who John was looking at. His eyes widened in surprise. “Caleb?”

  “Deacon?”

  Deacon grinned and shook his hand. “Good to see you.” His gaze took in Caleb’s form appreciatively.

  “I see you met my boyfriend,” Caleb said with a nod to John.

  Deacon laughed. “No way!”

  John cocked his head, a smile hovering on his mouth. “This is Deacon from PASS,” Caleb explained. “He’s a TK like me.”

  “That’s great,” John said. “Deacon was just telling me…”

  The smell of rancid sweat, of rotting blood and corrupted bone, slid through the scents of human perspiration and spilled alcohol like a needle through cloth.

  “The demon is here.”

  * * *

  Caleb cast around anxiously. Fuck, the vila was here, so where had Rania gone? Her friends were scattered, dancing and drinking, so where was she?

  “Caleb?” John asked.

  “Sorry, Deacon,” Caleb said, knowing he must sound either rude or crazy. “We’ve got to go.”

  He plunged into the press of bodies without waiting for an answer. Where the hell was Zahira?

  The scent of the vila grew stronger as they approached the bar, then veered off. He spotted Zahira’s pink hijab in the crowd and made for it.

  “Where’s Rania?” he demanded as he approached. She leaned against one of the support columns around the dance floor, sipping on her water.

  He must have communicated his alarm, because she straightened sharply. “She went to the ladies room.”

  Fuck.

  Caleb shoved his way through the press, and was rewarded by furious shouts. He’d be lucky if he didn’t end up with bouncers trying to grab him—but there was no time. Behind him, John’s voice rang out. “Move aside! SPECTR Agents!”

  They’d be lucky if there wasn’t a panic.

  The hall leading to the bathrooms was crowded with women—even more than the usual line. “What’s going on?” he demanded.

  “Someone locked the fucking door,” a woman snapped. “There’s four stalls in there, and the door’s locked? Who does that shit?”

  He pushed his way through, ignoring shouts of anger. Someone hit him with a purse. At the head of the line, two women were pounding on the door and yelling for whoever was inside to open up.

  The air was saturated with the vila’s scent.

  “Out of the way!” he yelled, Gray’s bass roar underlying the order. They shuffled aside, eyes wide. He took one step back, then lunged forward, slamming his shoulder into the door. The lock snapped easily beneath the impact, and he stumbled inside.

  The bathroom was the usual dreary club restroom. Graffiti covered the stalls, and a low buzzing sound came from the ugly fluorescent bulb overhead. A tiny window looked out on street level, its glass covered with wire screen. Harsh chemical cleaners stung Caleb’s nose, even as saliva flooded his mouth at the overwhelming scent of demon.

  Two women stood inside, in the small space before the sinks. They mirrored one another’s posture, arms raised, legs flashing as they spun and danced. One was Rania, her face a mask of terror, tears streaming down her cheeks, her mascara in black streaks.

  The other was older, her body firm beneath a clinging leotard and tight jeans. She wore ballet shoes, up on pointe, even as Rania struggled to mimic her. As the door crashed back against the wall, the woman turned quickly. Her eyes were as yellow as an animal’s.

  The vila.

  Gray roared.

  * * *

  At last.

  Gray leaps forward, unhesitating, claws unsheathed and ready for battle. They will take this demon down, and—

  He catches a glimpse of claws, of teeth sharper than any human’s should be. Then, so fast even he can barely track the movement, the vila’s foot catches him in the jaw.

  The impact is stunning; his head snaps back, something cracking inside his spine with a flare of pain. The blow sends him back into the door, which has swung shut behind him. He strikes it, hits the floor, then rolls to his feet even as vertebrae pop back into alignment.

  The mortal no longer dances; she is slumped to the floor beside the sinks, her eyes wide and terrified. The demon…

  Is gone. The tiny window hangs open, its glass smashed and the wire screen shredded as the vila tore its way out.

  The opening is slightly too small, so he simply grabs the metal frame and rips it free from the concrete, tossing it into one of the stalls. The resulting hole is still a tight fit, claws sunk into the outside of the building to help haul him through, the button tearing free of his pants.

  “Good thing you possessed someone skinny.”

  The vila’s scent is a trail on the air outside. Gray charges after it, and within moments spots the fleeing figure ahead of him.

  Good.

  Car brakes screech, and he hears a shout as he tears down the street after the demon. “Remember, she can still be exorcised. We need to keep the mauling to a minimum.”

  The vila is fast—and agile. It darts down an alley and springs, its jump carrying it almost to the top of an iron fire escape. It balances easily on the metal rail for a moment, before vaulting to the roof.

  By the time Gray pounds up the metal stairs, the vila has leapt the gap from this building to the next. But even as it seems it will spring to a third, it comes to a sudden halt. Its head whips around, and a look of fear and panic crosses its face.

  As it should be.

  Gray doesn’t slow, colliding with the vila and nearly sending them both off the roof. Instinct unsheathes his claws; but no, he is not to damage the creature. Growling in frustration, he wraps his arms around it, pinning its arms to its sides. It writhes like a snake, snarling its fury. If he can hold the demon until John arrives—

  Something collides with the back of his head with stunning force. His grip loosens, and the vila twists free. Spinning on one foot, it kicks him in the face a second time, knocking him back into an air conditioning unit.

  “What the hell happened?”

  Gray blinks, but there is no one else there.

  “Did she kick us? Holy shit, she kicked us in the back of the head while we were holding her.”

  Caleb sounds impressed despite himself. Gray is not. As he surges back to his feet, the vila dances away, its movements so graceful it seems to glide across the roof on a rail. Between one instant and the next, the vila makes the leap to the next rooftop. He gathers himself to give chase.

  Then the wind shifts.

  He smells old stone and cold earth, burning metal and sun-warmed soil. It is not the scent of the vila, but it is familiar.

  “I remember—we smelled it the day we went jogging near the Battery. When we were arguing with John. What is it?”

  I do not know. Gray breathes deep. It is not a demon, but otherwise I am not certain.

  “Is it what scared the vila? Made her hesitate long enough for us to catch her?”

  The vila.

  Gray breaks into a run, following the demon’s scent. Its speed has given it an advantage; though he was distracted for only seconds, it has vanished from sight. He follows the trace, from one rooftop to the next, then down to the street again.

  The trail vanishes in front of a boarded-up house. A patch of damp asphalt reveals where a vehicle was parked.

  “Barillo is going to kill us for losing her.”

  He cannot kill us, Gray corrects Caleb, but absently. Because he smells the vila all around the area of the house, even though the scent is faded.

  “Maybe she parked here for a while before stalking Rania?”

  No. It is too far from the street.

  He follows the trail around the back of the house. A power meter hums softly in the narrow alleyway separating the back door from the next building.

  “Why would a boarded-up house have the power running? Maybe if someone was restoring it, but there would be permits posted for the construction.”

  The door is locked, but a single kick takes care of that. The interior of the house is dark and smells of mold and rot.

  And vila.

  And blood.

  Gray makes his way across the creaking wooden floor, until reaching a door. The padlock on the door gleams in his night vision, far too shiny to have been here for long.

  “So what is it she doesn’t want anyone else to find?”

  The lock gives easily beneath Gray’s strength. On the other side of the door, rickety wooden stairs lead down into darkness. The vila’s scent is strong here, as is the rusty smell of human blood. He pauses, listening, but all he hears is an electric hum.

  The stairs creak, and to a mortal, the basement would be utterly black. His sight picks out swathes of dried blood on the floor. All along the walls stand large white freezers.

  A ripple of unease from Caleb. “That…probably isn’t a good sign, is it?”

  It seems unlikely, Gray agrees.

  Each freezer is locked, just as the door was. Gray goes to the nearest and snaps off the lock, before lifting the lid.

  It is packed with human bodies. The eyes of the one on top stare at him through a thick coating of frost.

  “Oh God.”

  Gray carefully lowers the lid. “John will wish to see this.”

  Chapter 8

  Blue police lights strobed across the old brick wall of the club’s exterior. “Was there a fight?” someone asked as John walked past. A few knots of people still stood around outside, gawking and trying to figure out what had happened, but most had scattered. Or been moved along by the cops, most likely.

  Gray had taken off after the vila…and he hadn’t come back yet. John tried not to let it worry him. Vila might be fast, but they hunted largely through cunning, not brute force. Gray could handle a lone demon without backup. Hell, he could probably handle an entire pack of them.

  No need to be concerned at all.

  Rania perched in the back of an ambulance, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Fresh tears leaked from her swollen, red eyes. Zahira sat beside her, a comforting arm draped atop the blanket.

  John met Zahira’s gaze. “Is she going to be okay?” he asked with a nod at Rania.

  “The EMCs said she’ll be fine,” Zahira replied. But her expression remained grave. “I’m so sorry. I thought she’d be safe in the bathroom…”

  Rania let out another gulping sob. John crouched down in front of her. “Rania? How are you feeling?”

  “Like shit,” she said, rubbing angrily at her eyes. “But I’ll be all right. It only went on for a couple of minutes before…” A shudder ran through her. “What was that thing?”

  “A vila,” John said. Maybe she’d forgotten in her shock?

  She shook her head. “No. Not…not Elise. It was…oh God.” She closed her eyes. “It looked like Caleb.”

  He hesitated, caught between conflicting impulses. Rather than address the bit about Caleb, he said, “Elise?”

  Rania swallowed heavily. “Elise Peyton. She’s—I mean, she was—the Beaufain Ballet’s principal ballerina, until she retired at the end of last season. I ran into her at the bar, and she suggested we go into the ladies room so we could catch up. It would be easier to hear in there, so I said sure. But as soon as we went in and were alone…she…she changed.”

  More tears. Zahira tightened her grip on Rania, even as she met John’s eyes. They’d been right—there was a connection to the company. But why would a former dancer who had retired suddenly be out to destroy the women who were competing for her old job? There had to be a piece missing, somewhere.

  John’s phone buzzed, and he pulled it out. “Caleb,” he said, and couldn’t keep the relief from his voice.

  “No!” Rania’s eyes widened. “I saw him—he’s not human! He’s—he’s possessed!”

  “Shh.” Zahira put her hands on Rania’s shoulders, turning the dancer to face her. “It’s all right. I know it seems strange, but Caleb helps us.”

  Rania blinked slowly. “But…he…”

  “Just saved your life,” John said shortly, and hit the button on the phone. “Caleb? Is everything all right?”

  “Not even close,” Caleb replied. “We followed the vila to a deserted house. She got away in her car, but…well. You need to call Detective Tradd. I think we found the missing people.”

  “Should I send an ambulance?” John asked.

  “No.” Caleb sounded tired. “Just a lot of body bags.”

  * * *

  Elise paced the length of the cheap hotel room, back and forth, over and over. Her hands clenched and unclenched, and her breath hitched in her lungs. Alternating waves of fury and terror poured over her, until she wanted to scream, to tear things off the wall, to rip her own hair out by the roots.

  “We cannot draw attention to ourselves. Not yet.”

  “You didn’t tell me there were monsters!” Elise shouted. She grabbed the ice bucket and hurled it at the door. It bounced off and rolled beneath the pressboard desk. “You should have warned me! That thing would have…would have…”

  The fear screaming in the base of her skull was more primal than anything she’d ever felt in her life. It held within it the certainty of ancient humans huddled in the dark, knowing without question there were things beyond the circle of firelight that wanted to eat them. Predators stronger than any human, which couldn’t be placated, or reasoned with.

  “But we escaped,” the vila cajoled. “We were too fast. Too clever.”

  “Maybe, but tonight’s show was ruined!” Elise stopped and glared at the mirror bolted to the wall. “That bitch Rania is still alive. These four nights were supposed to be my greatest performance, and now—!”

  “Shh.” A sensation, like arms slipping around her, except it existed nowhere but inside her own mind. “We still have the grand finale tomorrow. Tonight was but a minor setback—a misstep during a dress rehearsal. Tomorrow…tomorrow we take the stage.”

  Elise’s breathing evened out as calm flowed through her. The vila was right. Tomorrow was what mattered. No one would remember what happened tonight, except as a minor footnote, a bit of trivia. It would be tomorrow’s performance that would steal headlines on every news site in America.

  Everyone would know her name. And the Beaufain Ballet Company would be sorry for how it had treated her.

  Assuming any of them survived.

  * * *

  A few hours later, Caleb stood beside John and Zahira in front of Barillo’s desk.

  Now that they had an identity for the vila, it had been quick work to get a search warrant for her apartment. Unfortunately, the search proved a bust. Either Elise Peyton had cleared out before, or—and this seemed more likely, given all the things left behind—she’d taken off once she’d been made. She was probably sitting in a hotel somewhere, paid for in cash and under an assumed name, just waiting for the chance to murder another dancer.

  “Last night could have been perfect,” Barillo said, toying with a pencil as he glowered at them. “Our suspect nabbed. The missing persons case closed. The talking heads on the morning news would be singing SPECTR’s praises.” He tossed the pencil onto the desk. “Instead, I have a press conference in an hour to tell the good people of Charleston there’s a maniac on the loose! Do you have any idea how many antacids I’ve chewed just this morning? This stress is not good for me. My cardiologist is going to have a field day.”