“Do you dance, Fionamara?”
She appraised his smug words, the swish of his tail to the music. “Doyou?”
“What a strange picture you’ve formed of my last two hundred years. Do you imagine I spent the entire time cloistered in a cave, emerging only to devour flesh and order governors?”
Well, when he put it that way. Butdancing?
“What kind of dance?”
Antal stood and perused her records. With delicate claws, he swapped a new one onto the gramophone. The room filled with another Spring Plane recording: an opening blare of horns, joined by bass and drums in an eight-count. A dancing song.
He offered his hand.
Fi had started dancing when she’d left home. Those first couple years on her own, she’d sought sanctuary in dim clubs and distracting music, the touch of a dance partner who could share her soul for a four-minute number then disappear without further demand. She still visited some old haunts when work brought her through the cities, but it was hard to find anyone to twirl her in Nyskya.
She rose with every bristle raised.
It occurred to Fi, this daeyari wasn’t a stupid creature. He must have noticed the treacherous flush on her cheeks. The tension, as she lay her hand in his, a whispered touch, claws soft against her fingers.
His other arm wrapped her lower back. Fi knew the stance. Andhewanted to lead? She settled in like a mare with a reluctant bridle, easing her shoulders, tapping a foot to the music.
The first steps came simple. When Antal pushed, she swayed away. He pulled, and she glided back. He guided her through a spin that would have twirled the skirt of a dress. All Fi wore was a sweater and snow-weathered pants.
“Why are you scowling, Fionamara?” Antal sounded weary.Or guarded. “You bare your teeth like a daeyari with a stomachache.”
He deserved every inch of snarled lip, for hiding this from her. “You really do know how to dance?”
“Does this displease you?”
“Wait here.” She broke from his grasp. “If you’re going to dance properly, then we have to danceproperly.”
“What do you mean—”
“Turn around!”
Antal grumbled something about Veshri and black eternities as he faced away. Game or not, she had appearances to maintain. Fi opened her closet, engulfed in the scent of cedar, the musk of furs.
She retrieved a dress.
It was a ruthless thing, black and simple. The top wrapped her chest like armor, clasping around her neck and leaving arms bare. The waist cut tight. Below that, a flare of Void fabric, sleek folds weighted to hang when still and fly with motion. She returned to her dance partner with fists on her hips.
“There,” Fi said.
Antal tipped a glance over his shoulder, expression dry with annoyance.
His brow lifted. He stared first at her uncompromising face. Then, another slow slip of eyes downward, less subtle than before. The correct response. This dress made Fi’s tits look fantastic.
Gratifying, that a daeyari would notice.
“There?” His voice came rougher than usual.
“It’s been weeks since I had a proper dance. With what we’re up against, who knows if…” She severed the thought. Held out her hand. “Go ahead.”
Antal clasped her fingers, his cool touch sending a shiverthrough her bare arms. He tilted her wrist, inspecting her floral tattoos. Daisies. Dahlias. Lilacs and snowy lily. All of them usually hidden by her coats.
“One per job,” Fi said with a taunting sort of pride. “Remember that art heist at the Karvez Estate, south end of your territory?”
Antal nodded. Fi pointed to a water lily, an homage to one of the paintings she’d smuggled to a collector on the Summer Plane. “And this one, a load of conductive ore from Tyvo Territory.” She indicated a pink tundra orchid. “A stolen dowry from the Autumn Plane.” Next, a lilac, resembling one of the load’s sapphire-crusted necklaces.
