wine more than tea, but she didn’t need any more foolhardiness tonight. She could always spike her cup with whiskey if she had to.
Ciaran paced a restless circuit through the room, and Isyllt rolled her lower lip between her teeth as she watched him. Music or theater always roused him, but this energy was nervous, distracted-he should have been humming or talking, sketching shapes of songs with his hands as he tried to make her understand what he heard.
Her wards shivered as the vrykola drew near, as they did with any stranger’s approach, but this shiver became an angry buzz as the magic realized the intruder wasn’t human. Isyllt quieted the spell before it could strike and allowed the vampire across her threshold. She was, she thought wryly, making a habit of this lately.
Ciaran stopped his pacing at Azarne’s light scratch on the door-Isyllt caught him running a hand through his hair as she rose to answer it. She wanted to laugh, if only to convince herself that his new infatuation didn’t hurt. She wanted to laugh even harder at her own double standards.
Isyllt had only ever seen the tiny vrykola in shadows and witchlight. The warm light of the lamps made her metallic bronze skin all the more unnatural, but also showed the stains and tatters of her clothes, the dust and grime that caked her hems and dulled her tangled hair. Did the state of undeath lend itself to ruined, dismal beauty, or did the catacombs simply lack dressmakers who could work in the dark?
Azarne’s eyes shone as she glanced around the room, pupils contracting to uncanny pinpricks. She didn’t stand beside Ciaran, but her weight and attention shifted toward him.
“Can I get you anything?” Isyllt asked automatically as she poured tea for her and Ciaran, and shook her head at the silliness of the question.
“No,” Azarne said slowly. “Thank you.” She drifted away from the door, spiraling through the sitting room like a new cat to inspect books and ornaments and furniture. Isyllt sat, cradling her teacup to warm her hands and waiting for the vampire to speak.
“What has Spider told you of his plans?” asked Azarne after another circuit of the room. She paused behind a chair, taloned fingers dimpling the cushioned back.
Isyllt sipped her tea, rolling smoke and tannin over her tongue. “He wants to renew the truce. He wants the freedom of the city. He hasn’t told me how he means to accomplish that.”
“That’s true, but not the half of it. He wants control of the city. He wants to set his demon witch on the throne and rule through her.”
Her fingers tightened on her cup. “What do you know about this witch?”
“I remember her from the first time she came below. Years and years ago. Spider courted her then, as well, the way he courts you now.”
Isyllt snorted. “Tenebris mentioned another sorceress. Spider said she died.”
“Oh, she did.” She lifted one delicate hand, grey claws gleaming in the light. “That doesn’t always keep you from coming back.”
Isyllt’s nape prickled. A living sorceress was bad enough-if it was a demon they hunted, undead, the matter was even more serious. The dead hungered, be they ghosts or vampires or necrophants. Phaedra must have a great deal of self-control, or careful handlers. Or there were a great many corpses yet to be found. Isyllt rose and added warmer tea to her cup, following it with a shot of whiskey. She leaned against the counter to drink it, pressing her corset stays into her ribs.
“What are they doing now?”
“I don’t know. I’ve followed them through the tunnels, and seen them on the hunt together, but I don’t want to get too close. Spider I don’t fear, but I’d rather not face the two of them together. The sorceress has the freedom of daylight, and powerful charms besides. I haven’t found their lair.
“That’s not all,” Azarne continued, as Isyllt reached for the whiskey again. She pulled her hand away and forced it back to her side.
“Of course it isn’t. What else?”
“Spider’s ideas are attracting attention in the catacombs. The idea of roaming free above”-her lips twisted-“of
“To you?” Across the room, Isyllt saw Ciaran flinch.
The vampire bared her teeth. “I
“Do you want that too?”
Azarne was silent for a long time. So still she could have been a statue. When she moved again it was without her unnerving demon grace. She sank onto the edge of the chair and stared into nothing. Embers popped and fell in the hearth.
“I came to Erisin… years ago, with a delegation from Iskar, part of the Sultan’s retinue. I never went home again. Many memories of my life have faded, but I remember the court, the petty cruelties of the seraglio. We hurt each other to pass the time, to pretend we had any power but what the sultan granted us. The nobles did the same, and so much worse. Mortals with authority-and those without-do terrible things every day. So imagine what a true monster would do if given power over others. We already hunt and kill for need and for pleasure, and never mind your truce. If we could do so with impunity it would be a hundred times worse.”
Her eyes flashed as she moved, the only warning Isyllt had. In the next heartbeat the vampire stood before her, so close she could feel the chill seeping from Azarne’s flesh. The teacup shattered on the floor, spraying both their skirts with liquid.
“You should stop him,” the vrykola whispered, leaning in on her tiptoes. “It will be ugly if you don’t.”
Nerves scalded her skin. Every instinct warned her to recoil; instead she stepped forward. Porcelain shards crunched and bit beneath her slippers as she glared down at the vampire. “You stop him then, if you know how ugly it will be. It won’t be only mortals bleeding for this, I promise you that. Your elders let this happen-they can bloody well do something about it. I can’t begrudge Spider his revolution, if the rest of you are this
Azarne hissed, pupils widening. Isyllt’s hands throbbed with anger and stress. Ciaran whispered the vampire’s name.
In an eyeblink she moved to the door. “Perhaps you’re right, necromancer. I’ll tell Lady Tenebris what you said.” And then she was gone, and the latch clicked shut behind her.
PART III Aubade
CHAPTER 14
On the twenty-seventh of Hekate, the King’s army returned to Erisin. They rode through the Dawn Gate at first light, as was traditional for victories. Historically, any action not ending in a rout and hasty flight to the city walls was considered a victory. They flew the tower and crescent moon of Selafai, white on grey, and the crowned griffin on blue of House Alexios. The banners would have snapped but for the night’s rain. The rain also turned the haze of dust that trailed them into a sucking mire, and coated the soldiers in mud to the knee.
Despite the weather, helms and mail still gleamed and many of the horses were fresh enough to step proudly and toss their heads. Crowds choked the sidewalks, cheering and tossing hothouse flowers. Orange-coated police lined the barricades, keeping the streets clear and preventing any overly enthusiastic onlookers from rushing the procession, or soldiers’ families from demanding news of their missing kin. Those questions would be asked later, away from the public eye.
And behind them, far from the cheers and flowers but toiling through the same mud-and more horse shit- came the refugees.
Savedra didn’t stand with Nikos to welcome his father home. Some propriety they wouldn’t test. But her station-and sharp elbows-earned her a place at the front of the crowd of courtiers gathered in the breathless cold of
