“Ah.” The priesthood quietly disapproved of secular necromancy; Isyllt was certain that it was because the priests had far less fun.
The dance was a wild one, with couples circling the floor and trading partners at a hectic pace. Isyllt was breathing heavily by the second measure.
A familiar note caught her attention amid the miasma of sweat and wine and perfume-cinnamon. Isyllt stiffened, cursing the blur of the veil as she scanned the room. The dance swept her on and she lost the scent.
Another circuit and she caught it again. There-a woman in white lingered by a pillar, a lace shroud pooling around her feet. An equally cumbersome length of veil hid her face. No inch of skin was visible, but the gown made up for that by clinging to every curve between her neck and thighs; she would have to unstitch it to take it off again. Isyllt felt the woman’s answering stare through two layers of fabric. Then she was out of sight again.
Isyllt’s hands clenched Khelsea’s when they came together again. “She’s here,” she said, her voice harsh and ragged.
“Who?”
“The haematurge. Phaedra Severos.”
Khelsea’s full lips tightened. “What should we do?”
“I don’t know.” She forced her aching hands to loosen. “If I confront her here all our secrets will be spilled, and I don’t have the support of the Crown. I don’t even know what she wants.”
“I doubt it will be pleasant, whatever it is.”
The dance ended and Isyllt scanned the crowd, but found no trace of Phaedra. She whispered a warning in Savedra’s ear, then succumbed to heat and thirst and claimed a glass of wine and plate of food, retreating to the shadows of the terrace with them. She wouldn’t be much use to anyone if she passed out.
Couples lingered on the balcony, and on the steps leading to one of the palace’s many gardens. Most had found the darkest shadows for privacy, and all politely ignored each other. Isyllt claimed a far corner and set her plate and cup on the railing. The night air was a shock as she pulled aside her veil; her cheeks burned and her breath escaped in a shimmering cloud. Her skin crawled with gooseflesh and sweat-damp fabric chilled instantly. She drained half her wine in one swallow.
Below, the lawn glittered with frost, hedges pale and spectral through drifting haze. Blue and white lanterns swayed in the breeze. Dark trails marked the grass, evidence of lovers trysting in the garden. Isyllt wasn’t sure any amount of lust was worth freezing one’s toes, or other delicate parts.
“We need to talk, little witch.”
Witchfire crackled around her fingers as she spun, bruising her back on the stone balustrade and knocking her precariously balanced plate into the bushes. Someone giggled in the shadows below the railing.
“Softly,” Spider said, raising a hand. He wore a hooded cloak-anyone who glimpsed his face would tell themselves it was a mask. “You don’t want to cause a scene.”
“What are you doing here?” She let her fire die, drawing shadow and silence more tightly around them. “The palace is warded.”
His smile was mocking. “Mortal wards are so rarely as strong as you like to think them. I’m here to admire the festivities. And to see you.”
She took another sip of wine and set the cup safely away from stray elbows. “To pledge your affection again?”
“To warn you.” He moved closer, till she could have wrapped herself in his cloak; his nearness did nothing to lessen the cold. “You’re meddling in something you shouldn’t. I don’t want to see you hurt.”
“See my throat slit for a sacrifice, you mean? It was you, wasn’t it? You snatched Forsythia off the street, held her while Phaedra bled her dry. And then killed your friend Whisper to throw me off the trail.”
“I did what was necessary. I think you understand such things.”
“Yes.” Her smile was cold and sharp. “I understand. But I don’t murder random strangers for my magic.”
“No, only for your Crown.” His lip curled on the word. “Anyway, Forsythia wasn’t random. Whisper’s affection for her distracted him, clouded his judgment. The others, however-” He shrugged. “We are hunters of opportunity.”
He sounded so reasonable. And, Isyllt supposed, he was. She would never ask a wolf to justify which deer it killed. But neither had a wolf ever been a deer.
“I, on the other hand, hunt and kill with purpose. And part of my purpose is to protect this city from demons and murderers.”
Spider’s lip curled, baring fangs. “You kill where you’re bid. I’m sorry,” he said quickly, lifting a hand again. “I didn’t come to quarrel. I mean it, you know, when I say I don’t want to hurt you. Changes are coming soon, and you could benefit from them.”
“Changes. You mean a coup. I swore an oath to the Crown, Spider.”
“It isn’t your Crown that we would remove, only the man who wears it. We aren’t the only ones who wish to see someone else on the throne. But the others would merely replace him with some different mortal politician, and what would that change?”
“Whereas you would replace him with a demon. That will certainly make me sleep soundly at night.”
“You’re hardly squeamish about the undead, necromancer.”
“Spider. You’ve lied to me, stalked me, tried to seduce me. With,” she acknowledged with a wry tilt of her head, “some success. Why don’t you tell me what the hell it is you really want?”
“I already told you-I want the vrykoloi free of the sewers, not hunted or ignored. Your mages treat spirits as a commodity to be used and demons as abominations to be destroyed, and I want to see that end.”
“I’m not without sympathy,” Isyllt said slowly, “but the fear is bred too deep into mortals. Change will take decades. Centuries.”
“Not if we take the throne.”
“The city wouldn’t stand for it. The country wouldn’t. You’re powerful, but so is the Arcanost, and the living outnumber the undead.”
“They wouldn’t know what had happened until we wanted them to. Phaedra has walked this city for months now unnoticed-humans excel at turning a blind eye to unsettling things.”
She stared into the sulfurous light of his eyes for a moment. He was a monster, both literally and as men judged such-a liar, a schemer, a murderer and manipulator, callous and cold. Small wonder, then, that she wanted to lean her head against his chest and let him comfort her. Already her magic quested toward him unbidden. Death loved a killer.
Isyllt drew a deep breath, closed her eyes and opened them again. “Not so blind as that. It will turn ugly and people will die-mortal and demon alike. It’s madness, and I won’t help you.”
He studied her, eyes glittering in the depths of his hood. “Then I can only tell you to stay out of our way. I’m fond of you, but Phaedra has no such weakness.”
She felt his glamour like a fog across her mind-she tried to fight, but by the time her vision cleared she shivered alone on the balcony.
Kiril resisted Phaedra’s entreaties to stay, but in the end couldn’t refuse to attend the Solstice ball. Only two days’ delay, he told himself. A chance to say a few discreet good-byes. He didn’t believe for a moment it would be so simple, but his newfound strength made it easier to ignore misgivings.
Phaedra’s magic worked. Unpleasant at first, both the consumption of blood the spell required and the lowering of his defenses, but after the initial nausea and dizziness faded he found his pulse strengthening, his breath coming easier than it had in years. All the little aches and scars he had grown accustomed to over the years faded from his awareness-no creaking knees, no aching wrists, no cold in his bones. Even the fatigue that had been his constant companion receded. It was dangerous, this demon gift, but his magic sparked inside him again, as it hadn’t in months, and for the moment he was willing to overlook the cost.
Three days ago the simple obfuscation he wore as he crossed the room would have pained him; now it was as simple as a breath, as it should be.
He found Varis lingering alone in a corner, which was unusual. Even more unusual was his costume-he wore
