again.
Phaedra smiled, and that too was familiar and all the more terrible for it. “Startling, isn’t it? I still catch myself off guard in mirrors. Varis spoke of your cleverness, but I admit I didn’t think you’d make it this far. But not unscathed.” One cold finger touched Savedra’s face, came away pink and sticky.
She held out a long brown hand. Seeing no safer option, Savedra took it, letting the demon draw her to her feet. Her dagger slid from the folds of her skirts and clattered against the floor.
“What are you doing to her?” she asked, looking down at Ginevra.
“Keeping her safe. If she were awake she would only wear herself out with panic.” The sorceress hadn’t let go of Savedra’s hand; she raised it now to study the ruby ring. Identical stones shone on her fingers. Savedra tensed for wrath, but all Phaedra said was, “Wherever did you find this?”
“In Carnavas,” she answered, her mouth dry and sticky. “In your workroom.” At least Phaedra’s demon birds weren’t here now-that was something to be thankful for.
“Ah. I always wondered what happened to it.” Luminous orange eyes moved from Savedra to Ginevra and back again. “Would you like her?”
Savedra blinked stupidly. “What?”
“This body. I thought at first to wear it myself, but we came up with a better plan.” Her gaze softened, the dead woman’s face ghastly with sympathy. “I understand what it’s like to be trapped in the wrong flesh. Varis explained it to me-the cruel trick of your birth. I could fix it. It’s the least I can do for him. I’m not entirely sure how the process would work between two anixeroi,” she said, frowning, “but it would be a fascinating experiment.”
Savedra’s mouth opened and closed again on an unspoken denial. She stared at Ginevra’s slender limbs, her smooth cheeks, the rise and fall of her breast. Beautiful and graceful and feminine, even bound and filthy. Everything Savedra had ever wanted to be, everything she was in her dreams until waking returned her to the truth.
“Is it so simple?” she asked. Would the hijra call it miraculous, or abhorrent?
“It’s not
“It would make me a demon.”
“That’s a broad, clumsy word that the Arcanost relies on too heavily. But strictly speaking, a demon is created from the merging of flesh-living or dead-and a spirit or a ghost. I’m not sure what you would call the transfer of a living soul into a different living body.”
Madness, Savedra would call it. Abomination. Temptation.
Nikos had always said he loved her, not the flesh she wore. Did he really mean that?
“No,” she said at last. “I can’t.”
Phaedra frowned. “You could if you were desperate enough. But never mind. I can certainly find a use for her myself.”
“Please. Where is Nikos? I need to see him.”
“You came to rescue him? How sweet.” Phaedra gestured toward another doorway. “He’s here.”
The adjoining room looked like a mad sorcerer’s laboratory ought-vials and bottles and dishes, books lining the walls and lamps and candles cluttered on tables. In the center of the room on a stone bench lay Nikos. His shirt and jacket were gone, revealing hand-shaped bruises on his shoulders and short, scabbed cuts tracking the vein down one forearm. Savedra’s heart clenched, but he still breathed.
“What are you doing to him?”
“Transfusion. I drain his blood-slowly, of course-and replace it with my own. When enough is replaced, I can transfer my mind and my power with it. I balked at first, about wearing a man’s flesh, but Spider convinced me that was foolish. It’s just another experiment, after all, not to mention the quickest means to our end.”
“And what happens to Nikos?”
Phaedra paused. “He’ll be consumed. Subsumed. Some memories may linger-I collect more every time I do this.” She touched her temple as if they pained her.
“You can’t,” Savedra said. “Please, you can’t. Let him go.”
Phaedra’s eyes flickered toward her. “Can’t I?” she snapped. But her temper died. “Is he anything like his father?”
Savedra shook her head. It took her two tries to manage “No.”
“A pity, then.” She brushed a stray curl off his brow; his eyes flickered beneath pale lids. “Speaking of his father-” She smiled, and it looked nothing like Lychandra. This was a predator’s smile. “I think I hear him coming now.”
Isyllt met Mathiros Alexios at the base of the tower, and came perilously close to regicide when he materialized out of the fog beside her.
“Majesty.” She lowered her knife. His face was ashen and wild-eyed; scratches dripped blood down his cheek and brow, and more blood glistened on his drawn sword. Demon or mortal she couldn’t say.
She thought he might attack her, but his gaze focused. “Iskaldur. What are you doing here?”
“Looking for your son, Majesty, and for the woman responsible.”
“Phaedra.” A whisper, more to himself than to her. She couldn’t keep the surprise from her face. “Yes,” he said with a harsh laugh. “I know her name. I remember her.” His eyes narrowed. “You know.”
No point in dissembling now. “I’ve heard the story.”
Black brows pulled together. “And do you think I deserve whatever fate she has in mind for me?”
“Yes. But she’s a madwoman who’s already tearing the city apart, and Nikos doesn’t deserve to suffer because you were an idiot. Your Majesty.”
Mathiros’s scowl broke and he laughed, harsh and raw. “I should have taken you to the Steppes after all. The horselords would like you.”
“I’ll bear that in mind when this is over.” She gestured toward the tower. “Phaedra is up there, somewhere, and likely Nikos too. Shall we go up?”
She expected tricks and traps, but the way was clear. Past the dizzying taint of the stones, she felt power gathering at the top of the stairs.
Phaedra waited for them, still clothed in white and stolen flesh. Not the gown she’d worn to the masque, but a new one of silver-trimmed velvet. Not a practical color for a haematurge. It didn’t flatter her complexion, but was striking all the same.
Mathiros stumbled on the last step. “Lychandra-”
“No.”
“No.” He dragged a hand across his face; blood smeared from his cuts, welled fresh. “No. Phaedra.”
Isyllt shuddered at her smile. “Yes. You do remember.”
“Phaedra!” Isyllt’s hand tightened on her knife as those orange eyes turned to her. “Spider is dead. You’ve lost your vampires. The palace is warned about you. It’s over.”
The demon blinked. “Even if that’s true, I have the king and the crown prince.”
“And me to deal with.”
Her lips curled. “I can stop the prince’s heart where I stand. But enough threats-go home, necromancer. For Kiril’s sake I’ll spare you.”
“This has nothing to do with any of them,” Mathiros said. “This is between us.”
Phaedra nodded. “Yes. Come inside.”
Mathiros squared his shoulders and stepped into the room. Isyllt, cursing, followed. Magic settled over her, rustred and sticky, nearly tangible as Phaedra’s power grew. It spread in webs throughout the room, winding around the woman who sprawled in the corner-Ginevra Jsutien, and that was one mystery solved.
“Where is Nikos?” Mathiros asked.
“Here.” She led them to an adjoining room, where Nikos lay on a stone bench. Savedra knelt beside him, murmuring softly and insistently as she tried to help him up. Her hazel eyes flashed white when she saw Phaedra and the king.
“If I-” Mathiros’s throat worked under his beard. “If I surrender to you, will you let Nikos free?”
“I have no desire to harm him,” Phaedra said.
