Bone Palace, The - Amanda Downum Page 0,102
hadn’t meant to say it, not really, but too many dead bodies crowded behind her eyes. The woman’s velvet-clad shoulders squared as the dart struck home and Varis nearly stumbled on the deep carpet, and though Isyllt knew it was a foolish risk to antagonize them, the rush of exultation more than paid for it.
Neither Varis nor Phaedra responded, only continued down the stairs with their perfect grace intact. As they reached the final landing Phaedra’s veiled head turned, and Isyllt felt her regard like the weight of a hand. She had just made enemies of two powerful sorcerers—one with a penchant for slitting throats, and another who could ruin her career with a few well-placed words. At least, she thought as her stomach contracted, now she knew.
“What did you do?” Ciaran asked when she returned to his side.
“Something stupid.”
“Have you heard anything?” Isyllt asked Ciaran as they left the orpheum. Claiming a carriage from the mob in front of the theater would require more violence than she was willing to bother with, so they turned down a side street to avoid the press.
“About murders and disappearances and blood mages?” His hand twitched at his side, a warding gesture. “Someone is always going missing in Elysia. I’m not sure yet which might be connected to your case. There’s something else, though. About the vrykoloi.”
He paused, glancing into the dark mouth of an alley as they passed it. “Speaking of which—”
Her ring chilled and she spun, cursing heavy skirts and the lack of her knife as she shoved Ciaran behind her. A shadow moved in the alley. She hadn’t expected an attack this soon—
“No!” Ciaran grabbed her arm as her ring began to spark. An instant later the shadow resolved into a familiar shape. Isyllt swore as she lowered her hand, her pulse sharp and painful with unspent energy.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Azarné said, pausing on the edge of the light. Her eyes flashed red and gold. “But I thought we should speak. I’ve learned things about the graverobbers. About Spider.”
Isyllt nodded; his name was no surprise. “Yes, we should talk. But”—she didn’t glance over her shoulder, only because she knew it was useless—“Spider has been following me lately. I can’t guarantee you won’t be seen in my company.”
Azarné’s tiny mouth curled in a sneer. “I’m not afraid of him.”
Isyllt turned to Ciaran. “What about you?”
“I’ve survived being your friend for this long. I hardly see the point in stopping now.”
Her hand tightened on his arm before she let go. “All right,” she said to Azarné. “Meet me at my apartment and we’ll talk.”
Isyllt stirred the fire and took her hair down while they waited for Azarné, and put the kettle on. She wanted 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 Azarné’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?
Azarné’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