black teeth in a grin, daring Isyllt to challenge it.
She could have destroyed it easily, or banished it beyond the city walls. But Ashlin and Denaris were already urging their horses on, and she had no time. She let a little of the night’s chill into her heart, and rode on.
The smell of ash worsened as they neared the city’s heart, and the shouts and crashes grew louder. The sorrel flicked his ears but didn’t slow. At the end of the street they met a police barricade; torchlight washed the Vigils’ orange coats bloody. Constables wheeled at their approach. Isyllt caught the shine of a raised pistol before Captain Denaris rode forward in her white-and-grey uniform.
“What’s going on, Sergeant?” asked the captain, finding the coat with the most black bars on the sleeve. Isyllt kept her eyes on the nervous constable.
“The refugees started the riot, but now half of Birthgrave has joined in.” The woman spat in the thickening snow. “Those bastards are always looking for a reason to start trouble. Now they’re looting and burning anything they come across.”
Isyllt’s hands ached. Leather creaked, and she realized she was twisting the reins. How often had this woman ever been in Birthgrave? Orangecoats were notoriously rare on those streets, especially when trouble was near. Her horse snorted, unimpressed by her temper, and she forced her shoulders to relax.
“No,” said the sergeant in response to something Denaris had said. “This is our jurisdiction, Captain, and we’re not opening this barricade. Find another way in. Or better still, go home.”
“Is there another way?” Savedra asked, leaning close.
Isyllt shook her head. “It would cost us hours at this rate.”
“We don’t have hours!”
“Don’t worry.” She tugged off her right glove. “I’ll get us through.”
Ghostlight flared brighter than the torches. This the horses didn’t like, but she stroked her gelding’s neck and he held steady.
“You’re correct about jurisdiction, Sergeant.” The witchlight’s pale glare washed the woman’s face sallow and ghastly, and showed her fear very well indeed. “But the royal guard and the Arcanost would both appreciate your assistance in this matter.”
The sergeant’s resolve folded before Isyllt could press further. “Of c-course, Necromancer.” She lifted a hand, but her men were already scurrying to move a section of the barricade.
Isyllt smiled; the cold made her teeth ache. Denaris led her horse through the gap, and Ashlin and Savedra followed. Isyllt’s cruelty wasn’t entirely spent. “Thank you, Sergeant. We would welcome assistance, if you have anyone to spare.”
“I—” The other Vigils shifted backward nervously while their leader stammered. “That is, my men are needed here, to hold the line.”
“Of course.” She nudged her horse toward the barricade, then paused. “Oh, have you any word of Inspector Shar’s cohort?”
The sergeant shook her head. “I think they were among the first to respond, so they may be deeper inside this mess. Beyond that—” She shrugged.
Isyllt nodded and urged her gelding through the gap. The Vigils were replacing the barricade as his tail cleared the opening.
Once Isyllt would have thought the scene inside something from a nightmare, a Mortificant’s vision of hell. She’d seen worse since, but not much. Flames licked from rooftop to rooftop, and gouts of smoke shredded in the wind to choke them. Snow was trampled to slush, grey with dirt and ash and sometimes dark with blood. Broken glass glittered vermilion amid the filth.
“Saints!” gasped Savedra, even as Isyllt’s ring chilled with a different flavor of death.
Gaunt shapes crouched on a rooftop across from the barricade, eyes blazing by firelight. Razor teeth flashed with their laughter. Vrykoloi, at least four. More than Isyllt had ever seen outside of the catacombs. Spider’s young rebels, come to feast in the chaos.
“What are they?” Ashlin asked, her hand on her sword.
“Vampires.”
“What do we do?”
“Ride on,” Isyllt said, her mouth dry and bitter with smoke. “We have no time, and we’re not their prey tonight.”
Ashlin’s eyes narrowed. “Who is?”
“Anyone without swords or spells.” Isyllt set heels to her unhappy horse, leading them deeper into the burning quarter.
They passed tendrils of the mob, shouting and smashing windows and pounding on doors, and smaller clusters of looters. Some families fled burning apartments; others lingered, faces ghostly behind barred windows. Praying, no doubt, that fire and violence passed them by. Victims and instigators both turned to the riders, but Denaris urged them all away. She and Ashlin carried naked blades, the steel not yet stained—boots and warnings and the bulk of their mounts would only protect them so long.