Bone Palace, The - Amanda Downum Page 0,33
what she is—but Phaedra’s eyes had already widened, shining with manic light. He remembered her wild moods from her first life; death had done nothing to settle them. Some physicians thought that her particular combination of mania, black despair, and violent temper was an illness, an imbalance of humors or aethers. But if it were a physical malady, shouldn’t it have died with her first body? A defect of the soul, perhaps? Or was she simply so used to being mad that it had become habit?
He set the problem aside—he had no time to write a dissertation about her, however fascinating it would be. By now she and Varis were deep in a conversation about fashion and milliners, and how one could be properly fitted without showing one’s face. This was an argument he wouldn’t win, and he had no strength to waste on it. He rose, wincing as his joints popped, and left them to their folly. The demon might have finished his wine, but hopefully she’d left the whiskey in the study intact.
Isyllt woke to a fire dying in the hearth and warm light edging the curtains. Ciaran’s spiced-smoke scent clung to her sheets, but the bed was cold and the house echoed empty to her outstretched senses. Gone back to the Briar Patch to sing for his supper.
Supper seemed a sensible plan—rat’s teeth of hunger gnawed her stomach, and her mouth was parched and aching, but inspection of her pantry found nothing but a bunch of shriveling grapes and a heel of bread gone green around the edges. She’d neglected the market again. If the landlady’s daughter didn’t occasionally offer to go for her, Isyllt suspected she’d starve.
Uncovering her bathroom mirror did nothing to cheer her; her hair hung in rattails around her face and dried tears crusted her lashes. Her eyes were bruised and sunken and her shoulder throbbed. Her bones felt scraped hollow. After running another bath and combing her hair with poppy oil to banish the phantom sewer-stink, she removed the bandage from her shoulder and examined the wound.
A double crescent of teeth-marks, bruised and seeping. More savage than a human could inflict, but not quite animal in shape. Her neck and shoulder were swollen, and the flesh and muscle around the bite ached more furiously than the punctures. Her cheeks were already mottling with fever as her magic fought infection. When it healed, it would be nearly identical to the scar Spider had given her.
Staring at the twin bites, an idea sparked bright enough to make her swear. She swore again as she threw the silk cover back over the mirror, and several times more as she struggled into her clothes. By the time she was dressed, the pain in her shoulder dizzied her and sunset painted low clouds gilt and cinnabar. Not enough daylight to brave the sewers, but early enough that she might still catch Khelséa at her cohort’s headquarters.
Two hours later, she and the inspector sat in the Sepulcher once more. Isyllt sat, at least, perched on the table next to Forsythia while Khelséa measured both bite wounds. The dead woman was holding up well with the chill and a light preservation spell, but someone else in the racks had started to go off; Isyllt wondered if anyone who worked here could enjoy the smell of roses again.
“This is how you tread lightly?” Khelséa said, angling for better light.
Isyllt winced as calipers pressed tender flesh. “It’s progress. I found the bastards, didn’t I?”
“Next time try holding on.” Khelséa turned away, scribbling measurements and rough sketches on a scrap of paper. “These two are definitely different. Your old scar and Forsythia’s don’t match, either.”
“What about the new one?”
Her dark face creased in a frown. “The distension from the swelling”—at this she poked the swelling in question hard enough to make Isyllt yelp—“makes it difficult to get a clear comparison.” She tapped her stick of charcoal against the paper. “But the canines seem to be the same distance apart, and the shape of the jaw is similar. I can’t be certain until you’ve healed a bit, but they may well be from the same vampire.”
“So I found Forsythia’s lover. Charming.” Isyllt let Khelséa replace the dressing, then tugged her shirt up again. “Which explains how she came by the ring, but not how or why—or where—she died.” Her stomach growled as she slid off the table.
“No question how you’ll die,” Khelséa said. “If stupidity doesn’t get you, starvation will.”
“Misadventure, darling, misadventure. So