Bone Palace, The - Amanda Downum Page 0,35
breeze and piling in the gutters till feet and hooves crushed them against the stones.
They left Inkstone, winding deeper and deeper into the city’s heart, where the streets were still busy so late. No one spared them a glance. Spider made no sound as he walked; if not for the strength of his arm in hers, she would have thought him no more substantial than a shadow.
She recognized the path he followed just before they turned into a dark alley mouth. Even so, her shoulder throbbed a warning as they stepped into the shadows. Spider felt her hesitation and smiled, a flash of ivory teeth.
The alley ended at an iron door set in a rough stone wall. Rust traced twisting spirals across the metal, dripped down the frame like dry blood. But for all its age, the door opened soundlessly beneath Spider’s hand. A narrow stair led down, lit at the bottom by dim red light. Smoky air wafted up, redolent of poppies and wine and warm human skin. Spider stood aside, gesturing Isyllt ahead of him.
Kiril had brought her here years before on an investigation. As much to entertain her, she thought later, as for the information they found. The place had been hallowed ground once, a section of catacombs, before a demon infestation led to the burning of the temple and the tombs below. Shops had been built aboveground, but the charred tunnels below remained. Old spells whispered to her as she descended, traces of long-broken magic lingering in the stones.
The patrons called it Sanctuary now, only half joking. It was known for the quality of its wine and opium, and for the darkness of its tables. It was a haven for well-off criminals and those who played at spies. And maybe those who did more than play. Interesting things could be overheard there, if one listened carefully enough.
She stepped out of the stairwell into a long, low room. Music drifted through the air, haunting pipes and low throbbing drums, the musicians hidden behind carved sandalwood screens. Red and violet lanterns stained the smoky haze that shrouded the ceiling. Isyllt stifled a sneeze.
Spider steered her through the foyer to a velvet-curtained alcove. His hooded cloak was standard attire for this place—Isyllt’s bare face and hair felt much too exposed. She kept her hands in her coat pockets, concealing the telltale stone and equally telling injury.
Dark wood paneled the booth, and the light of the single candle slid like water across its well-oiled surface. Spider shrugged back his cloak, revealing a coat of worn grey brocade. By candlelight his face was the color of yellowed bone.
A young woman appeared to take their order. If she noticed that Spider wasn’t human, she gave no sign. An abundance of tact, Isyllt wondered, or were demons really so common in the city? It would have bothered her to think so once, but for the past two and a half years she’d held a steady correspondence with a demon. He sent her presents every summer.
“Have you learned anything?” Isyllt asked when the girl was gone, turning her attention back to the demon across from her. She leaned back against the cushioned seat and crossed her legs.
He waved a hand. “Have some patience, witch. Can’t I enjoy your company for a moment without discussing business? It’s vulgar.”
Isyllt scooped a spoonful of crushed lavender and anise from a bowl on the table and poured it onto the nicked and polished boards. Dusty sweetness filled the air as she traced a sigil of silence through the powdered seeds and flowers. “A vampire lectures me on manners?” She rolled her eyes. “Besides, my company can’t be that enjoyable.”
He leaned forward, crystalline eyes abruptly serious. “You’ve seen my home. Do you think I don’t want something different now and then?” He took her hand, caressing her palm with one gloved thumb. “Do you think I don’t yearn for a little warmth?” His fingers strayed to the hollow of her wrist.
She tugged her hand free. “Yes, wet and pumping from an artery.”
He chuckled, low and dark. “That too.”
The serving girl returned with a tray of liquor and food. Spider pressed coins into her hand and pulled the curtain shut behind her.
“Vulgar business first,” Isyllt said, “or you’ll feel the warmth of Mathiros’s torches.”
Spider sighed. “As you wish.” He uncorked the bottle and a heady green scent filled the alcove. The liquor was the same murky green as the verdigris for which it was named.
Isyllt raised her narrow glass, breathing