in bittersweet spices. The fumes burned her sinuses, and the first sip seared her throat with viridian fire and made her eyes prickle. The burn eased into a lingering sweetness and she sighed. “As you were saying?”
Spider turned his glass between long fingers. “What Tenebris said about rabble is true, but there’s more to the matter than that.” He stared at his untasted drink, strands of cobweb-fine hair drifting in front of his face. “You saw her—sluggish as a snake in winter. That’s what happens to us when we age.”
Isyllt took a cube of herb-veined cheese from the tray and waited. For a moment she wondered if he’d lapsed into hibernation himself.
“Aphra and Tenebris only want to sleep, and they would gladly bury the rest of us in their tomb as well, deny us the light. This doesn’t sit well with some of the young ones.”
“So they stray from the fold?” She sipped verdigris, its fire filling her stomach and licking through her veins. At least Spider had good taste.
He nodded, eyes glittering yellow in the candlelight. “Some run off, commit whatever foolishness catches their fancy.”
“Like mortal lovers and tomb-robbing.” She split a date with one fingernail and plucked out the pit. “What do the others do?” she asked, swallowing the sticky-sweet flesh.
He turned serious again—she preferred him mocking. “Some of us want to change things.”
Isyllt raised her eyebrows. “You sound like a revolutionary.”
He stretched closer, folding his long body over the table. “I do.”
A laugh caught in her throat and crumbled dry as dust. Her left hand curled before she could stop it, till healed fractures and silver-pinned tendon ached. She still had nightmares sometimes, though she never admitted them to anyone—dreams of the knife that stole her hand, and the blood and ash that followed.
“Let the elders sleep away the centuries,” he continued. “I’m tired of hiding in the dark, away from the wind and sky, not able to walk the streets for fear of torches and silver.”
Isyllt met his eyes, the impossible yellow of sulfur and buttercups. “You’re serious.”
“I am. I want your help.”
He reached for her hand again, but she pulled back and refilled her glass instead. “Why? What could I do?”
“You have influence in the overground. You know the king.”
She shook her head, and hardly felt her wounded shoulder through the warmth of alcohol in her too-thin blood. “Barely, and through unpleasant circumstances. I don’t have his ear.”
Spider shrugged. “You know those who do. The spirits whisper about you, you know. I’m not the only demon you’ve allowed to live, am I? You treat us like something more than abominations to be destroyed.”
“My service to the Crown sometimes calls for strange bedfellows. But the Arcanost and the temples rule the mages of Erisín, and neither of them countenance demons.”
“They might be made to learn. I want to renew the truce, on better terms.”
“The truce will fall to pieces as soon as Mathiros returns.”
“We’ll catch the thieves, return what was stolen. Find the ones who hurt you.” He took her hand again, held it tight. “We can help each other.”
Verdigris scorched her throat, hitting her stomach with a burst of heat. Her voice was raw when she spoke. “Help me catch the thieves, and we’ll continue this conversation.” It was a lie, she told herself. She couldn’t get involved for so many reasons, not the least of which were her nightmares. But she wasn’t about to admit that.
He lifted her hand to his cold lips. “I knew I could count on you.”
“Show me progress before you add me to your revolution.”
His smile gleamed. “Don’t worry. They’re rabble, as Tenebris said. We’ll track them down.”
“Tonight? The trail is likely already cold.”
“You’re wounded and need rest. Tomorrow we can hunt.” He tilted his head, watched her from under pale lashes. “I thought perhaps we could continue another conversation tonight.”
She shivered. Her blood was spice and fire; the smoky air dizzied her. “You still want to show me your scars?”
“Among other things.”
Isyllt laughed, trying to ignore the tightness in her stomach. Too much drink, too little food. Too much old grief. She should find Ciaran, find somewhere warm….
Spider raised her hand to his lips again, rough tongue flicking over one fingertip. She shuddered, but didn’t pull away. A fang pierced her skin. She closed her eyes, biting her tongue to stay silent.
Spider released her. A jewel-bright drop of blood glistened on his lip. “You look sad, little witch. What’s the matter?”