“I know.” Spider took her arm with casual grace. “That’s what happens to the very old ones. They grow torpid,
dull. All they want to do is sleep, the rest of the world be damned.”
“She said you might help me.”
He nodded, pale hair drifting like cobwebs around his face. “I will, little witch, I will.” The doors vanished into shadow behind them and soon the light lapped at the cliff wall they’d descended. “I’ll listen in the dark and see what I find.”
She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “And how is it that you know what to listen for?”
He grinned. “I’m very good at listening in the dark.”
“Who was the other mage Tenebris mentioned, who you were so fond of?”
“Another sorceress, years ago. Decades, it must be. She wanted to learn our secrets, and even managed to charm one or two out of us. She’s dead now, I fear.”
He turned at the wall instead of hauling them back up the way they’d come as Isyllt expected. “There’s an easier way back.” He led them to a narrow door in the rock, where a stair twisted up into shadow.
Isyllt raised her eyebrows. “You couldn’t have brought us down this way?”
“It’s not as much fun.” He bent close, till she could smell his coppery poison-sweet breath. “I’ll find you when I have something to report.” He bowed over her hand and pressed a cold kiss against her knuckles. “The stair will take you back to the bottom of your sewers. Don’t use it again without permission.”
Before she could speak he was gone, leaving only a lingering chill in her flesh.
The stair was narrow and low, with only room for one at a time to pass. The steep uneven stairs were worn
shallow in the centers, and Isyllt wondered how long the vrykoloi had passed this way in the silent dark.
Ciaran went first, the light bobbing ahead of him. Darkness crawled up the stairs in their wake, whispering against Isyllt’s back. Her skin still tingled with the aftermath of nerves. A liability, Kiril called her craving for danger, but he understood it. They waded in death, drank it and swallowed it whole; sometimes it was good to be reminded that they still lived, and wanted to go on living.
“What did the vrykola give you?” she asked Ciaran as they climbed.
He paused to fish in his trouser pocket and pulled out a coin. Gold, crusted along the edge with a dark grime Isyllt didn’t care to identify. The profile stamped on the face wasn’t one she recognized. Ciaran peered at it for a moment, then laughed.
“It’s a chrysaor.” The winged boar that had been the crest of House Korinthes. “She tipped me with two-hundred-year-old gold.”
As her pulse slowed she felt the long walk down. Her legs burned and her breath ached in her lungs. By the time they reached the top of the stairs even so small a magic as the witchlight drained her strength, and fatigue laid a heavy yoke across her shoulders.
The reek of the sewers struck them as the stones swung open, thick and fetid after the smell of rock and earth. The door closed silently behind them, blending seamlessly into the rough wall of the tunnel.
Ciaran sighed, the sound nearly lost in the rush of water. “I need a drink. Come back to the Briar with me—the Crown’s treat.”
Isyllt chuckled. Dust and mud itched on her face and
scalp and she craved a hot bath, but wine and pleasant company might suffice. “I think the Crown can afford a bottle or two—”
She broke off as the sapphire began to pulse against her chest and the sharpness of surgical spirits cut through the sewer reek. That and the intake of Ciaran’s breath were all the warning she had.
Weight hit her from behind, driving her to the floor and scoring her palms on stone as she caught herself. Cold hands held her, pinning her arms and clamping her jaw. Much too strong. Ciaran shouted.
Steely fingers yanked her head to the side, ripped at her collar. She twisted, but couldn’t break free, tensed against the strike—
Needles through her skin, sinking into flesh where neck met shoulder. Razor teeth, jaws like a vise. She screamed once, short and sharp. Only a moment till the poison started to work.
Her knife gouged her spine as the vampire’s weight pressed her down; she couldn’t reach the dagger in her boot. But blades had never been her weapon of choice. The witchlight exploded, from candle wisp to blazing star, a burst of light and searing cold.
Someone shrieked. Teeth ripped out of her shoulder, blood gushing. Isyllt pushed to her feet, dragging the kukri free of her ruined jacket. The silver blade shattered the light, threw back shards of brilliance. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she didn’t see the vampire’s rush in time to dodge it.
He caught her low in the stomach, driving the air from her lungs and lifting her off the floor. She stabbed wild and clumsy as they both became airborne.
The water hit her like a wall. Frothing current buffeted them, grabbed her leather clothes and pulled her down. The vampire sank with her, their limbs tangled together. Grit and debris rushed past them, stinging Isyllt’s eyes. Rank, sour water flooded her mouth and she tried not to gag. She shoved left-handed against the vampire’s face, slicing her glove open on a fang. His hand caught her right wrist and forced the blade away. Her back bumped the bottom of the canal, scraping along slime-slick stone as the water bore them on. Her shoulder burned; her lungs burned.
Burned. Burning. A gentle warmth coursing through her veins, soothing aching flesh and taking the pain away…
The venom of a vampire’s bite, working its way into her blood. The poison that calmed their prey, rendered them quiet and pliable while the vrykoloi drank their life away. She’d felt it before with Spider, as sweet and strong as poppy wine once it took hold.
The vampire’s grip numbed her arm—her strength was nothing against his. But she wasn’t alone.
Her diamond flared. Leather cracked and peeled and flaked away, and the spectral glow lit up the water as trapped ghosts answered her call. Their terrible chill seared her bones.
The vampire recoiled from the light, face hidden behind writhing dark hair. His hold loosened and Isyllt swung her knife. Clumsy, hampered by wet leather and wounded shoulder, but the blade sliced along his stomach. Black blood clouded the water, shredding and dissolving in the flow. She thought her lungs would burst as she kicked upward.
She gasped as she broke the surface, lungs screaming. Her right arm was numb to the elbow; she could barely feel the knife hilt against her hand. Her clothing dragged her down, threatened to pull her under again.
A hand closed on hers and lifted her out of the sewer. She gasped in pain as she fell onto stone, scraping her knuckles as she tried to keep hold of her weapon. The witchlight was gone, drowned in the morass of her pain and panic.
“Saints, you reek.” Spider’s voice. She struggled to her knees, raising the knife. “Put that down, witch.”
“Who—” She gulped another breath. Her stomach roiled. “Who was that?”
“I believe that was the rabble Tenebris mentioned.”
Starbursts of color swam in front of her eyes. She felt warm, though she couldn’t stop shivering. Heat trickled down her shoulder. Calling another light was an effort, and the flame sputtered and wept incandescent sparks. “Where’s Ciaran?”
Spider shielded his eyes with one long hand and pointed down the tunnel. “Back there. He’s in better shape than you.”
With trembling fingers she unbuckled her torn jacket and peeled it off. Her blood was nearly black in the eerie glow. The pain made her bite her already tender lip, but it wasn’t as bad as it should be. The poison would take hours to work out of her body. Languorous warmth lapped inside her head, promising peace if she would only close her eyes….
She shook her head, the pain in her neck holding lethargy at bay. Her stomach cramped and she retched, spitting fetid water and the remains of her lunch over the
stones. She scrubbed a hand over her mouth and tried to control the nausea. Spider’s mouth quirked, but he wisely remained silent.
When her head stopped spinning she took the vampire’s proffered hand and leaned on his arm. The current had carried her farther than she’d realized. “What happened to the one who attacked me? I doubt I killed him.” A situation she would remedy if she had another chance. Her boots squelched with every step, water shifting between her toes.
Spider shrugged. “The water took him. I’ll try to find his trail once you and your friend are safely gone.”
She glanced up at him, eyes narrowing. “How did you know to come back?”
“I caught Azarné following you. I thought she meant you harm.”
“Azarné?”
“Her.” He pointed to a slender shape crouching beside Ciaran.
The light spilled over a delicate face half-hidden under elf-locked black hair. The vrykola who’d given Ciaran the coin. Eyes wide and gold as an owl’s stared up at Isyllt. “I wouldn’t have hurt you.” Her voice was soft and husky and accented. “I only wanted more music.”
Isyllt knelt by Ciaran and brought the light closer. Blood trickled down one side of his face, but his eyes were clear. He wrinkled his nose at the reek that clung to her. “Are you all right?” she asked.
He nodded carefully. “A bit bruised, but whole. The lovely lady intervened before things became unpleasant.” He picked up Azarné’s small bronze hand and kissed her knuckles. She blinked, hair sliding over her face.
“It was Myca,” the vrykola said. “He didn’t stay to fight me.” Her tiny mouth twisted with distaste.
Spider frowned. “Who attacked Isyllt?”
Azarné shrugged. “I didn’t see. They were already in the water.”
Ciaran stood, wiping at the blood on his face. Only a little cut on his scalp, Isyllt thought, but she wanted to inspect it in better light. Her own bleeding had slowed, but she was already dizzy. Her head pounded and the witchlight sputtered with every throb. The sapphire was silent once more.
“Let’s get you home,” Spider said, glancing down the dark tunnel.
D
awn stole past the windows as Isyllt and Ciaran soaked in her wide wooden tub, and candle-shadows danced across the high-beamed ceiling. Cooling water lapped over her breasts, thick with myrrh and poppy oils; Ciaran’s chest was warm and solid behind her, his clever hands lulling her as he stroked her uninjured shoulder. She’d drained one tub-full already, flushing grime and filth back to the sewers where they belonged. The wet bandage stung the wound, but vrykoloi bites healed fast, and her magic would kill any infection that tried to grow in her flesh.
Ciaran’s lips on her nape startled her awake as the world greyed around the edges. “You’ll drown if you’re not careful.” He nudged her until she sighed and pushed herself to her feet. Tendrils of hair clung to her skin as she rose, like ink bleeding from a brush.
“I should try to find their trail while the sun is up,” she said as he helped her out of the tub and wrapped her in
a towel. His touch sent warmth and gooseflesh rippling down her skin in turns; the poison’s effects lingered.
“You should sleep, or you’ll pass out anyway.” He steered her toward the bedroom, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind them.
Heavy curtains covered the windows in her room and the hearth was cold. She climbed into the high draperied bed, heedless of wet sheets. Big enough for two, like the tub, but she most often slept alone. When she couldn’t find an excuse not to sleep at all.
Ciaran lay down beside her, wrapping a feather quilt around them. “Will you rest now, or do I have to sing you to sleep?”
Isyllt brushed light fingers over his face, tracing the bruise purpling on his brow. “I nearly got you hurt tonight.” Or worse. “I’m sorry.”
He caught her hand and kissed her fingertips. “If I was afraid of harm, I certainly wouldn’t keep company with you.” She felt his smile. “You can send my payment round to the Briar.” He kissed the hollow of her wrist, humming softly. “Are you going to sleep now?”
She smiled and twined her fingers through his curling damp hair. “Not if you keep doing that.”
He hummed another bar, trailing his lips up her arm to her collarbone. His mouth brushed the uninjured side of her throat and she tilted her head back, ignoring the pain. Her fingers tightened in his hair, her left hand sliding down his back.
She stiffened as her wards tingled. Ciaran chuckled, and she sighed and rolled out of bed, securing her slipping towel. Her stomach tightened as she recognized Kiril, and all the warmth Ciaran’s touch had conjured drained away in a rush.
“What are you doing about at this hour?” she asked as she opened the door, trying to keep her voice light. Her fingers clenched in nubby linen.
Kiril blinked down at her and frowned. He touched her shoulder, brushing the edge of the bandage. “What happened?”
“An unfriendly vampire.” The smell of herbs and magic dizzied her and she leaned into his touch before she could stop herself.
His brows pulled together and he cupped her cheek with one calloused palm. “Are you all right?”
“I will be.” She covered his hand with her crippled one. “They escaped, but I’ll try to pick up the trail after I’ve rested a bit.” His pulse beat against her skin and she tightened her grip on the towel. “It was them. The tomb-robbers. But I didn’t see their faces.”