“We’ll find them.” He turned his hand to catch hers, tracing his thumb over the web of scars she wore like a lace glove. “I won’t let you get hurt again.”
That made her laugh, despite the tightness in her stomach. “I get myself hurt. I learned from the best.”
He smiled ruefully. “True.” His eyes flickered toward the bedroom and the smile twisted. “I’m glad you have someone to look after you.”
“Kiril—” His name caught in her throat.
He squeezed her hand. “I know. I made my choices—I have no business regretting them now.”
“You can always unmake them.”
He laid a finger on her lips. “I’m sorry. I only came to see that you were all right, and to hear what you’d learned.” His face darkened as he touched the bandage again. “We’ll find the ones who did this.” He brushed a
damp strand of hair out of her face and kissed her forehead. “But first, rest.”
He turned and left before she could speak.
Tears burned her aching eyes as Isyllt stumbled back to the bedroom. Ciaran pulled her close, stroking her tangled hair while she cried.
“Enough foolish grief for any tragedy,” she whispered against his shoulder.
He rocked her gently and sang her lullabies until she finally slept.
The sun crested the line of the eastern mountains as Kiril left Isyllt’s apartment, chasing away the blue softness of dawn and spilling long shadows across the ground. Fog coiled thick as milk in the streets, slowly unraveling in the light. Smoke drifted across the sky and temple bells tolled the start of morning rites, rousing faithful and faithless alike. The narrow arch of the rear entrance framed the sloping streets and sun-gilt spires, windows sparkling bright as gems. The beauty of the city at daybreak still caught in his throat sometimes, even after so many years. Much the way his hand ached with the memory of Isyllt’s cheek.
For all the familiar morning clatter, this corner of Archlight was too quiet for the hour. Besides the sorcerers who had ridden north with the king, there were always students who chose the uncertainty of a soldier’s life to the certainty of a scholar’s poverty. How many of those two hundred dead might have taken classes when they returned?
He should never have let Isyllt go underground. Which was ridiculous—besides the fact that she was well-trained
and knew all the dangers, asking her not to take a risk would only make her more determined to do so. Telling her not to do her job would raise a dozen questions, each sharper than the last. And he had long forfeited the right to ask her to stay out of harm’s way for his sake.
Old fool
. And more folly, his resolve still wavered every time he saw her. Three years of nothing but mentor and pupil, as they should have stayed from the beginning. Three years, and she still asked him to unmake his choice. He breathed deep, trying to banish the smell of her hair with the stink of the streets.
He had put her in danger from the very beginning, of course, from the moment he recruited her. Trained her and used her and sent her out to kill or be killed. His loyalty to the king had demanded it, and he never hesitated. She knew the price of the game, he’d told himself, she accepted it. But after the last assignment cost her a hand, and his own relationship with the king grew strained and bitter, he had sworn to himself that he wouldn’t see her hurt that way again.
And now his secrets had nearly killed her once more.
He shook such worthless thoughts aside, focusing on the strain in his muscles instead, the creak of his knees as he climbed the winding staircased streets; regrets were useless. His chest burned by the time he reached his house on the far side of the quarter, but it was only the pain of tired lungs, not his traitorous heart. He’d owned the house for years, but only taken up residence the past spring, after the last disagreement with the king finally sealed the rift that had been growing for three years. Mathiros had never forgiven him for Lychandra’s death, for his failure to do the impossible. More bitter still were all the impossible
things he had managed that the king had no knowledge of.
Leaves drifted across the broad steps, scarlet and gold against pale stone. They crunched like bone underfoot, clung to the hem of his cloak. Lucky that he’d always been lax about calling servants in, fonder of privacy than swept walks or polished banisters. Careless intrusion now would end badly. A raven perched on the carven lintel, watching him with one coldly curious eye.
The entry hall was dark, drapes and shutters drawn, but Kiril conjured no light as he climbed the curving marble stair. He knew he wasn’t alone before he reached the landing. The ease with which Phaedra passed his wards made his flesh crawl. No matter how softly he walked, the demoness heard him coming.
A fire crackled in the bedchamber hearth and Phaedra lounged on a divan beside it. Her veils lay across the foot of the couch in a shimmer of bronze and ocher silk, and black curls spilled unbound around her shoulders. It was such a meticulously artless arrangement that amusement overcame his irritation.
“Comfortable?” he asked, arching an eyebrow. The fire was too warm after the morning chill, but the cold pained her like an ague. He resisted the urge to throw open the shutters and heavy drapes.
“I am.” She stretched slowly, and he wondered if undead limbs could stiffen. “Though you’re nearly out of wine.” She waved a lazy hand toward the flagon on the table; bangles chimed on her wrist.
He bowed sardonically. “Forgive me. I’m not accustomed to entertaining these days.”
She looked up through eyelashes thick with kohl. “You
keep me quite entertained, Kirilos.” Looking at her face was a knife between the ribs every time; he held her gaze for as many heartbeats as he could stand it.
Sorceress, demon, undead—she was treason clothed in stolen flesh. Once she had been a colleague, if never a friend. Now she was the greatest betrayal he had ever committed—of his king, his vows, the memory of those he’d loved. And perhaps most especially of his sanity. But it was his own fault she wore a stolen body; he had destroyed her own years ago.
He could tell himself that she would be in the city without his involvement, that people would still die for her schemes and he wouldn’t be there to stop her. It might even be true. But no one would ever forgive him this if they knew.
He turned before she might scry any hint of emotion on his face, tossing cloak and jacket across a chair. Heat bled quickly through his fine linen shirt, but that brought no comfort. He abandoned all of his tangled thoughts but the most pertinent.
“We have a problem.”
“Oh?” She sipped her wine, glancing at him over the rim of the goblet.
“Your pet vampires bungled things.” He made no attempt to keep the anger from his voice as he related what Isyllt had told him about the ring and the murdered girl and the attack in the sewers. Phaedra’s involvement with the vrykoloi had made him uneasy from the start, and now all his misgivings were given shape. One bloodthirsty demon was bad enough.
Phaedra frowned as she listened, a crease forming between arching black brows. Her eyebrows were much
the same as those of her first face, and the prominent lines of her cheekbones. The thought unnerved him—had the resemblance always been there, or was it only a trick of memory? Her skin had been ice white then, her hair straight as a razor. He had never forgotten her face glowing with delight or pallid with anger, nor transfigured in horror as she fell. His hand clenched, as it had the day he’d let her fall.
He turned away from the chasm of memories, so sickened by them that he almost missed her words.
“Fools,” she said softly. “I knew she would be trouble, but not about the ring.”
He gathered his scattered wits. “What did you know?”
“About the girl. About the vrykolos’s… indiscretion with her.” Painted lips twisted. “I didn’t know he was fool enough to give her a royal signet, or I would have searched the body.”
Anger chilled him. “You killed her and didn’t have the sense to do something with the corpse? Even the river would have done the work for us.” He knew better than to antagonize her, but the next words slipped out anyway. “You killed an innocent girl because it was
expedient
?”
He had the satisfaction of seeing her flinch. Then she uncoiled from the couch like an asp, and her eyes sparkled bright as Iskari amber. Demon eyes. “I learned from the best, didn’t I? And none of us were ever innocent. Isn’t that what you told yourself—what Mathiros told himself? That I had brought it on myself? Temptress, harlot, witch.”
Rusty orange skirts swirled around her ankles like a forest fire as she advanced on him, gilt thread flashing. Her perfume burned too, cinnamon and orange and bitter almonds, crawling into his nose. But her hand was cold
when it closed on his jaw—no hearth was warm enough to chase the death-chill from her flesh.
“I never called you those things,” he said mildly, controlling his pulse when it wanted to leap. She could break his jaw without effort, and her magic was at least a match for his own—more so in his weakened state. If anyone deserved to take his life, it was Phaedra, but he had no intention of giving it to her.
“No.” Her touch melted from steel to silk, fingertips trailing down his neck, nails rasping against his beard. “No, not you. Do I tempt you now, Kirilos?”
“I have no taste for dead kisses.”
She leaned in, breasts cold and yielding against his chest. “I won’t be dead forever. I’ll be warm again. I can make you young and strong again, too.”
It was not the first time she’d offered; the prospect intrigued and repulsed him. He stepped away, carefully plucking her cold brown hand off his shirt collar. “Not if your schemes are blown before Mathiros returns. We must retrieve what was stolen. Before anyone else is hurt.”
Her mouth curled. “Why aren’t you with your apprentice now, if her health concerns you so?”
“She has others to tend to her.”
She circled him, slow and predatory, running her fingers down his spine. “Poor Kiril. I don’t understand this celibacy of yours.”
“I can’t imagine you often worry about sparing others pain.” Or sparing herself pain, for that matter.
A knock at the door downstairs and the accompanying chime of wards spared them both. Kiril recognized the inquisitive touch of magic and released the lock with a thought, sealing it again after the door had shut.
Varis appeared a moment later, framing himself in the doorway for a beat before stepping into the room. He had always been good with entrances, Kiril thought wryly, and even better with exits. Today he wore a coat of claret velvet with silver embroidery thick on the sleeves and dove grey trousers and high boots. Restrained for him, but it was also much earlier than he usually came visiting. When he moved closer, Kiril saw fatigue shadows beneath his maquillage.
Varis cocked one penciled brow, looking pointedly from Kiril to Phaedra and back again. Garnets glittered in his ears, and white lace rose from beneath his high velvet collar to frame the line of his jaw. “This is a fraught little tableau. Am I interrupting something?”
“Nothing,” Kiril said with a sigh, sinking into the chair on top of his crumpled cloak, “except the litany of our sins.”
A flick of Varis’s slender wrist dismissed those. His rings flashed, pigeon’s blood ruby and orange sapphire, lesser emeralds and topazes, but no diamonds; Varis was one of the cleverest mages Kiril knew, but never a vinculator. “I hear sins and litanies every night, darling. Surely you have something more interesting.”
Not for the first time, Kiril wished that it hadn’t been Varis who’d brought Phaedra to him. If she could only have snared someone else in her schemes, someone he wouldn’t miss if forced to kill. But Varis had always been fascinated by her, and just as fascinated by secrets and clever sorcery and flaunting rules. And he had his own reasons to despise the Alexioi.
Kiril recounted again everything Isyllt had told him about the investigation. He didn’t mention Phaedra’s
involvement in the prostitute’s death, though he wasn’t sure exactly why—it wasn’t as though Varis had innocence to preserve. He expected another flippant response, but by the time he finished Varis had paled to a sickly shade of paste.
“Saints and specters,” he whispered. “So that’s it. Damn.” He began to pace, short measured strides scuffing against carpets and clicking on tile. “Your apprentice told the prince, and the prince told Savedra.”
Kiril’s spine stiffened. “Told her what, exactly?”
“I don’t know. Everything, I imagine. She was asking about vampires yesterday, with much too convenient an excuse.” He stopped his circuit and flung himself into another chair. Phaedra watched him with an expression somewhere between amusement and befuddlement and Kiril nearly laughed—Varis had that effect on people. The pale sorcerer sighed, rubbing a hand over his scalp. “We know entirely too many inquisitive people.”
“We’ll take care of it,” Phaedra promised. Kiril didn’t have the energy left to argue with her.
Silence fell between them, broken only by the crackling of the hearth. They were, Kiril thought, an unlikely conspiracy. Varis was known for his dissipation and excess, and despite a brief assignment at the Selafaïn embassy in Iskar over twenty years ago no one imagined he might have a political thought in his head. No one remembered or cared about the rumors that had attended his birth: his mother had held the old king’s regard, and been removed from court too hastily; her marriage to her cousin Tselios had also been too hasty, especially to account for Varis’s birth; Nikolaos Alexios had had the same pale blue eyes, so uncommon in Selafaïns. It could have been the makings
of a terrible scandal, but had faded instead into obscurity.