Her smile felt tight. “Somewhere in between. It’s important.”
He moved between eye-blinks, between heartbeats. She never saw him stir, and then he had closed two yards to stand beside her, stooping till his face was near hers. Not yellow like an animal’s, his eyes, but brilliant and crystalline as brimstone. His nostrils flared. “Your heart is beating very fast.”
Isyllt tilted her head and smiled, breathing in his unnerving aroma of decaying leaves and anise, old blood and older earth. “You do have that effect on me.”
Fangs flashed with his laugh. “Would you like to see my scars?”
“Maybe some other night. I want to see the elders before dawn.”
Spider sighed—an affectation, since she was certain he didn’t need breath—and stepped back. “Oh, very well. Your companion—”
“Comes with me,” Isyllt said. She was willing to risk both their lives on Ciaran’s discretion. He’d use anything as fodder for a song, but could usually be convinced to change the important bits.
Spider nodded. “Then follow me, witch. I’ll take you down.”
In another flickering movement he vanished down the tunnel. Ciaran’s hand closed on Isyllt’s elbow, and she wasn’t sure whom he meant to reassure.
Spider led them deeper into the earth, through narrow twisting crawlspaces that she and Ciaran cursed and struggled their way through. The walls glistened with moisture, sparked with flecks of crystal. She was thoroughly lost before long; only the vrykoloi’s goodwill would see them safely out again. The silver knife weighed heavy on her back.
Finally the cramped corridor opened, only to end abruptly in a black pit. Isyllt sent her witchlight dancing over the precipice, but its glow couldn’t reach the bottom.
“Watch your step,” Spider said, laying a cold hand on her arm.
“Do we fly down from here?”
His eyes glittered. “Almost.”
And before she could reply, he scooped her into his arms and leapt over the edge.
Isyllt didn’t scream, mostly because she didn’t have enough breath. A dizzying rush of air, then the jolt of landing. Spider’s long legs absorbed most of the impact, but the force still rippled through her hard enough to
crack her teeth together. Her control slipped and the light went out.
She couldn’t breathe. Spider’s arms, impossibly strong for their gauntness, cradled her against his chest. Her heart tripped against her ribs and her stomach thought it was still falling. Colors swam in front of her as her eyes strained against the black and the taste of blood filled her mouth; she’d bitten her lip.
Spider’s breath wafted cold against her cheek. “I remember what you taste like.” His tongue, long and rough as a cat’s, brushed her mouth and she shuddered.
Then he was gone. Wavering on her feet, she called the light again in time to see him scurrying up the rock, nimble as his namesake. He returned a moment later carrying Ciaran.
“Don’t worry,” he said as he deposited the minstrel. “That’s nearly the hardest part.”
The light flickered treacherously across the floor, but couldn’t touch the walls or ceiling. No matter how softly Isyllt stepped, the scuff of boot-soles on stone carried through the wide empty space. Sweat chilled beneath her jacket.
Ciaran took her arm again as they followed the vampire, making a show of helping her over the uneven ground. “Why did I come with you, again?”
“Because you love me. And because I’m going to pay you.”
“As long as I had a good reason.” His fingers tightened on her sleeve, warm through the leather.
The sloping cavern floor ended at wide stone doors. Skulls embedded in white rock grinned madly in the capering light. Human and otherwise, some so foreign Isyllt had
no idea what their original owners might have looked like. The gates of the vampires’ ossuary palace, through which very few mortals had ever returned alive.
Spider turned. “Douse your light, little witch. Some of my brethren have more delicate eyes than I.”
She swallowed and felt Ciaran’s tension through his fingers. The opalescent light died and darkness rushed over them, so thick she could taste it. The door opened with a soft scrape and dank air gusted out, fragrant with stone and the snake-musky sweetness of the vrykoloi. Like walking into an animal’s den, but so much worse; goose pimples stung her skin.
Spider’s long fingers claimed her right hand and glove leather slipped against sweat-greased flesh. “Follow me.”
Death breathed over her as they walked, whispered in her head; her ring spat diamond sparks. Ghostlights glimmered in the darkness, pinpoints of blue and green. Not enough to see by, but they gave her an idea of the great size of the chamber. The floor was slick underfoot now, smooth as polished flagstones. Water dripped in the distance, a slow plink into a pool that scattered echoes through the black.
They weren’t alone. Isyllt felt eyes on them, felt whispering voices too faint to hear. Surrounded. Ciaran held her crippled hand tight enough to ache, and her right was trapped in Spider’s. She wouldn’t reach her knife in time if they were attacked. Sweat trickled down her back, soaking her linen camisole. Her heart beat strong and fast in her throat.
Isyllt smiled, baring her teeth to the dark. Somewhere in the shadows, laughter answered.
Spider paused for a moment, squeezing her hand when
she drew breath to speak. Then he turned. “Lady Tenebris will see you, but your friend waits here.”
Isyllt’s left hand tightened awkwardly on Ciaran’s. “Don’t worry, little witch,” the vampire said, amusement coloring his voice. “You’re our guests here. Perhaps the bard will sing for us—we seldom host musicians.”
“Far be it from me to refuse an audience,” Ciaran said. His voice was calm, despite his trembling hands. “I’d be honored.”
Isyllt brushed his arm in reassurance before Spider’s hand closed on her elbow and pulled her forward again.
He led her down a flight of shallow steps. The air grew closer around her, dust tickling her nose. The smell of snakes and old blood grew stronger and she fought a sneeze. Her shoulder brushed a doorway as he steered her to the right and she felt the closeness of walls.
“There’s a chair in front of you,” he said. “The Lady will join you soon.”
Isyllt moved carefully forward until her knees bumped stone. A bench, strewn with pillows of threadbare velvet and soft-worn brocade. The stone leeched warmth from her flesh as she sat. She tugged off her right glove, shaking her hand dry. Her breath was harsh and loud in the stillness.
An icy draft heralded the vrykola’s arrival, a
presence
that made the hair on Isyllt’s nape prickle. She rose and bowed low, grateful not to stumble or crack her head on anything.
Tenebris’s laugh crawled over her skin, cold and slick as oil. “You sit so bravely in the dark.” A match crackled and orange-gold light blossomed, brilliant enough to make Isyllt’s eyes water. A candle flame quickened and acrid blue smoke coiled through the air. “Is that better?”
“Yes, Lady. Thank you.” Isyllt blinked back moisture and reached for the chain around her neck. The room was smaller than she’d imagined after the vastness of the hall outside, low-ceilinged and narrow. Tattered hangings draped the walls, and a broken chair crouched in the far corner. “My master sends his greetings, and gifts.” Gems slithered into her palm, warm from her skin. Amethysts glowed in the candlelight and opals spat iridescent fire.
“Lovely,” Tenebris murmured. Shadows trailed her like gossamer, fluttering from her gaunt limbs. Isyllt couldn’t see her features, save for a faint glitter of eyes and the flash of teeth when she spoke.
Aphra and Tenebris were old, the oldest of the vrykoloi as far as Kiril knew, and they were even less human than Spider. Arcanost scholars knew very little about the origins of the vrykoloi, and even scientific curiosity and prestige weren’t enough for most to brave the undercity. Isyllt wondered if she could scavenge the beginnings of a monograph from this audience.
Tenebris spilled the jewels from palm to palm in a shimmering stream. “Send my regards to Lord Orfion. It is a pity we don’t speak as we once did, but the years weigh heavy.”
Isyllt looked at her hands to hide her frown.
“Aphra won’t join us tonight,” the vrykola said, turning away. Her shadow-draperies fluttered farther from the light. “She sleeps much lately, and is not easily roused. What is it that we can do for you, necromancer?”
Isyllt swallowed, her throat dry. “Some of your people have taken up tomb robbing, Lady.”
Tenebris paused. Or more aptly, she
stilled
. For a
heartbeat Isyllt had no sense that anything else was in the room with her. “Tomb robbing?”
“The royal crypts, no less. The late queen’s jewelry was stolen.”
One gaunt hand waved, shedding darkness like a flame shedding smoke. “Which queen is that, child? I fear I’ve lost track.”
“Lychandra, wife to Mathiros Alexios, who still reigns.”
“Alexios. Pity the Severoi aren’t still on the throne. Or the Korinthes—I remember them. What makes you think vrykoloi were responsible for this theft?”
“I smelled them, Lady. It’s not a scent easily counterfeited.”
Tenebris chuckled again. “No, I imagine it is not.” Silence filled the room again, wrapping them in cold coils.
“The king hasn’t heard of this yet,” Isyllt finally said, “but when he does he’ll be… angry. His temper is easily ignited, especially where his wife is concerned.”
“I fear I cannot help you. Aphra and I would never countenance such a thing, but there are those who stray from the fold, who don’t follow the order of the catacombs. I can claim no responsibility for these rabble, nor hope to chastise them to any effect.”
Isyllt swallowed again. “My master and I would keep this from the king, if possible, but to do that we must recover what was stolen. Is there nothing you can do to help us?”
Tenebris sighed, a sound like slow-pouring water. “I shall inquire. Perhaps one of the young ones has seen something, heard something.” She melted from one shadow to another and stood beside Isyllt; the candle didn’t flicker in her passage. “I smell your blood. It’s… distracting.”
Isyllt pressed her tongue against her sore lip; the taste of metal filled her mouth. Her shoulders tightened and tingled. Tenebris’s hand brushed her cheek, silk-wrapped bones like the sticks of a lady’s fan.
Then she was gone, back on the far side of the room. “It’s better when we sleep. Sleep is soothing, dulls these appetites.” She glided toward the door. “It would be best if you returned to the upper world, necromancer. Investigate as you will. Perhaps Spider can help you—he is still young and curious, and doesn’t yet feel the pull of earth. He was fond of the last mage who braved the underground, too.” Her voice chilled. “If you find these rabble who threaten our peace, dispose of them as you see fit.”
With that, Isyllt was alone.
Biting back another frown, she called witchlight as she left the room, trailing it behind her so she wasn’t blind. Bones glimmered against grey stone, intricate swirls of phalanges and vertebrae bleached slick and pale as cream, ribs curving like buttresses along the ceiling. The death-sense of the place dizzied her; her ring was a band of ice.
She might have lost herself in the twisting ossuary corridors, but she heard the familiar sound of Ciaran’s voice. His smoky baritone led her back to the broad stairs and into the main hall. A smile tugged her lips as she recognized the ballad—of course Ciaran would sing love songs to vampires.
Her tiny light glittered on walls inlaid with gems and bone. A cathedral, all soaring columns and statued alcoves. She wanted to stop and gawk, but forced herself to keep walking, eyes on Ciaran.
He sat on a bench against the wall, surrounded by his deathly audience. A few of them fled at her light, melting
into the shadows or skittering up the walls like insects, but most remained, giving her no more than a passing glance. She waited till he finished the last verse and silence filled the vaulted room once more. Eerie eyes glittered, reflecting opalescent flame. No tears, but the rapt expressions on bone-pale faces were just as eloquent.
Ciaran smiled as she approached, his face alight. He loved an audience, no matter how unusual. “Sound carries beautifully in here. It would make a marvelous concert hall.”
“You should discuss that with Lady Tenebris the next time we visit. But I’m afraid we need to leave now.” She glanced at the gathered crowd, but recognized none of the faces. “Where’s Spider?”
“Here,” the vampire said, appearing at her elbow. “I’ll escort you up.”
The vampires stared at Ciaran as he stood and straightened his coat, their eyes hungry. He bowed with a flourish as graceful as any he might offer a crowd at the Briar Patch, or an orpheum. A slender arm reached out of the shadows, almost shyly, and pressed something into his hand. Isyllt caught his sleeve and pulled him away before anyone demanded an encore.
When the tall stone doors shut behind, Isyllt finally let out a sigh. The back of her neck still prickled furiously and her muscles were strung tight as kithara strings.
Spider smiled crookedly. “How was your meeting?”
She kept walking. “Trying,” she said at last, voice low. “She doesn’t care about any of this. It’s not just our skins—” a vague upward gesture encompassed the city above them “—I’m trying to save, you know.”