The Bone Palace - Amanda Downum [101]
The odds of him sleeping at this hour were just as good as her own. Sure enough, she found a light burning in his bedroom window. She didn’t bother to knock, simply laid a hand on the door and let the wards recognize her.
She waited shivering on the doorstep for several moments, till she began to suspect that he’d fallen asleep with the light on. Finally he opened the door, fully dressed and frowning.
“I know it’s an unholy hour,” she said lightly, “but you needn’t look that unhappy to see me.” She meant it as a jest, not a jibe, but he didn’t smile. “What’s the matter?”
“A long night.” He stepped aside slowly, as if reluctant to admit her. He didn’t offer to take her coat. She tried to pretend the ache in her chest was only the aftermath of her illness. “For you as well, I take it.”
The front of the house was nearly as cold as the night outside, and had an air of disuse about it—less the smell of dust as a lack of the usual polish. That in itself wasn’t unusual, but combined with his drawn face and distance it wedged another splinter of worry under her heart. And she knew voicing any concern would only cause him to pull further away.
“An interesting night,” she said, keeping her fears away from her face and voice. She doubted she succeeded entirely—after fifteen years she couldn’t lie to him any better than he could to her. “There’s more to this case than tomb-robbing vampires.”
Kiril stilled. “The case that the prince and I suggested you let lie?”
She didn’t cross her arms defensively, but it was a near thing. “I’m not satisfied with what I’ve found.”
“Some mysteries bring no satisfaction with the solving.”
“Even so.”
“I could order you to stop.”
She nodded, and now her arms did cross, slow and deliberate. “You could.”
He smiled tiredly. “So stubborn. I can’t imagine where you learned such a thing. Why defy me on this?”
She shrugged. “I promised to find Forsythia’s killer.”
He didn’t wince, but she saw his discomfort. “Promises to the dead rarely bring satisfaction either.”
Her composure cracked and she swayed forward, forcing a traitorous hand back to her side. “What’s wrong? Tell me and I can help you.”
An unfamiliar scent filled her nose as she drew close. Not the usual amalgam of spices that clung to Kiril’s skin, but orange and cinnamon and almond, delicately blended. A woman’s perfume.
Jealousy was an ugly, irrational thing, but that didn’t keep its claws out of her chest. Even uglier was the memory that followed hard on its heels, the echo of Forsythia’s hollow voice: All I could smell was her perfume—orange and spices.
Coincidence, she prayed. It has to be coincidence. But she knew it had no obligation to be anything of the sort.
Kiril missed the instant’s horror on her face by turning away. “I can’t,” he said. “I’m sorry. I can only ask you to please leave this case alone. For everyone’s sake.”
“I can’t do that. Will you bind me?” He could, as her master and the keeper of her oaths. It was not an option that either of them had ever voiced before.
He winced, but she took no pleasure in the strike. “No.”
“Then I suppose we’ve run out of conversation.”
“Isyllt—” She turned, one hand on the doorknob. His eyes were black holes in his seamed face, and he looked frailer than she’d ever seen. Shrunken. “I am sorry.”
“So am I.”
She closed the door softly behind her and fled into the fog.
As she closed the door of her suite behind her, Savedra knew she wasn’t alone. Her knife was in her hand before she could think, her already taut nerves singing and her pulse hard and fierce in her throat.
“It’s only me,” Ashlin