The Bone Palace - Amanda Downum [71]
“Birds,” Forsythia whispered, fingers twitching. “Birds watching me, following me for days. Whisper promised to meet me. We were going to disappear, leave the Garden and the tunnels and find somewhere safe. But he didn’t come.”
“What happened next?” Isyllt prompted when the silence stretched.
“Someone else came. Another vampire—his hands so cold and strong. I couldn’t see, and then he pressed a rag to my face.” She shook her head, hugging her shoulders. “It smelled awful, sharp and sickly sweet, and then there was nothing.”
“Sweet vitriol,” Isyllt muttered. A physician’s drug, or a slaver’s. “This other vampire—you’re sure it wasn’t Whisper?”
“Of course! He would never hurt me. And when this one grabbed me, he was taller than Whisper.”
“Do you remember anything else?”
The ghost nodded miserably. “I woke again later. I don’t know how long. My eyes were still covered.”
“What else did you notice?”
“It was cold. The air was stale and I could still smell the stink of the drug. I lay on stone—my leg was numb from it. They were talking. Arguing.”
“They?”
“The vampire and a woman.”
“What did they say?”
“He said… I was a distraction, and I had to be dealt with. That Whisper was endangering the tunnels with his visits and gifts.” Her hand rose to the neck of her dress again, and Isyllt wondered if that was where the ring had been sewn. “She said—” She shook her head again. “I don’t know. I was cold and scared and confused, and I couldn’t concentrate. I’m not remembering it right.”
“You’re doing fine.” Isyllt stood and took Forsythia’s cold ephemeral hands in hers after all. Her bones ached by the time she eased the dead woman onto the edge of the bed. “Everything you can think of will help me.” Behind them, Dahlia scrambled away from the spreading chill. The room was too small for four people, even if one was less substantial than the rest.
“I couldn’t concentrate,” the woman said again, calmer now. “I felt sick, and I was sure if I moved I would vomit. My head ached. And even worse, my skin crawled like I was covered in insects. Everything felt… wrong. Not only me, but the air, the stones under me. I couldn’t even be frightened, it was so terrible. I’ve never felt anything like it.”
Isyllt frowned; she had, only days ago. But she couldn’t trust too much in the memories of a woman blind and sick with drugs. “What did the woman say?”
“I don’t remember.” She sounded regretful now, not defensive. “I was too busy trying not to be sick. But at first I thought she didn’t want to kill me. Then she was standing over me and she was angry. You let them use you, she said, and now you’ll die for it, and no one will save you or mourn for you. You’ll be forgotten. I was terrified then, and crying, and she knelt and caught my face in her hands. None of us are innocent, she said. Her hands were cold and strong as the vampire’s, but all I could smell was her perfume—orange and cinnamon. Then they hauled me up. I vomited, and they swore but didn’t let go. I was screaming and choking. I tried to fight but they were both too strong.”
Forsythia shook now, a deep bone-wracking shudder; Isyllt shook too, from shared horror and chill. Mekaran leaned close, his painted mask cracking with grief, but either fear or sense kept him from interrupting.
“They bent me over a table. Hands on my arms and hands in my hair, and I couldn’t tell who held me and who held the knife. The blade was cold for an instant, and then hot—the blood was hot and then cold where it soaked my dress. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream, couldn’t get the stink of blood and bile out of my nose. Everything grew colder and colder—”
As she spoke, the white skin of her throat parted and tenebrous black blood spooled down her chest. Her mouth worked but her voice faded to a wet hiccupping gasp. Panic twisted her face and the darkness