The Bone Palace - Amanda Downum [8]
Intention. Plans, cold and cruel. Isyllt’s ring chilled.
She walked into the shadow of the alley, boots splashing in puddles, coatskirts slapping around her ankles. The air smelled of wet stone, and even her mage-trained eyes saw nothing but black. Still no trace of the woman’s ghost. Usually the young and violently killed were more likely to linger. Saints knew Birthgrave was crawling with specters, more than the exorcists could ever lay.
She worked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, recalling the taste of Forsythia’s blood. She whispered a word, not quite hoping for a response.
Nothing. Wherever the woman had bled out, it wasn’t here.
Isyllt let out an annoyed breath and turned around. And froze. Beyond the alley mouth stretched a familiar skyline. Sunset colors were long faded, only the stain of streetlamps against the low clouds to outline the buildings, but the angles were the same. Forsythia had stood here when she was kidnapped, and been returned after death.
At least the murderer was tidy.
A soft footstep scraped the stones behind her, followed by a quick intake of breath. “Come out,” Isyllt called as she spun. Witchlight licked her fingers, curled into a ball and hovered over her palm. Eerie opalescent light rose along the walls.
Another hesitant footstep, but the lurker didn’t bolt. “Come out,” she said again. “I won’t hurt you.”
Several heartbeats later, a girl stepped around the corner. Twelve or thirteen, Isyllt guessed, skinny and tousled. Her eyes widened as she saw the spellfire. “Sorcerer.” Her voice fluttered like a ragged-winged sparrow as she dipped a curtsy. She looked closer at Isyllt’s black ring, and her eyes widened more. “Necromancer.”
So much for not attracting attention; she should have worn another glove. “What’s your name?”
“Dahlia.”
Isyllt’s lips twisted. The girl was too young to work the Garden—some mothers were willing to brand their daughters. “You should be careful where you lurk, Dahlia, or we might be picking up your petals in another few hours.”
The girl blanched, iridescent shadows rippling over her face as she ducked her head. “Do you know who did it?”
“Not yet. Did you know Forsythia?”
Dahlia nodded.
“Who else knew her well?”
Thin shoulders rose in a shrug. “Mekaran knows her. Mekaran knows everyone.”
Isyllt gestured toward the street. “Let’s go.”
* * *
The Briar Patch lay just a few blocks down the Street of Thistles. A popular tavern, and open for at least another hour, but tonight lanterns dripped honeyed light onto empty tables. The clientele, never fond of Vigils, must have scattered when the constables came questioning. Now the sole musician played only for himself, a softer tune than boisterous Garden crowds usually asked for. Isyllt smiled.
“Go find Mekaran,” she told Dahlia, closing the door behind them. The cold night breeze cut through smoky spice-thick air. As the girl scurried for the kitchen, Isyllt turned toward the minstrel sitting on the dais.
His head was bowed over his kithara, but he watched her approach through dark lashes, fingers caressing strings and rich polished rosewood. Small hands for a musician, but clever. A smile creased one corner of his neat beard.
She pulled a coin from her pocket and dropped it in his bowl. Metal rang against wood.
“Slow night?” she asked as the song finished.
“Police are bad for business.”
“So is murder.”
He leaned down and kissed her. “Murder is your business. You’re cold.” He packed the instrument carefully and stepped off the stage. One arm snaked around her waist and pulled her close. Isyllt let herself lean into his warmth for a moment, inhaling the smoky herbal scent of his hair.
“But why this murder?” he asked. “Wasn’t it just a slasher?” Dark eyes met hers—earnest, honest eyes.
Isyllt chuckled. “What do you know, Ciaran? Don’t make me torture you.”
“I thought you were working.”
The kitchen door swung open and Isyllt disengaged