The Drowning City - Amanda Downum [54]
“Will the city survive if we do?”
“We’ll find out.” He turned into the shadow of an alley and was gone.
They took a longer route back to Raintree—some streets were still clogged with frantic people and all the skiffs had vanished. Isyllt’s wet shoes rubbed a blister as she walked.
“Do you know that man?” she asked Zhirin, cursing herself for not asking after the market.
“No. I thought I saw his mask near one of the boxes, though. He may be from the Khas.”
That would be all she needed, attracting the attention of yet another Khas agent.
Lights burned in windows all down Campion Street—people up late celebrating, or worrying over the news? But Vasilios’s house was black and cold.
Isyllt paused. She’d never seen the house without some sliver of light. “Could he have gone out?” she asked as they climbed the steps.
Zhirin frowned as she found the key on her belt. “So late, in this weather—it would be odd.” Isyllt nearly stopped her as she slid the key home, but the lock turned with no burst of flame.
But as they stepped across the threshold, Isyllt’s ring chilled. Her jaw tightened. “Something’s wrong.”
“What?” Adam asked.
“Someone’s dead.” She reached, listening, but heard nothing. Weak light spilled past her and she glanced down. No wet footprints marked the tile, no mud stained the rug but what clung to their shoes. “Adam?”
“I can’t tell. It smells like it usually does.”
She followed the chill upstairs to the study. A flutter of movement in the shadows made her tense, but it was only the curtains dancing in the damp breeze from an open window. The lamps were out and she conjured witchlight as they entered the room. Eyes flashed in the sudden glare and the cat hissed and vanished in a pale blur. Zhirin gasped.
Vasilios lay sprawled facedown across the carpet beside his chair, one arm twisted behind his back, the other reaching for his throat.
She moved closer to the corpse, the light floating in front of her. A length of silk circled his throat and his face was dark and swollen. Zhirin let out a choked sob.
Isyllt willed the light closer. The silk was blue, familiar. “Black Mother,” she whispered, stiffening. Her scarf, that she’d worn their second night in the city; she’d forgotten she lost it.
“Adam, check the house, and the back.”
He nodded and vanished down the black hallway.
Tugging her wet coat-skirts aside, she knelt beside Vasilios. No trace of a lingering ghost, of course—that would be too easy.
“What are you doing?” Zhirin asked as she reached for his face.
“Finding out what happened.”
The vision came quickly: She sits in the chair, a book in her gnarled and spotted hands, reading by the steady golden glow of a witchlight. No sound of footsteps, but a breath of displaced air warns of a presence in the room. She looks up, too slowly.
Only a flicker of darkness as the scarf loops over her head, then crushing pain as it draws tight. So strong—cutting off blood, crunching the windpipe. The light sputters and dies as she claws for her attacker. Or maybe that’s just her vision blacking…
Isyllt jerked away with a gasp, one hand flying to her throat. Her light flickered with her speeding heart.
As her pulse slowed, she realized Zhirin was gone. Then she heard the footsteps. Heavy booted feet rushing up the stairs. A lot of them. Lantern-light flooded the room as she spun.
And found herself facing an eagle-headed jinn and a troupe of red-clad soldiers. In front of the procession, Zhirin hugged herself, her face sickly in the unsteady light.
Asheris took off his mask and handed it to the closest soldier. He stared at Vasilios, then back at Isyllt.
“I hoped,” he said softly, “that they were wrong. We’ve had enough unpleasantness tonight.”
Isyllt rose, damp cloth peeling off her skin. “That who was wrong?”
“The anonymous person who reported a disturbance at the Medeion house.”
“And you came yourself? Aren’t you needed in the city right now?”
“The city guards have things in hand, as much as they can. More must wait for morning. And if