The Bone Palace by Amanda Downum

streets; regrets were useless. His chest burned by the time he reached his house on the far side of the quarter, but it was only the pain of tired lungs, not his traitorous heart. He’d owned the house for years, but only taken up residence the past spring, after the last disagreement with the king finally sealed the rift that had been growing for three years. Mathiros had never forgiven him for Lychandra’s death, for his failure to do the impossible. More bitter still were all the impossiblethings he had managed that the king had no knowledge of.
    Leaves drifted across the broad steps, scarlet and gold against pale stone. They crunched like bone underfoot, clung to the hem of his cloak. Lucky that he’d always been lax about calling servants in, fonder of privacy than swept walks or polished banisters. Careless intrusion now would end badly. A raven perched on the carven lintel, watching him with one coldly curious eye.
    The entry hall was dark, drapes and shutters drawn, but Kiril conjured no light as he climbed the curving marble stair. He knew he wasn’t alone before he reached the landing. The ease with which Phaedra passed his wards made his flesh crawl. No matter how softly he walked, the demoness heard him coming.
    A fire crackled in the bedchamber hearth and Phaedra lounged on a divan beside it. Her veils lay across the foot of the couch in a shimmer of bronze and ocher silk, and black curls spilled unbound around her shoulders. It was such a meticulously artless arrangement that amusement overcame his irritation.
    “Comfortable?” he asked, arching an eyebrow. The fire was too warm after the morning chill, but the cold pained her like an ague. He resisted the urge to throw open the shutters and heavy drapes.
    “I am.” She stretched slowly, and he wondered if undead limbs could stiffen. “Though you’re nearly out of wine.” She waved a lazy hand toward the flagon on the table; bangles chimed on her wrist.
    He bowed sardonically. “Forgive me. I’m not accustomed to entertaining these days.”
    She looked up through eyelashes thick with kohl. “Youkeep me quite entertained, Kirilos.” Looking at her face was a knife between the ribs every time; he held her gaze for as many heartbeats as he could stand it.
    Sorceress, demon, undead—she was treason clothed in stolen flesh. Once she had been a colleague, if never a friend. Now she was the greatest betrayal he had ever committed—of his king, his vows, the memory of those he’d loved. And perhaps most especially of his sanity. But it was his own fault she wore a stolen body; he had destroyed her own years ago.
    He could tell himself that she would be in the city without his involvement, that people would still die for her schemes and he wouldn’t be there to stop her. It might even be true. But no one would ever forgive him this if they knew.
    He turned before she might scry any hint of emotion on his face, tossing cloak and jacket across a chair. Heat bled quickly through his fine linen shirt, but that brought no comfort. He abandoned all of his tangled thoughts but the most pertinent.
    “We have a problem.”
    “Oh?” She sipped her wine, glancing at him over the rim of the goblet.
    “Your pet vampires bungled things.” He made no attempt to keep the anger from his voice as he related what Isyllt had told him about the ring and the murdered girl and the attack in the sewers. Phaedra’s involvement with the vrykoloi had made him uneasy from the start, and now all his misgivings were given shape. One bloodthirsty demon was bad enough.
    Phaedra frowned as she listened, a crease forming between arching black brows. Her eyebrows were muchthe same as those of her first face, and the prominent lines of her cheekbones. The thought unnerved him—had the resemblance always been there, or was it only a trick of memory? Her skin had been ice white then, her hair straight as a razor. He had never forgotten her face glowing with delight or pallid with