‘I would have thought you could sense a demon.’
At that, Mihály sat back. ‘The Church thinks it’s a demon now? Open-minded of them to consider a failure.’
Ilan drew himself up. ‘Ithink it is.’
‘And that’s why they aren’t letting you be in charge anymore, is that it?’ Mihály’s grin was the closing teeth of a bear trap.
A muscle in Ilan’s cheek twitched, a clear fight for composure. ‘Yes. And their attempt at fixing things is only going to make it worse.’ Ilan turned back to Csilla. ‘You heard Sandor’s new policy. He’s promising indulgence for turning neighbour on neighbour.’
Mihály cocked his head and gave half a shrug. ‘Not that I’m endorsing the method, but if they have information, maybe it will help.’
‘Anyone who has actual information would have already brought it to us,’ Ilan said. ‘Now they’re just trying to shove someone else in front of them to avoid suspicion, and our time is going to be wasted squeezing stones for blood.’
‘Torturing innocent people, you mean,’ Csilla said as her heart skipped. Mihály settled close beside her and put his hand on her leg for reassurance, and Ilan raised an eyebrow. Csilla didn’t shift. She wasn’t entirely comfortable, but it was rare to be offered comfort, even if it did lessen whatever opinion Ilan had of her.
Ilan nodded slowly. ‘And they’ll hate the Church for it.’
‘What does it matter to you if you’re whipping one citizen or ten, for sins you’ve catalogued or ones he’s trying to find?’ Mihály prodded, his fingers tightening on Csilla’s thigh in his passion. ‘They call you the wolf, but you’re really the Church’s dog, and the second they give word you’ll snap to heel.’
Ilan snarled in a way that did little to disprove Mihály’s assessment, but the Izir continued to stare him down. ‘So you don’t like the new man in charge. So the Church doesn’t believe your theory. Doesn’t mean we should help you.’
Ilan was going to walk out and take all his information with him. Whatever his feelings, he still knew more about themurders than they did. This was their chance to get help from someone on the inside.
She put her hand over Mihály’s, his fingers loosening to allow hers to slide through.
‘Mihály, he’s right. We don’t know what we’re doing.’ Regardless of what Ilan would say about what they planned to do with the killer, they didn’t have much hope of finding him alone. Ilan would be useful.
Mihály’s glare had a hint of betrayal, but he didn’t contradict her. He sighed, then moved his arm to slip around her shoulders. It was uncomfortably warm, but she forced a smile.
‘Fine,’ the Izir said finally, continuing to hold Csilla so she couldn’t even squirm. ‘But if you want to work with us, you see all of it.’
16
Ilan
In the sharp light of full day, agreeing to leave Silgard for whatever the Izir deemed necessary seemed like a terrible plan. The sun-dappled greens and lichen greys of the woods were soothing, and the scent of pine and dank leaf mulch called just as strongly as they had when he was a half-feral child galloping his parents’ lands, but he was far from the city that needed him.
Ilan was loathe to admit to mistakes, but that didn’t mean he didn’t make them.
Ilan unhitched Vihar beside the run-down farmhouse as Mihály helped Csilla down from the cart with care. Her gaze didn’t leave the Izir, but it wasn’t quite a look of devotion. It was concern.
Csilla trailed them to the barn, hands twisting in her skirts and pursed lips that spoke to questions. Her nerves needled his curiosity.
‘With all you’re willing to say in the city,’ he said to Mihály, ‘I can’t wait to see what you think you need to hide from us.’
Mihály merely unlocked the weathered door and pushed it open, letting dusted light slant over the carnage.
Whatever his opinion of the Izir, Ilan hadn’t imagined so much scattered fur and rot in his homestead. Dead animals, some dry and withered, some still bloated, littered the ground, and arabbit hung by its hind leg from a rafter, half-torn by yanking jaws that left the drying meat in dank strips. The whole thing stank of curdled blood.
So this rancid display was what the angel did when no one held him accountable. Ilan slid his gaze to Csilla, her lips pressed thin, but no surprise in her eyes. She had known about this. He never would have expected her to be so sunken into heresy already. Nothing in this macabre scene was mercy.
‘Shit. Something got in.’ Mihály lit a lantern and swung it in an arc of cast orange, but there was no scurrying in the shadows.
Ilan picked the ripped head of a fox from the ground, lifting its black lip with a thumb to examine the frozen fangs. If the Izir had been a hunter, he could respect it. But these weren’t food, and weren’t trophies. They were corpses, laid out without the care even animals deserved.
‘What is this?’
‘This is...’ The Izir paused, mouth working for the word. ‘Research.’
