“Other than the fact that Asten clearly likes me more? That has to count for something.”
Ilan’s fists clenched, and Csilla had a sudden vision of scrubbing blood of various degrees of holiness out of the rug. She put a hand on Mihály’s arm, but he wasn’t in the mood to be pacified.
“Go back to the church. This doesn’t concern you.”
Ilan’s frown deepened. “It’s in my city, it most certainly does. If I can catch that killer I can get my position back. Hopefully before this town rots even more.” There was something grave and unsettling in his gaze, and Csilla rubbed her scars. Ever since she’d touched the body, they’d prickled like an ivy rash.
Mihály raised an eyebrow. “And we help you. When you do get your position back, what of us? The killer’s trail is lined with heresy. When you’re back in charge, will you remember what you saw and bring your justice down on us? We’re trying to clear my name, not ruin it.”
Ilan opened his mouth, but Csilla cut him off, even as it pained her to do so. “You promised you’d listen.”
He shifted, looking to her. “And I did. Now I’m starting to feel like I made a mistake. This is no path to Asten’s return.”
“Then we don’t need your help,” Mihály said. “No doubt there are plenty of people breathing a sigh of relief you’re not in charge of their souls anymore.”
“I don’t trust Sandor.” Ilan’s voice was level, but there was murder in his gaze. Csilla edged her way in front of Mihály. The church had wanted him dead once. Ilan could probably get away with trying it again.
“Of course you don’t, he stole your job.” Mihály’s words were strained with incredulity. “Coming to us is a bit extreme, don’t you think? If you truly believe we’re evil, you’re risking your own eternity being here.”
It was true. Of the three of them, Ilan was the only one with something to lose.
“You were at the club too, weren’t you?” Ilan asked, looking Mihály in the eyes. “Maybe I should bring you in...”
He shot Csilla a look that set off fresh guilt. He didn’t know what happened. “Why? I left right after Csilla. Lost my appetite. You can ask anyone there.”
“Mihaly,” Csilla started. “Someone was killed there. In the exact same way.”
Mihály’s eyes widened. “But we were just there. I didn’t see anything.”
“No one ever sees anything,” Ilan said, voice clipped. “That’s the trouble. You’re very sure you didn’t see anything? No one with a darkness on them?”
“I don’t know that I would have been able to tell. I don’t carry church glass.”
“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.”
“I think it is. Or something close, a human already far past salvation.”
“And that’s why the church isn’t letting you be in charge anymore, is that it?”
Csilla started to ask how he knew, but the change in Ilan’s uniform was clear enough. As was the way he seethed.
“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 neighbor on neighbor.”
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, clipped. “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 cataloged 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 the murders 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.
“And Ilan,” she continued. “Mihály will trust you.”
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 grays 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.