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Copyright © Sarah J. Maas, 2020

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Sarah J. Maas.

For Taran—

The brightest star in my sky

CONTENTS

Part I: The Hollow

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Part II: The Trench

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Part III: The Canyon

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Part IV: The Ravine

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy-One

Chapter Seventy-Two

Chapter Seventy-Three

Chapter Seventy-Four

Chapter Seventy-Five

Chapter Seventy-Six

Chapter Seventy-Seven

Chapter Seventy-Eight

Chapter Seventy-Nine

Chapter Eighty

Chapter Eighty-One

Chapter Eighty-Two

Chapter Eighty-Three

Chapter Eighty-Four

Chapter Eighty-Five

Chapter Eighty-Six

Chapter Eighty-Seven

Chapter Eighty-Eight

Chapter Eighty-Nine

Chapter Ninety

Chapter Ninety-One

Chapter Ninety-Two

Chapter Ninety-Three

Chapter Ninety-Four

Chapter Ninety-Five

Chapter Ninety-Six

Chapter Ninety-Seven

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

THE FOUR HOUSES OF MIDGARD

As decreed in 33 V.E. by the Imperial Senate in the Eternal City

HOUSE OF EARTH AND BLOOD

Shifters, humans, witches, ordinary animals, and many others to whom

Cthona calls, as well as some chosen by Luna HOUSE OF SKY AND BREATH

Malakim (angels), Fae, elementals, sprites,* and those who are blessed by

Solas, along with some favored by Luna HOUSE OF MANY WATERS

River-spirits, mer, water beasts, nymphs, kelpies, nøkks, and others watched

over by Ogenas HOUSE OF FLAME AND SHADOW

Daemonaki, Reapers, wraiths, vampyrs, draki, dragons, necromancers, and many wicked and unnamed things that even Urd herself cannot see *Sprites were kicked out of their House as a result of their participation in the Fall, and are now considered Lowers, though many of them refuse to accept this.

PART I

THE HOLLOW

1

There was a wolf at the gallery door.

Which meant it must be Thursday, which meant Bryce had to be really

gods-damned tired if she relied on Danika’s comings and goings to figure out what day it was.

The heavy metal door to Griffin Antiquities thudded with the impact of

the wolf’s fist—a fist that Bryce knew ended in metallic-purple painted nails in dire need of a manicure. A heartbeat later, a female voice barked, half-muffled through the steel, “Open the Hel up, B. It’s hot as shit out here!”

Seated at the desk in the modest gallery showroom, Bryce smirked and

pulled up the front door’s video feed. Tucking a strand of her wine-red hair behind a pointed ear, she asked into the intercom, “Why are you covered in dirt? You look like you’ve been rootling through the garbage.”

“What the fuck does rootling mean?” Danika hopped from foot to foot,

sweat gleaming on her brow. She wiped at it with a filthy hand, smearing the black liquid splattered there.

“You’d know if you ever picked up a book, Danika.” Glad for the break

in what had been a morning of tedious research, Bryce smiled as she rose from the desk. With no exterior windows, the gallery’s extensive surveillance equipment served as her only warning of who stood beyond its thick walls. Even with her sharp half-Fae hearing, she couldn’t make out much beyond the iron door save for the occasional banging fist. The building’s unadorned sandstone walls belied the latest tech and grade A

spellwork that kept it operational and preserved many of the books in the archives below.

As if merely thinking about the level beneath Bryce’s high heels had

summoned her, a little voice asked from behind the six-inch-thick archives door to her left, “Is that Danika?”

“Yes, Lehabah.” Bryce wrapped her hand around the front door’s

handle. The enchantments on it hummed against her palm, slithering like smoke over her freckled golden skin. She gritted her teeth and withstood it, still unused to the sensation even after a year of working at the gallery.

From the other side of the deceptively simple metal door to the

archives, Lehabah warned, “Jesiba doesn’t like her in here.”

“You don’t like her in here,” Bryce amended, her amber eyes narrowing

toward the archives door and the tiny fire sprite she knew was hovering just on the other side, eavesdropping as she always did whenever someone stood out front. “Go back to work.”

Lehabah didn’t answer, presumably drifting back downstairs to guard

the books below. Rolling her eyes, Bryce yanked open the front door, getting a face full of heat so dry it threatened to suck the life from her. And summer had only just begun.

Danika didn’t just look like she’d been rootling through the garbage.

She smelled like it, too.

Wisps of her silvery blond hair—normally a straight, silken sheet—

curled from her tight, long braid, the streaks of amethyst, sapphire, and rose splattered with some dark, oily substance that reeked of metal and ammonia.

“Took you long enough,” Danika groused, and swaggered into the

gallery, the sword strapped at her back bobbing with each step. Her braid had become tangled in its worn leather hilt, and as she stopped before the desk, Bryce took the liberty of prying the plait free.

She’d barely untangled it before Danika’s slim fingers were unbuckling

the straps that kept the sword sheathed across her worn leather motorcycle jacket. “I need to dump this here for a few hours,” she said, pulling the sword off her back and aiming for the supply closet hidden behind a wooden panel across the showroom.

Bryce leaned against the lip of the desk and crossed her arms, fingers

brushing against the stretchy black fabric of her skintight dress. “Your gym

bag’s already stinking up the place. Jesiba’s due back later this afternoon— she’ll throw your shit in the dumpster again if it’s still here.”

It was the mildest Hel Jesiba Roga could unleash if provoked.

A four-hundred-year-old enchantress who’d been born a witch and

defected, Jesiba had joined the House of Flame and Shadow and now answered only to the Under-King himself. Flame and Shadow suited her well—she possessed an arsenal of spells to rival any sorcerer or necromancer in the darkest of the Houses. She’d been known to change people into animals when irritated enough. Bryce had never dared ask if the small animals in the dozen tanks and terrariums had always been animals.

And Bryce tried never to irritate her. Not that there were any safe sides

when the Vanir were involved. Even the least powerful of the Vanir—a group that covered every being on Midgard aside from humans and ordinary animals—could be deadly.

“I’ll get it later,” Danika promised, pushing on the hidden panel to

spring it open. Bryce had warned her three times now that the showroom supply closet wasn’t her personal locker. Yet Danika always countered that the gallery, located in the heart of the Old Square, was more centrally located than the wolves’ Den over in Moonwood. And that was that.

The supply closet opened, and Danika waved a hand in front of her

face. “My gym bag’s stinking up the place?” With a black boot, she toed the sagging duffel that held Bryce’s dance gear, currently wedged between the mop and bucket. “When the fuck did you last wash those clothes?”

Bryce wrinkled her nose at the reek of old shoes and sweaty clothing

that wafted out. Right—she’d forgotten to bring home the leotard and tights to wash after a lunchtime class two days ago. Mostly thanks to Danika sending her a video of a heap of mirthroot on their kitchen counter, music already blasting from the beat-up boom box by the windows, along with a command to hurry home quick. Bryce had obeyed. They’d smoked enough that there was a good chance Bryce had still been high yesterday morning when she’d stumbled into work.

There was really no other explanation for why it had taken ten minutes

to type out a two-sentence email that day. Letter by letter.

“Never mind that,” Bryce said. “I have a bone to pick with you.” Danika rearranged the crap in the closet to make space for her own. “I

told you I was sorry I ate your leftover noodles. I’ll buy you more tonight.”

“It’s not that, dumbass, though again: fuck you. That was my lunch for

today.” Danika chuckled. “This tattoo hurts like Hel,” Bryce complained. “I can’t even lean against my chair.”

Danika countered in a singsong voice, “The artist warned you it’d be

sore for a few days.”

“I was so drunk I spelled my name wrong on the waiver. I’d hardly say

I was in a good place to understand what ‘sore for a few days’ meant.” Danika, who’d gotten a matching tattoo of the text now scrolling down Bryce’s back, had already healed. One of the benefits to being a full-blooded Vanir: swift recovery time compared to humans—or a half-human like Bryce.

Danika shoved her sword into the mess of the closet. “I promise I’ll

help you ice your sore back tonight. Just let me take a shower and I’ll be out of here in ten.”

It wasn’t unusual for her friend to pop into the gallery, especially on

Thursdays, when her morning patrol ended just a few blocks away, but she’d never used the full bathroom in the archives downstairs. Bryce motioned to the dirt and grease. “What is that on you?”

Danika scowled, the angular planes of her face scrunching. “I had to

break up a fight between a satyr and a nightstalker.” She bared her white teeth at the black substance crusting her hands. “Guess which one spewed its juices onto me.”

Bryce snorted and gestured to the archives door. “Shower’s yours.

There are some clean clothes in the bottom drawer of the desk down there.”

Danika’s filthy fingers began pulling the handle of the archives door.

Her jaw tightened, the older tattoo on her neck—the horned, grinning wolf that served as the sigil for the Pack of Devils—rippling with tension.

Not from the effort, Bryce realized as she noted Danika’s stiff back.

Bryce glanced to the supply closet, which Danika had not bothered to shut.

The sword, famed both in this city and far beyond it, leaned against the push broom and mop, its ancient leather scabbard nearly obscured by the full container of gasoline used to fuel the electric generator out back.

Bryce had always wondered why Jesiba bothered with an old-fashioned

generator—until the citywide firstlight outage last week. When the power had failed, only the generator had kept the mechanical locks in place during the looting that followed, when creeps had rushed in from the Meat Market,

bombarding the gallery’s front door with counterspells to break through the enchantments.

But—Danika ditching the sword in the office. Danika needing to take a

shower. Her stiff back.

Bryce asked, “You’ve got a meeting with the City Heads?” In the five years since they’d met as freshmen at Crescent City

University, Bryce could count on one hand the number of times Danika had been called in for a meeting with the seven people important enough to merit a shower and change of clothes. Even while delivering reports to Danika’s grandfather, the Prime of the Valbaran wolves, and to Sabine, her mother, Danika usually wore that leather jacket, jeans, and whatever vintage band T-shirt wasn’t dirty.

Of course, it pissed off Sabine to no end, but everything about Danika—

and Bryce—pissed off the Alpha of the Scythe Moon Pack, chief among the shifter units in the city’s Auxiliary.

It didn’t matter that Sabine was the Prime Apparent of the Valbaran

wolves and had been her aging father’s heir for centuries, or that Danika was officially second in line to the title. Not when whispers had swirled for years that Danika should be tapped to be the Prime Apparent, bypassing her mother. Not when the old wolf had given his granddaughter their family’s heirloom sword after centuries of promising it to Sabine only upon his death. The blade had called to Danika on her eighteenth birthday like a howl on a moonlit night, the Prime had said to explain his unexpected decision.

Sabine had never forgotten that humiliation. Especially when Danika

carried the blade nearly everywhere—especially in front of her mother.

Danika paused in the gaping archway, atop the green carpeted steps that

led down to the archives beneath the gallery—where the true treasure in this place lay, guarded by Lehabah day and night. It was the real reason why Danika, who’d been a history major at CCU, liked to drop by so often, just to browse the ancient art and books, despite Bryce’s teasing about her reading habits.

Danika turned, her caramel eyes shuttered. “Philip Briggs is being

released today.”

Bryce started. “What?”

“They’re letting him go on some gods-damned technicality. Someone

fucked up the paperwork. We’re getting the full update in the meeting.” She clenched her slim jaw, the glow from the firstlights in the glass sconces along the stairwell bouncing off her dirty hair. “It’s so fucked up.”

Bryce’s stomach churned. The human rebellion remained confined to

the northern reaches of Pangera, the sprawling territory across the Haldren Sea, but Philip Briggs had done his best to bring it over to Valbara. “You and the pack busted him right in his little rebel bomb lab, though.”

Danika tapped her booted foot on the green carpet. “Bureaucratic

fucking nonsense.”

“He was going to blow up a club. You literally found his blueprints for

blowing up the White Raven.” As one of the most popular nightclubs in the city, the loss of life would have been catastrophic. Briggs’s previous bombings had been smaller, but no less deadly, all designed to trigger a war between the humans and Vanir to match the one raging in Pangera’s colder climes. Briggs made no secret of his goal: a global conflict that would cost the lives of millions on either side. Lives that were expendable if it meant a possibility for humans to overthrow those who oppressed them—the magically gifted and long-lived Vanir and, above them, the Asteri, who ruled the planet Midgard from the Eternal City in Pangera.

But Danika and the Pack of Devils had stopped the plot. She’d busted

Briggs and his top supporters, all part of the Keres rebels, and spared innocents from their brand of fanaticism.

As one of the most elite shifter units in Crescent City’s Auxiliary, the

Pack of Devils patrolled the Old Square, making sure drunken, handsy tourists didn’t become drunken, dead tourists when they approached the wrong person. Making sure the bars and cafés and music halls and shops stayed safe from whatever lowlife had crawled into town that day. And making sure people like Briggs were in prison.

The 33rd Imperial Legion claimed to do the same, but the angels who

made up the fabled ranks of the Governor’s personal army just glowered and promised Hel if challenged.

“Believe me,” Danika said, stomping down the stairs, “I’m going to

make it perfectly fucking clear in this meeting that Briggs’s release is unacceptable.”

She would. Even if Danika had to snarl in Micah Domitus’s face, she’d

get her point across. There weren’t many who’d dare piss off the Archangel of Crescent City, but Danika wouldn’t hesitate. And given that all seven Heads of the City would be at this meeting, the odds of that happening were high. Things tended to escalate swiftly when they were in one room. There was little love lost between the six lower Heads in Crescent City, the metropolis formally known as Lunathion. Each Head controlled a specific part of the city: the Prime of the wolves in Moonwood, the Fae Autumn King in Five Roses, the Under-King in the Bone Quarter, the Viper Queen in the Meat Market, the Oracle in the Old Square, and the River Queen— who very rarely made an appearance—representing the House of Many Waters and her Blue Court far beneath the Istros River’s turquoise surface.

She seldom deigned to leave it.

The humans in Asphodel Meadows had no Head. No seat at the table.

Philip Briggs had found more than a few sympathizers because of it.

But Micah, Head of the Central Business District, ruled over them all.

Beyond his city titles, he was Archangel of Valbara. Ruler of this entire fucking territory, and answerable only to the six Asteri in the Eternal City, the capital and beating heart of Pangera. Of the entire planet of Midgard. If anyone could keep Briggs in prison, it would be him.

Danika reached the bottom of the stairs, so far below that she was cut

off from sight by the slope of the ceiling. Bryce lingered in the archway, listening as Danika said, “Hey, Syrinx.” A little yip of delight from the thirty-pound chimera rose up the stairs.

Jesiba had purchased the Lower creature two months ago, to Bryce’s

delight. He is not a pet, Jesiba had warned her. He’s an expensive, rare creature bought for the sole purpose of assisting Lehabah in guarding these books. Do not interfere with his duties.

Bryce had so far failed to inform Jesiba that Syrinx was more interested

in eating, sleeping, and getting belly rubs than monitoring the precious books. No matter that her boss might see that at any point, should she bother to check the dozens of camera feeds in the library.

Danika drawled, the smirk audible in her voice, “What’s got your

panties in a twist, Lehabah?”

The fire sprite grumbled, “I don’t wear panties. Or clothes. They don’t

pair well when you’re made of flame, Danika.”

Danika snickered. Before Bryce could decide whether to go downstairs

to referee the match between the fire sprite and the wolf, the phone on the desk began ringing. She had a good idea who it would be.

Heels sinking into the plush carpeting, Bryce reached the phone before

it went to audiomail, sparing herself a five-minute lecture. “Hi, Jesiba.”

A beautiful, lilting female voice answered, “Please tell Danika Fendyr

that if she continues to use the supply closet as her own personal locker, I will turn her into a lizard.”

2

By the time Danika emerged on the gallery’s showroom floor, Bryce had endured a mildly threatening reprimand from Jesiba about her ineptitude, one email from a fussy client demanding Bryce expedite the paperwork on the ancient urn she’d bought so she could show it off to her equally fussy friends at her cocktail party on Monday, and two messages from members of Danika’s pack inquiring about whether their Alpha was about to kill someone over Briggs’s release.

Nathalie, Danika’s Third, had gotten straight to the point: Has she lost

her shit about Briggs yet?

Connor Holstrom, Danika’s Second, took a little more care with what

he sent out into the ether. There was always a chance of a leak. Have you spoken to Danika? was all he’d asked.

Bryce was writing back to Connor—Yes. I’ve got it covered—when a

gray wolf the size of a small horse pushed the iron archives door shut with a paw, claws clicking on the metal.

“You hated my clothes that much?” Bryce asked, rising from her seat.

Only Danika’s caramel eyes remained the same in this form—and only those eyes softened the pure menace and grace the wolf radiated with each step toward the desk.

“I’ve got them on, don’t worry.” Long, sharp fangs flashed with each

word. Danika cocked her fuzzy ears, taking in the computer that had been shut down, the purse Bryce had set on the desk. “You’re coming out with me?”

“I’ve got to do some sleuthing for Jesiba.” Bryce grabbed the ring of

keys that opened doors into various parts of her life. “She’s been hounding me about finding Luna’s Horn again. As if I haven’t been trying to find it nonstop for the last week.”

Danika glanced to one of the visible cameras in the showroom, mounted

behind a decapitated statue of a dancing faun dating back ten thousand years. Her bushy tail swished once. “Why does she even want it?”

Bryce shrugged. “I haven’t had the balls to ask.” Danika stalked to the front door, careful not to let her claws snag a

single thread in the carpet. “I doubt she’s going to return it to the temple out of the goodness of her heart.”

“I have a feeling Jesiba would leverage its return to her advantage,”

Bryce said. They strode onto the quiet street a block off the Istros, the midday sun baking the cobblestones, Danika a solid wall of fur and muscle between Bryce and the curb.

The theft of the sacred horn during the power outage had been the

biggest news story out of the disaster: looters had used the cover of darkness to break into Luna’s Temple and swipe the ancient Fae relic from its resting place atop the lap of the massive, enthroned deity.

The Archangel Micah himself had offered a hefty reward for any

information regarding its return and promised that the sacrilegious bastard who’d stolen it would be brought to justice.

Also known as public crucifixion.

Bryce always made a point of not going near the square in the CBD,

where they were usually held. On certain days, depending on the wind and heat, the smell of blood and rotting flesh could carry for blocks.

Bryce fell into step beside Danika as the massive wolf scanned the

street, nostrils sniffing for any hint of a threat. Bryce, as half-Fae, could scent people in greater detail than the average human. She’d entertained her parents endlessly as a kid by describing the scents of everyone in their little mountain town, Nidaros—humans possessed no such way to interpret the world. But her abilities had nothing on her friend’s.

As Danika scented the street, her tail wagged once—and not from

happiness.

“Chill,” Bryce said. “You’ll make your case to the Heads, then they’ll

figure it out.”

Danika’s ears flattened. “It’s all fucked, B. All of it.” Bryce frowned. “You really mean to tell me that any of the Heads want

a rebel like Briggs at large? They’ll find some technicality and throw his ass right back in jail.” She added, because Danika still wouldn’t look at her, “There’s no way the 33rd’s not monitoring his every breath. Briggs so much as blinks wrong and he’ll see what kind of pain angels can rain down on us all. Hel, the Governor might even send the Umbra Mortis after him.” Micah’s personal assassin, with the rare gift of lightning in his veins, could eliminate almost any threat.

Danika snarled, teeth gleaming. “I can handle Briggs myself.” “I know you can. Everyone knows you can, Danika.” Danika surveyed the street ahead, glancing past a poster of the six

enthroned Asteri tacked up on a wall—with an empty throne to honor their fallen sister—but loosed a breath.

She would always have burdens and expectations to shoulder that Bryce

would never have to endure, and Bryce was thankful as Hel for that privilege. When Bryce fucked up, Jesiba usually griped for a few minutes and that was that. When Danika fucked up, it was blasted on news reports and across the interweb.

Sabine made sure of it.

Bryce and Sabine had hated each other from the moment the Alpha had

sneered at her only child’s improper, half-breed roommate that first day at CCU. And Bryce had loved Danika from the moment her new roommate had offered her a hand in greeting anyway, and then said Sabine was just pissy because she’d been hoping for a muscle-bound vampyr to drool over.

Danika rarely let the opinions of others—especially Sabine—eat away

at her swagger and joy, yet on rough days like this … Bryce lifted a hand and ran it down Danika’s muscled ribs, a comforting, sweeping stroke.

“Do you think Briggs will come after you or the pack?” Bryce asked,

her stomach twisting. Danika hadn’t busted Briggs alone—he had a score to settle with all of them.

Danika’s snout wrinkled. “I don’t know.” The words echoed between them. In hand-to-hand combat, Briggs

would never survive against Danika. But one of those bombs would change everything. If Danika had made the Drop into immortality, she’d probably

survive. But since she hadn’t—since she was the only one of the Pack of Devils who hadn’t yet done it … Bryce’s mouth turned dry.

“Be careful,” Bryce said quietly. “I will,” Danika said, her warm eyes still full of shadows. But then she

tossed her head, as if shaking it free of water—the movement purely canine.

Bryce often marveled at this, that Danika could clear away her fears, or at least bury them, enough to move onward. Indeed, Danika changed the subject. “Your brother will be at the meeting today.”

Half brother. Bryce didn’t bother to correct her. Half brother and full-

Fae prick. “And?”

“Just thought I’d warn you that I’ll be seeing him.” The wolf’s face

softened slightly. “He’s going to ask me how you’re doing.”

“Tell Ruhn I’m busy doing important shit and to go to Hel.” Danika huffed a laugh. “Where, exactly, are you doing this sleuthing for

the Horn?”

“The temple,” Bryce said with a sigh. “Honestly, I’ve been looking into

this thing for days on end, and can’t figure out anything. No suspects, no murmurings at the Meat Market about it being for sale, no motive for who’d even bother with it. It’s famous enough that whoever’s got it has it wrapped up tight.” She frowned at the clear sky. “I almost wonder if the power outage was tied to it—if someone shut down the city’s grid to steal it in the chaos. There are about twenty people in this city capable of being that crafty, and half of them possess the resources to pull it off.”

Danika’s tail twitched. “If they’re able to do something like that, I’d

suggest staying away. Lead Jesiba around a bit, make her think you’re looking for it, and then let it drop. Either the Horn will show up by then, or she’ll move on to her next stupid quest.”

Bryce admitted, “I just … It’d be good to find the Horn. For my own

career.” Whatever the Hel that would be. A year of working at the gallery hadn’t sparked anything beyond disgust at the obscene amounts of money that rich people squandered on old-ass shit.

Danika’s eyes flickered. “Yeah, I know.” Bryce zipped a tiny golden pendant—a knot of three entwined circles—

along the delicate chain around her neck.

Danika went on patrol armed with claws, a sword, and guns, but

Bryce’s daily armor consisted solely of this: an Archesian amulet barely the

size of her thumbnail, gifted by Jesiba on the first day of work.

A hazmat suit in a necklace, Danika had marveled when Bryce had

shown off the amulet’s considerable protections against the influence of various magical objects. Archesian amulets didn’t come cheap, but Bryce didn’t bother to delude herself into thinking her boss’s gift was given out of anything but self-interest. It would have been an insurance nightmare if Bryce didn’t have one.

Danika nodded to the necklace. “Don’t take that off. Especially if

you’re looking into shit like the Horn.” Even though the Horn’s mighty powers had long been dead—if it had been stolen by someone powerful, she’d need every magical defense against them.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bryce said, though Danika was right. She’d never taken

the necklace off since getting it. If Jesiba ever kicked her to the curb, she knew she’d have to find some way to make sure the necklace came with her. Danika had said as much several times, unable to stop that Alpha wolf’s instinct to protect at all costs. It was part of why Bryce loved her—and why her chest tightened in that moment with that same love and gratitude.

Bryce’s phone buzzed in her purse, and she fished it out. Danika peered

over, noted who was calling, and wagged her tail, ears perking up.

“Do not say a word about Briggs,” Bryce warned, and accepted the call.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hey, sweetie.” Ember Quinlan’s clear voice filled her ear, drawing a

smile from Bryce even with three hundred miles between them. “I wanted to double-check that next weekend is still okay to visit.”

“Hi, Mommy!” Danika barked toward the phone.

Ember laughed. Ember had always been Mom to Danika, even from

their first meeting. And Ember, who had never borne any children beyond Bryce, had been more than glad to find herself with a second—equally willful and troublesome—daughter. “Danika’s with you?”

Bryce rolled her eyes and held out the phone to her friend. Between one

step and the next, Danika shifted in a flash of light, the massive wolf shrinking into the lithe humanoid form.

Snatching the phone from Bryce, Danika pinned it between her ear and

shoulder as she adjusted the white silk blouse Bryce had loaned her, tucking it into her stained jeans. She’d managed to wipe a good amount of the nightstalker gunk off both the pants and leather jacket, but the T-shirt had

apparently been a lost cause. Danika said into the phone, “Bryce and I are taking a walk.”

With Bryce’s arched ears, she could hear her mother perfectly as she

said, “Where?”

Ember Quinlan made overprotectiveness a competitive sport.

Moving here, to Lunathion, had been a test of wills. Ember had only

relented when she’d learned who Bryce’s freshman-year roommate was— and then gave Danika a lecture on how to make sure Bryce stayed safe.

Randall, Bryce’s stepfather, had mercifully cut his wife off after thirty minutes.

Bryce knows how to defend herself, Randall had reminded Ember. We

saw to that. And Bryce will keep up her training while she’s here, won’t she?

Bryce certainly had. She’d hit up the gun range just a few days ago,

going through the motions Randall—her true father, as far as she was concerned—had taught her since childhood: assembling a gun, taking aim at a target, controlling her breathing.

Most days, she found guns to be brutal killing machines, and felt

grateful that they were highly regulated by the Republic. But given that she had little more to defend herself beyond speed and a few well-placed maneuvers, she’d learned that for a human, a gun could mean the difference between life and slaughter.

Danika fibbed, “We’re just heading to one of the hawker stalls in the

Old Square—we wanted some lamb kofta.”

Before Ember could continue the interrogation, Danika added, “Hey, B

must have forgotten to tell you that we’re actually heading down to Kalaxos next weekend—Ithan’s got a sunball game there, and we’re all going to cheer him on.”

A half-truth. The game was happening, but there had been no discussion

of going to watch Connor’s younger brother, CCU’s star player. This afternoon, the Pack of Devils was actually heading over to the CCU arena to cheer for Ithan, but Bryce and Danika hadn’t bothered to attend an away game since sophomore year, when Danika had been sleeping with one of the defensemen.

“That’s too bad,” Ember said. Bryce could practically hear the frown in

her mother’s tone. “We were really looking forward to it.”

Burning Solas, this woman was a master of the guilt trip. Bryce cringed

and snatched back the phone. “So were we, but let’s reschedule for next month.”

“But that’s so long from now—” “Shit, a client’s coming down the street,” Bryce lied. “I gotta go.” “Bryce Adelaide Quinlan—” “Bye, Mom.” “Bye, Mom!” Danika echoed, just as Bryce hung up.

Bryce sighed toward the sky, ignoring the angels soaring and flapping

past, their shadows dancing over the sun-washed streets. “Message incoming in three, two …”

Her phone buzzed.

Ember had written, If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were avoiding

us, Bryce. Your father will be very hurt.

Danika let out a whistle. “Oh, she’s good.” Bryce groaned. “I’m not letting them come to the city if Briggs is

running free.”

Danika’s smile faded. “I know. We’ll keep pushing them off until it’s

sorted out.” Thank Cthona for Danika—she always had a plan for everything.

Bryce slid her phone into her purse, leaving her mother’s message

unanswered.

When they reached the Gate at the heart of the Old Square, its quartz archway as clear as a frozen pond, the sun was just hitting its upper edge, refracting and casting small rainbows against one of the buildings flanking it. On Summer Solstice, when the sun lined up perfectly with the Gate, it filled the entire square with rainbows, so many that it was like walking inside a diamond.

Tourists milled about, a line of them snaking across the square itself, all

waiting for the chance at a photo with the twenty-foot-high landmark.

One of seven in this city, all carved from enormous blocks of quartz

hewn from the Laconian Mountains to the north, the Old Square Gate was often called the Heart Gate, thanks to its location in the dead center of

Lunathion, with the other six Gates located equidistant from it, each one opening onto a road out of the walled city.

“They should make a special access lane for residents to cross the

square,” Bryce muttered as they edged around tourists and hawkers.

“And give tourists fines for slow walking,” Danika muttered back, but

flashed a lupine grin at a young human couple that recognized her, gawked, and began snapping photos.

“I wonder what they’d think if they knew that nightstalker’s special

sauce is all over you,” Bryce murmured.

Danika elbowed her. “Asshole.” She threw a friendly wave to the

tourists and continued on.

On the other side of the Heart Gate, amid a small army of vendors

selling food and touristy crap, a second line of people waited to access the golden block sticking out of its southern side. “We’ll have to cut through them to get across,” Bryce said, scowling at the tourists idling in the wilting heat.

But Danika halted, her angular face turned to the Gate and the plaque.

“Let’s make a wish.”

“I’m not waiting in that line.” Usually, they just shouted their wishes

drunkenly into the ether late at night when they were staggering home from the White Raven and the square was empty. Bryce checked the time on her phone. “Don’t you have to get over to the Comitium?” The Governor’s five-towered stronghold was at least a fifteen-minute walk away.

“I’ve got time,” Danika said, and grabbed Bryce’s hand, tugging her

through the crowds and toward the real tourist draw of the Gate.

Jutting out of the quartz about four feet off the ground lay the dial pad:

a solid-gold block embedded with seven different gems, each for a different quarter of the city, the insignia of each district etched beneath it.

Emerald and a rose for Five Roses. Opal and a pair of wings for the

CBD. Ruby and a heart for the Old Square. Sapphire and an oak tree for Moonwood. Amethyst and a human hand for Asphodel Meadows. Tiger’s-eye and a serpent for the Meat Market. And onyx—so black it gobbled the light—and a set of skull and crossbones for the Bone Quarter.

Beneath the arc of stones and etched emblems, a small, round disk rose

up slightly, its metal worn down by countless hands and paws and fins and any other manner of limb.

A sign beside it read: Touch at your own risk. Do not use between

sundown and sunrise. Violators will be fined.

The people in line, waiting for access to the disk, seemed to have no

problem with the risks.

A pair of giggling teenage male shifters—some kind of feline from their

scents—goaded each other forward, elbowing and taunting, daring the other to touch the disk.

“Pathetic,” Danika said, striding past the line, the ropes, and a bored-

looking city guard—a young Fae female—to the very front. She fished a badge from inside her leather coat and flashed it at the guard, who stiffened as she realized who’d cut the line. She didn’t even look at the golden emblem of the crescent moon bow with an arrow nocked through it before stepping back.

“Official Aux business,” Danika declared with an unnervingly straight

face. “It’ll just be a minute.”

Bryce stifled her laughter, well aware of the glares fixed on their backs

from the line.

Danika drawled to the teenage boys, “If you’re not going to do it, then

clear off.”

They whirled toward her, and went white as death.

Danika smiled, showing nearly all her teeth. It wasn’t a pleasant sight. “Holy shit,” whispered one of them.

Bryce hid her smile as well. It never got old—the awe. Mostly because

she knew Danika had earned it. Every damned day, Danika earned the awe that bloomed across the faces of strangers when they spotted her corn-silk hair and that neck tattoo. And the fear that made the lowlifes in this city think twice before fucking with her and the Pack of Devils.

Except for Philip Briggs. Bryce sent a prayer to Ogenas’s blue depths

that the sea goddess would whisper her wisdom to Briggs to keep his distance from Danika if he ever really did walk free.

The boys stepped aside, and it only took a few milliseconds for them to

notice Bryce, too. The awe on their faces turned to blatant interest.

Bryce snorted. Keep dreaming.

One of them stammered, turning his attention from Bryce to Danika,

“My—my history teacher said the Gates were originally communication devices.”

“I bet you get all the ladies with those stellar factoids,” Danika said

without looking back at them, unimpressed and uninterested.

Message received, they slunk back to the line. Bryce smirked and

stepped up to her friend’s side, peering down at the dial pad.

The teenager was right, though. The seven Gates of this city, each set

along a ley line running through Lunathion, had been designed as a quick way for the guards in the districts to speak to each other centuries ago.

When someone merely placed a hand against the golden disk in the center of the pad and spoke, the wielder’s voice would travel to the other Gates, a gem lighting up with the district from which the voice originated.

Of course, it required a drop of magic to do so—literally sucked it like a

vampyr from the veins of the person who touched the pad, a tickling zap of power, gone forever.

Bryce raised her eyes to the bronze plaque above her head. The quartz

Gates were memorials, though she didn’t know for which conflict or war.

But each bore the same plaque: The power shall always belong to those who give their lives to the city.

Considering it was a statement that could be construed as being in

opposition to the Asteri’s rule, Bryce was always surprised that they allowed the Gates to continue to stand. But after becoming obsolete with the advent of phones, the Gates had found a second life when kids and tourists began using them, having their friends go to the other Gates in the city so they could whisper dirty words or marvel at the sheer novelty of such an antiquated method of communication. Not surprisingly, come weekends, drunk assholes—a category to which Bryce and Danika firmly belonged—became such a pain in the ass with their shouting through the Gates that the city had instituted hours of operation.

And then dumb superstition grew, claiming the Gate could make wishes

come true, and that to give over a droplet of your power was to make an offering to the five gods.

It was bullshit, Bryce knew—but if it made Danika not dread Briggs’s

release so much, well, it was worth it.

“What are you going to wish for?” Bryce asked when Danika stared

down at the disk, the gems dark above it.

The emerald for FiRo lit up, a young female voice coming through to

shriek, “Titties!”

People laughed around them, the sound like water trickling over stone,

and Bryce chuckled.

But Danika’s face had gone solemn. “I’ve got too many things to wish

for,” she said. Before Bryce could ask, Danika shrugged. “But I think I’ll wish for Ithan to win his sunball game tonight.”

With that, she set her palm onto the disk. Bryce watched as her friend

let out a shiver and quietly laughed, stepping back. Her caramel eyes shone. “Your turn.”

“You know I have barely any magic worth taking, but okay,” Bryce

said, not to be outdone, even by an Alpha wolf. From the moment Bryce walked into her dorm room freshman year, they’d done everything together.

Just the two of them, as it always would be.

They even planned to make the Drop together—to freeze into

immortality at the same breath, with members of the Pack of Devils Anchoring them.

Technically, it wasn’t true immortality—the Vanir did age and die,

either of natural causes or other methods, but the aging process was so slowed after the Drop that, depending on one’s species, it could take centuries to show a wrinkle. The Fae could last a thousand years, the shifters and witches usually five centuries, the angels somewhere between.

Full humans did not make the Drop, as they bore no magic. And compared to humans, with their ordinary life spans and slow healing, the Vanir were essentially immortal—some species bore children who didn’t even enter maturity until they were in their eighties. And most were very, very hard to kill.

But Bryce had rarely thought about where she’d fall on that spectrum—

whether her half-Fae heritage would grant her a hundred years or a thousand. It didn’t matter, so long as Danika was there for all of it. Starting with the Drop. They’d take the deadly plunge into their matured power together, encounter whatever lay at the bottom of their souls, and then race back up to life before the lack of oxygen rendered them brain-dead. Or just plain dead.

Yet while Bryce would inherit barely enough power to do cool party

tricks, Danika was expected to claim a sea of power that would put her ranking far past Sabine’s—likely equal to that of Fae royalty, maybe even beyond the Autumn King himself.

It was unheard of, for a shifter to have that sort of power, yet all the

standard childhood tests had confirmed it: once Danika Dropped, she’d become a considerable power among the wolves, the likes of which had not been seen since the elder days across the sea.

Danika wouldn’t just become the Prime of the Crescent City wolves.

No, she had the potential to be the Alpha of all wolves. On the fucking planet.

Danika never seemed to give two shits about it. Didn’t plan for her

future based on it.

Twenty-seven was the ideal age to make the Drop, they’d decided

together, after years of mercilessly judging the various immortals who marked their lives by centuries and millennia. Right before any permanent lines or wrinkles or gray hairs. They merely said to anyone who inquired, What’s the point of being immortal badasses if we have sagging tits?

Vain assholes, Fury had hissed when they’d explained it the first time.

Fury, who had made the Drop at age twenty-one, hadn’t chosen the age

for herself. It’d just happened, or had been forced upon her—they didn’t know for sure. Fury’s attendance at CCU had only been a front for a mission; most of her time was spent doing truly fucked-up things for disgusting amounts of money over in Pangera. She made it a point never to give details.

Assassin, Danika claimed. Even sweet Juniper, the faun who occupied

the fourth side of their little friendship-square, admitted the odds were that Fury was a merc. Whether Fury was occasionally employed by the Asteri and their puppet Imperial Senate was up for debate, too. But none of them really cared—not when Fury always had their back when they needed it.

And even when they didn’t.

Bryce’s hand hovered over the golden disk. Danika’s gaze was a cool

weight on her.

“Come on, B, don’t be a wimp.” Bryce sighed, and set her hand on the pad. “I wish Danika would get a

manicure. Her nails look like shit.”

Lightning zapped through her, a slight vacuuming around her belly

button, and then Danika was laughing, shoving her. “You fucking dick.”

Bryce slung an arm around Danika’s shoulders. “You deserved it.”

Danika thanked the security guard, who beamed at the attention, and

ignored the tourists still snapping photos. They didn’t speak until they reached the northern edge of the square—where Danika would head toward the angel-filled skies and towers of the CBD, to the sprawling Comitium complex in its heart, and Bryce toward Luna’s Temple, three blocks up.

Danika jerked her chin toward the streets behind Bryce. “I’ll see you at

home, all right?”

“Be careful.” Bryce blew out a breath, trying to shake her unease. “I know how to look out for myself, B,” Danika said, but love shone in

her eyes—gratitude that crushed Bryce’s chest—merely for the fact that someone cared whether she lived or died.

Sabine was a piece of shit. Had never whispered or hinted who

Danika’s father might be—so Danika had grown up with absolutely no one except her grandfather, who was too old and withdrawn to spare Danika from her mother’s cruelty.

Bryce inclined her head toward the CBD. “Good luck. Don’t piss off

too many people.”

“You know I will,” Danika said with a grin that didn’t meet her eyes.

3

The Pack of Devils was already at her apartment by the time Bryce got home from work.

It had been impossible to miss the roaring laughter that met her before

she’d even cleared the second-floor stairwell landing—as well as the canine yips of amusement. Both had continued as she ascended the remaining level of the walk-up apartment building, during which time Bryce grumbled to herself about her plans for a quiet evening on the couch being ruined.

Chanting a string of curses that would make her mother proud, Bryce

unlocked the blue-painted iron door to the apartment, bracing for the onslaught of lupine bossiness, arrogance, and general nosiness in all matters of her life. And that was just Danika.

Danika’s pack made each of those things an art form. Mostly because

they claimed Bryce as one of their own, even if she didn’t bear the tattoo of their sigil down the side of her neck.

Sometimes she felt bad for Danika’s future mate, whoever that would

be. The poor bastard wouldn’t know what hit him when he bound himself to her. Unless he was wolf-kind himself—though Danika had about as much interest in sleeping with a wolf as Bryce did.

That is to say, not a gods-damned shred.

Giving the door a good shove with her shoulder—its warped edges got

stuck more often than not, mostly thanks to the romping of the hellions currently spread across the several sagging couches and armchairs—Bryce sighed as she found six pairs of eyes fixed on her. And six grins.

“How was the game?” she asked no one in particular, chucking her keys

into the lopsided ceramic bowl Danika had half-assed during a fluff pottery course in college. She’d heard nothing from Danika regarding the Briggs meeting beyond a general I’ll tell you at home.

It couldn’t have been that bad, if Danika made it to the sunball game.

She’d even sent Bryce a photo of the whole pack in front of the field, with Ithan a small, helmeted figure in the background.

A message from the star player himself had popped up later: Next time,

you better be with them, Quinlan.

She’d written back, Did baby pup miss me?

You know it, Ithan had answered. “We won,” Connor drawled from where he lounged on her favorite spot

on the couch, his gray CCU sunball T-shirt rumpled enough to reveal the cut of muscle and golden skin.

“Ithan scored the winning goal,” Bronson said, still wearing a blue-and-

silver jersey with Holstrom on the back.

Connor’s little brother, Ithan, held an unofficial membership in the Pack

of Devils. Ithan also happened to be Bryce’s second-favorite person after Danika. Their message chain was an endless stream of snark and teasing, swapped photos, and good-natured grousing about Connor’s bossiness.

“Again?” Bryce asked, kicking off her four-inch, pearl-white heels.

“Can’t Ithan share some of the glory with the other boys?” Normally, Ithan would have been sitting right on that couch beside his brother, forcing Bryce to wedge herself between them while they watched whatever TV show was on, but on game nights, he usually opted to party with his teammates.

A half smile tugged at a corner of Connor’s mouth as Bryce held his

stare for longer than most people considered wise. His five packmates, two still in wolf form with bushy tails swishing, wisely kept their mouths and maws shut.

It was common knowledge that Connor would have been Alpha of the

Pack of Devils if Danika weren’t around. But Connor didn’t resent it. His ambitions didn’t run that way. Unlike Sabine’s.

Bryce nudged her backup dance bag over on the coatrack to make room

for her purse, and asked the wolves, “What are you watching tonight?”

Whatever it was, she’d already decided to curl up with a romance novel in her room. With the door shut.

Nathalie, flipping through celebrity gossip magazines on the couch,

didn’t lift her head as she answered, “Some new legal procedural about a pack of lions taking on an evil Fae corporation.”

“Sounds like a real award winner,” Bryce said. Bronson grunted his

disapproval. The massive male’s tastes skewed more toward art house flicks and documentaries. Unsurprisingly, he was never allowed to select the entertainment for Pack Night.

Connor ran a calloused finger down the rolled arm of the couch.

“You’re home late.”

“I have a job,” Bryce said. “You might want to get one. Stop being a

leech on my couch.”

This wasn’t exactly fair. As Danika’s Second, Connor acted as her

enforcer. To keep this city safe, he’d killed, tortured, maimed, and then gone back out and done it again before the moon had even set.

He never complained about it. None of them did.

What’s the point in bitching, Danika had said when Bryce asked how

she endured the brutality, when there’s no choice in joining the Auxiliary?

The predator-born shifters were destined for certain Aux packs before they were even born.

Bryce tried not to glance at the horned wolf tattooed on the side of

Connor’s neck—proof of that predestined lifetime of service. Of his eternal loyalty to Danika, the Pack of Devils, and the Aux.

Connor just looked Bryce over with that half smile. It set her teeth to

grinding. “Danika’s in the kitchen. Eating half the pizza before we can get a bite.”

“I am not!” was the muffled reply.

Connor’s smile grew.

Bryce’s breathing turned a shade uneven at that smile, the wicked light

in his eyes.

The rest of the pack remained dutifully focused on the television screen,

pretending to watch the nightly news.

Swallowing, Bryce asked him, “Anything I should know?” Translation:

Was the Briggs meeting a disaster?

Connor knew what she meant. He always did. He jerked his head to the

kitchen. “You’ll see.”

Translation: Not great.

Bryce winced, and managed to tear her gaze away from him so she

could pad into the galley kitchen. She felt Connor’s stare on her every step of the way.

And maybe she swished her hips. Only a tiny bit.

Danika was indeed shoveling a slice down her throat, her eyes wide in

warning for Bryce to keep her mouth shut. Bryce noted the unspoken plea, and merely nodded.

A half-empty bottle of beer dripped condensation onto the white plastic

counter Danika leaned against, her borrowed silk shirt damp with sweat around the collar. Her braid drooped over her slim shoulder, the few colorful streaks unusually muted. Even her pale skin, usually flushed with color and health, seemed ashen.

Granted, the crappy kitchen lighting—two meager recessed orbs of

firstlight—wasn’t exactly favorable to anyone, but … Beer. Food. The pack keeping their distance. And that hollow weariness in her friend’s eyes— yeah, some shit had gone down in that meeting.

Bryce tugged open the fridge, grabbing a beer for herself. The pack all

had different preferences, and were prone to coming over whenever they felt like it, so the fridge was crammed with bottles and cans and what she could have sworn was a jug of … mead? Must be Bronson’s.

Bryce grabbed one of Nathalie’s favorites—a cloudy, milky-tasting

beer, heavy on the hops—and twisted off the top. “Briggs?”

“Officially released. Micah, the Autumn King, and the Oracle pored

over every law and bylaw and still couldn’t find a way around that loophole. Ruhn even had Declan run some of his fancy tech searches and found nothing. Sabine ordered the Scythe Moon Pack to watch Briggs tonight, along with some of the 33rd.” The packs had mandatory nights off once a week, and this was the Pack of Devils’—no negotiating. Otherwise, Bryce knew Danika would be out there, watching Briggs’s every move.

“So you’re all in agreement,” Bryce said. “At least that’s good.” “Yeah, until Briggs blows something or someone up.” Danika shook her

head with disgust. “It’s fucking bullshit.”

Bryce studied her friend carefully. The tension around her mouth, her

sweaty neck. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” The words were spoken too quickly to be believable. “Something’s

been eating at you. Shit like this thing with Briggs is big, but you always bounce back.” Bryce narrowed her eyes. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Danika’s eyes gleamed. “Nothing.” She swigged from her beer.

There was only one other answer. “I take it Sabine was in rare form this

afternoon.”

Danika just tore into her pizza.

Bryce swallowed two mouthfuls of beer, watching Danika blankly

consider the teal cabinets above the counter, the paint chipping at the edges.

Her friend chewed slowly, then said around a mouthful of bread and

cheese, “Sabine cornered me after the meeting. Right in the hall outside Micah’s office. So everyone could hear her tell me that two CCU research students got killed near Luna’s Temple last week during the blackout. My shift. My section. My fault.”

Bryce winced. “It took a week to hear about this?” “Apparently.” “Who killed them?” Crescent City University students were always out in the Old Square,

always causing trouble. Even as alums Bryce and Danika often bemoaned the fact that there wasn’t a sky-high electric fence penning CCU students into their corner of the city. Just to keep them from puking and pissing all over the Old Square every Friday night to Sunday morning.

Danika drank again. “No clue who did it.” A shiver, her caramel eyes

darkening. “Even with their scents marking them as human, it took twenty minutes to identify who they were. They were ripped to shreds and partially eaten.”

Bryce tried not to imagine it. “Motive?” Danika’s throat bobbed. “No idea, either. But Sabine told me in front of

everyone exactly what she thought of such a public butchering happening on my watch.”

Bryce asked, “What’d the Prime say about it?” “Nothing,” Danika said. “The old man fell asleep during the meeting,

and Sabine didn’t bother to wake him before cornering me.” It would be

soon now, everyone said—only a matter of a year or two until the current Prime of the wolves, nearly four hundred years old, had his Sailing across the Istros to the Bone Quarter for his final sleep. There was no way the black boat would tip for him during the final rite—no way his soul would be deemed unworthy and given to the river. He’d be welcomed into the Under-King’s realm, granted access to its mist-veiled shores … and then Sabine’s reign would begin.

Gods spare them all. “It’s not your fault, you know,” Bryce said, flipping open the cardboard

lids of the two closest pizza boxes. Sausage, pepperoni, and meatball in one.

The other held cured meats and stinky cheeses—Bronson’s choice, no doubt.

“I know,” Danika muttered, draining the last of her beer, clunking the

bottle in the sink, and rooting around in the fridge for another. Every muscle in her lean body seemed taut—on a hair trigger. She slammed the fridge shut and leaned against it. Danika didn’t meet Bryce’s eyes as she breathed, “I was three blocks away that night. Three. And I didn’t hear or see or smell them being shredded.”

Bryce became aware of the silence from the other room. Keen hearing

in both human and wolf form meant endless, entitled eavesdropping.

They could finish this conversation later.

Bryce flipped open the rest of the pizza boxes, surveying the culinary

landscape. “Shouldn’t you put them out of their misery and let them get a bite before you demolish the rest?”

She’d had the pleasure of witnessing Danika eat three large pies in one

sitting. In this sort of mood, Danika might very well break her record and hit four.

“Please let us eat,” begged Bronson’s deep, rumbling voice from the

other room.

Danika swigged from her beer. “Come get it, mongrels.” The wolves rushed in.

In the frenzy, Bryce was nearly flattened against the back wall of the

kitchen, the monthly calendar pinned to it crumpling behind her.

Damn it—she loved that calendar: Hottest Bachelors of Crescent City:

Clothing-Optional Edition. This month had the most gorgeous daemonaki she’d ever seen, his propped leg on a stool the only thing keeping

everything from being shown. She smoothed out the new wrinkles in all the tan skin and muscles, the curling horns, and then turned to scowl at the wolves.

A step away, Danika stood among her pack like a stone in a river. She

smirked at Bryce. “Any update on your hunt for the Horn?”

“No.” “Jesiba must be thrilled.” Bryce grimaced. “Overjoyed.” She’d seen Jesiba for all of two minutes

this afternoon before the sorceress threatened to turn Bryce into a donkey, and then vanished in a chauffeured sedan to the gods knew where. Maybe off on some errand for the Under-King and the dark House he ruled.

Danika grinned. “Don’t you have that date with what’s-his-face

tonight?”

The question clanged through Bryce. “Shit. Shit. Yes.” She winced at

the kitchen clock. “In an hour.”

Connor, taking an entire pizza box for himself, stiffened. He’d made his

thoughts on Bryce’s rich-ass boyfriend clear since the first date two months ago. Just as Bryce had made it perfectly clear she did not give a fuck about Connor’s opinion regarding her love life.

Bryce took in his muscled back as Connor stalked out, rolling his broad

shoulders. Danika frowned. She never missed a fucking thing.

“I need to get dressed,” Bryce said, scowling. “And his name is Reid,

and you know it.”

A wolfish smile. “Reid’s a stupid fucking name,” Danika said. “One, I think it’s a hot name. And two, Reid is hot.” Gods help her, Reid

Redner was hot as Hel. Though the sex was … fine. Standard. She’d gotten off, but she’d really had to work for it. And not in the way she sometimes liked to work for it. More in the sense of Slow down, Put that here, Can we switch positions? But she’d slept with him only twice. And she told herself that it could take time to find the right rhythm with a partner. Even if …

Danika just said it. “If he grabs his phone to check his messages before

his dick’s barely out of you again, please have the self-respect to kick his balls across the room and come home to me.”

“Fucking Hel, Danika!” Bryce hissed. “Say it a little gods-damn

louder.”

The wolves had gone silent. Even their munching had stopped. Then

resumed just a decibel too loudly.

“At least he’s got a good job,” Bryce said to Danika, who crossed her

slender arms—arms that hid tremendous, ferocious strength—and gave her a look. A look that said, Yeah, one that Reid’s daddy gave him. Bryce added, “And at least he’s not some psychotic alphahole who will demand a three-day sex marathon and then call me his mate, lock me in his house, and never let me out again.” Which was why Reid—human, okay-at-sex Reid— was perfect.

“You could use a three-day sex marathon,” Danika quipped. “You’re to blame for this, you know.” Danika waved a hand. “Yeah, yeah. My first and last mistake: setting

you two up.”

Danika knew Reid casually through the part-time security work she did

for his father’s business—a massive human-owned magi-tech company in the Central Business District. Danika claimed that the work was too boring to bother explaining, but paid well enough that she couldn’t say no. And more than that—it was a job she chose. Not the life she’d been shoved into.

So between her patrols and obligations with the Aux, Danika was often at the towering skyscraper in the CBD—pretending she had a shot at a normal life. It was unheard of for any Aux member to have a secondary job—for an Alpha, especially—but Danika made it work.

It didn’t hurt that everyone wanted a piece of Redner Industries these

days. Even Micah Domitus was a major investor in its cutting-edge experiments. It was nothing out of the ordinary, when the Governor invested in everything from tech to vineyards to schools, but since Micah was on Sabine’s eternal shit list, pissing off her mother by working for a human company he supported was likely even better for Danika than the sense of free will and generous pay.

Danika and Reid had been in the same presentation one afternoon

months ago—exactly when Bryce had been single and complaining constantly about it. Danika had given Bryce’s number to Reid in a last-ditch effort to preserve her sanity.

Bryce smoothed a hand over her dress. “I need to change. Save me a

slice.”

“Aren’t you going out for dinner?”

Bryce cringed. “Yeah. To one of those frilly spots—where they give you

salmon mousse on a cracker and call it a meal.”

Danika shuddered. “Definitely fill up before, then.” “A slice,” Bryce said, pointing at Danika. “Remember my slice.” She

eyed the one remaining box and padded out of the kitchen.

The Pack of Devils were now all in human form—save for Zelda—

pizza boxes balanced on knees or spread on the worn blue rug. Bronson was indeed swigging from the ceramic jug of mead, his brown eyes fixed on the nightly news broadcast. The news about Briggs’s release—along with grainy footage of the human male being escorted out of the jail complex in a white jumpsuit—began blasting. Whoever held the remote quickly changed the channel to a documentary on the Black River delta.

Nathalie gave Bryce a shit-eating grin as she strode for her bedroom

door at the opposite end of the living room. Oh, Bryce wouldn’t live down that little tidbit about Reid’s performance in the bedroom anytime soon.

Especially when Nathalie was sure to make it a reflection on Bryce’s skills.

“Don’t even start,” Bryce warned her. Nathalie clamped her lips

together, like she could hardly keep the howl of wicked amusement contained. Her sleek black hair seemed to quiver with the effort of holding in her laughter, her onyx eyes near-glowing.

Bryce pointedly ignored Connor’s heavy golden stare as he tracked her

across the space.

Wolves. Gods-damned wolves shoving their noses into her business.

There would never be any mistaking them for humans, though their

forms were nearly identical. Too tall, too muscled, too still. Even the way they tore into their pizzas, each movement deliberate and graceful, was a silent reminder of what they could do to anyone who crossed them.

Bryce walked over Zach’s sprawled, long legs, and carefully avoided

stepping on Zelda’s snow-white tail, where she lay on the floor beside her brother. The twin white wolves, both slender and dark-haired in human form, were utterly terrifying when they shifted. The Ghosts—the whispered nickname followed them everywhere.

So, yeah. Bryce tried really hard not to step on Zelda’s fluffy tail.

Thorne, at least, threw Bryce a sympathetic smile from where he sat in

the half-rotted leather armchair near the television, his CCU sunball hat turned backward. He was the only other person in the apartment who

understood how meddlesome the pack could be. And who cared as much about Danika’s moods. About Sabine’s ruthlessness.

It was a long shot for an Omega like Thorne to ever be noticed by an

Alpha like Danika. Not that Thorne had ever so much as hinted at it to any of them. But Bryce saw it—the gravitational pull that seemed to happen whenever Danika and Thorne were in a room together, like they were two stars orbiting each other.

Mercifully, Bryce reached her bedroom without any comments

regarding her sort-of boyfriend’s prowess, and shut the door behind her firmly enough to tell them all to fuck off.

She made it three steps toward her sagging green dresser before

laughter barked through the apartment. It was silenced a moment later by a vicious, not-quite-human snarl. Deep and rumbling and utterly lethal.

Not Danika’s snarl, which was like death incarnate, soft and husky and

cold. This was Connor’s. Full of heat and temper and feeling.

Bryce showered off the dust and grime that seemed to coat her

whenever she made the fifteen-block walk between the apartment and the slim sandstone building that Griffin Antiquities occupied.

A few carefully placed pins erased the end-of-day limpness that usually

plagued her heavy sheet of wine-red hair, and she hastily applied a fresh coat of mascara to bring some life back into her amber eyes. From shower to sliding on her black stiletto heels, it was a grand total of twenty minutes.

Proof, she realized, of how little she really cared about this date. She

spent a gods-damned hour on her hair and makeup every morning. Not counting the thirty-minute shower to get herself gleaming, shaved, and moisturized. But twenty minutes? For dinner at the Pearl and Rose?

Yeah, Danika had a point. And Bryce knew the bitch was watching the

clock, and would probably ask if the short prep time was reflective of how long, exactly, Reid could keep it going.

Bryce glared in the direction of the wolves beyond the door of her cozy

bedroom before surveying the quiet haven around her. Every wall was bedecked in posters of legendary performances at the Crescent City Ballet.

Once, she’d imagined herself up there among the lithe Vanir, exploding across the stage in turn after turn, or making audiences weep with an agonizing death scene. Once, she’d imagined there might be a spot for a half-human female on that stage.

Even being told, over and over, that she had the wrong body type hadn’t

stopped her from loving to dance. Hadn’t stopped that heady rush seeing a dance performed live, or her taking amateur classes after work, or her following CCB’s dancers the way Connor, Ithan, and Thorne followed sports teams. Nothing could ever stop her from craving that soaring sensation she found when she was dancing, whether in class or at a club or even on the gods-damned street.

Juniper, at least, hadn’t been deterred. Had decided that she was in it for

the long haul, that a faun would defy the odds and grace a stage built for Fae and nymphs and sylphs—and leave them all in her dust. She’d done it, too.

Bryce loosed a long sigh. Time to go. It was a twenty-minute walk to

the Pearl and Rose, and in these heels, it’d take her twenty-five. No point in getting a taxi during the chaos and congestion of Thursday night in the Old Square when the car would just sit there.

She stabbed pearl studs into her ears, hoping half-heartedly that they’d

add some class to what might be considered a somewhat scandalous dress.

But she was twenty-three, and she might as well enjoy her generously curved figure. She gave her gold-dusted legs a little smile as she twisted in front of the full-length mirror propped against the wall to admire the slope of her ass in the skintight gray dress, the hint of text from that still-sore new tattoo peeking over the plunging back, before she stepped into the living room again.

Danika let out a wicked laugh that rumbled over the nature show the

wolves were watching. “I bet fifty silver marks the bouncers don’t let you through the doors looking like that.”

Bryce flipped off her friend as the pack chuckled. “I’m sorry if I make

you feel self-conscious about your bony ass, Danika.”

Thorne barked a laugh. “At least Danika makes up for it with her

winning personality.”

Bryce smirked at the handsome Omega. “That must explain why I have

a date and she hasn’t been on one in … what’s it now? Three years?”

Thorne winked, his blue eyes sliding toward Danika’s scowling face.

“Must be why.”

Danika slouched in her chair and propped her bare feet on the coffee

table. Each toenail was painted a different color. “It’s only been two years,”

she muttered. “Assholes.”

Bryce patted Danika’s silken head as she passed. Danika nipped at her

fingers, teeth flashing.

Bryce chuckled, entering the narrow kitchen. She pawed through the

upper cabinets, glass rattling as she searched for the—

Ah. The gin.

She knocked back a shot. Then another. “Rough night ahead?” Connor asked from where he leaned against the

kitchen doorway, arms crossed over his muscular chest.

A drop of gin had landed on her chin. Bryce narrowly avoided wiping

the sin-red lipstick off her mouth with the back of her wrist and instead opted for patting it away with a leftover napkin from the pizza place. Like a proper person.

That color should be called Blow Job Red, Danika had said the first

time Bryce had worn it. Because that’s all any male will think about when you wear it. Indeed, Connor’s eyes had dipped right to her lips. So Bryce said as nonchalantly as she could, “You know I like to enjoy my Thursday nights. Why not kick it off early?”

She balanced on her toes as she put the gin back in the upper cupboard,

the hem of her dress rising precariously high. Connor studied the ceiling as if it were immensely interesting, his gaze only snapping to hers as she settled on her feet again. In the other room, someone turned the volume on the television up to an apartment-rattling level.

Thank you, Danika.

Even wolf hearing couldn’t sort through that cacophony to eavesdrop.

Connor’s sensuous mouth twitched upward, but he remained in the

doorway.

Bryce swallowed, wondering how gross it would be to chase away the

burn of the gin with the beer she’d left warming on the counter.

Connor said, “Look. We’ve known each other a while …” “Is this a rehearsed speech?” He straightened, color staining his cheeks. The Second in the Pack of

Devils, the most feared and lethal of all the Auxiliary units, was blushing. “No.”

“That sounded like a rehearsed introduction to me.”

“Can you let me ask you out, or do I need to get into a fight with you

about my phrasing first?”

She snorted, but her guts twisted. “I don’t date wolves.” Connor threw her a cocky grin. “Make an exception.” “No.” But she smiled slightly.

Connor merely said with the unwavering arrogance that only an

immortal predator could achieve, “You want me. I want you. It’s been that way for a while, and playing with these human males hasn’t done a damn thing to make you forget that, has it?”

No, it hadn’t. But she said, her voice mercifully calm despite her

thundering heart, “Connor, I’m not going out with you. Danika is bossy enough. I don’t need another wolf, especially a male wolf, trying to run my life. I don’t need any more Vanir shoving into my business.”

His golden eyes dimmed. “I’m not your father.” He didn’t mean Randall.

She shoved off the counter, marching toward him. And the apartment

door beyond. She was going to be late. “That has nothing to do with this— with you. My answer is no.”

Connor didn’t move, and she halted mere inches away. Even in heels,

even though she fell on the taller side of average height, he towered over her. Dominated the entire space just by breathing.

Like any alphahole would. Like what her Fae father had done to

nineteen-year-old Ember Quinlan, when he’d pursued her, seduced her, tried to keep her, and gone so far into possessive territory that the moment Ember had realized she was carrying his child—carrying Bryce—she ran before he could scent it and lock her up in his villa in FiRo until she grew too old to interest him.

Which was something Bryce didn’t let herself consider. Not after the

blood tests had been done and she’d walked out of the medwitch’s office knowing that she’d taken after her Fae father in more ways than the red hair and pointed ears.

She would have to bury her mother one day, bury Randall, too. Which

was utterly expected, if you were a human. But the fact that she’d go on living for a few more centuries, with only photos and videos to remind her of their voices and faces, made her stomach twist.

She should have had a third shot of gin.

Connor remained unmoving in the doorway. “One date won’t send me

into a territorial hissy fit. It doesn’t even have to be a date. Just … pizza,” he finished, glancing at the stacked boxes.

“You and I go out plenty.” They did—on nights when Danika was

called in to meet with Sabine or the other Aux commanders, he often brought over food, or he met up with her at one of the many restaurants lining the apartment’s lively block. “If it’s not a date, then how is it different?”

“It’d be a trial run. For a date,” Connor said through his teeth.

She lifted a brow. “A date to decide if I want to date you?” “You’re impossible.” He pushed off the doorjamb. “See you later.” Smiling to herself, she trailed him out of the kitchen, cringing at the

monstrously loud television the wolves were all watching very, very intently.

Even Danika knew there were limits to how far she could push Connor

without serious consequences.

For a heartbeat, Bryce debated grabbing the Second by the shoulder and

explaining that he’d be better off finding a nice, sweet wolf who wanted to have a litter of pups, and that he didn’t really want someone who was ten kinds of fucked-up, still liked to party until she was no better than a puking-in-an-alley CCU student, and wasn’t entirely sure if she could love someone, not when Danika was all she really needed anyway.

But she didn’t grab Connor, and by the time Bryce scooped her keys

from the bowl beside the door, he’d slumped onto the couch—again, in her spot—and was staring pointedly at the screen. “Bye,” she said to no one in particular.

Danika met her gaze from across the room, her eyes still wary but

faintly amused. She winked. “Light it up, bitch.”

“Light it up, asshole,” Bryce replied, the farewell sliding off her tongue

with the ease of years of usage.

But it was Danika’s added “Love you” as Bryce slipped out into the

grimy hallway that made her hesitate with her hand on the knob.

It’d taken Danika a few years to say those words, and she still used

them sparingly. Danika had initially hated it when Bryce said them to her— even when Bryce explained that she’d spent most of her life saying it, just in case it was the last time. In case she wouldn’t get to say goodbye to the

people who mattered most. And it had taken one of their more fucked-up adventures—a trashed motorcycle, and literally having guns pointed at their heads—to get Danika to utter the words, but at least she now said them.

Sometimes.

Forget Briggs’s release. Sabine must have really done a number on

Danika.

Bryce’s heels clacked on the worn tile floor as she headed for the stairs

at the end of the hall. Maybe she should cancel on Reid. She could grab some buckets of ice cream from the corner market and cuddle in bed with Danika while they watched their favorite absurd comedies.

Maybe she’d call up Fury and see if she could pay a little visit to

Sabine.

But—she’d never ask that of Fury. Fury kept her professional shit out of

their lives, and they knew better than to ask too many questions. Only Juniper could get away with it.

Honestly, it made no sense that any of them were friends: the future

Alpha of all wolves, an assassin for high-paying clients waging war across the sea, a stunningly talented dancer and the only faun ever to grace the stage of the Crescent City Ballet, and … her.

Bryce Quinlan. Assistant to a sorceress. Would-be, wrong-body-type

dancer. Chronic dater of preening, breakable human men who had no idea what to do with her. Let alone what to do with Danika, if they ever got far enough into the dating crucible.

Bryce clomped down the stairs, scowling at one of the orbs of firstlight

that cast the crumbling gray-blue paint in flickering relief. The landlord went as cheap as possible on the firstlight, likely siphoning it off the grid rather than paying the city for it like everyone else.

Everything in this apartment building was a piece of shit, to be honest.

Danika could afford better. Bryce certainly couldn’t. And Danika knew

her well enough not to even suggest that she alone pay for one of the high-rise, glossy apartments by the river’s edge or in the CBD. So after graduation, they’d only looked at places Bryce could swing with her paycheck—this particular shithole being the least miserable of them.

Sometimes, Bryce wished she’d accepted her monstrous father’s money

—wished she hadn’t decided to develop some semblance of morals at the exact moment the creep had offered her mountains of gold marks in

exchange for her eternal silence about him. At least then she’d currently be lounging by some sky-high pool deck, ogling oiled-up angels as they swaggered past, and not avoiding the letch of a janitor who leered at her chest anytime she had to complain about the trash chute being blocked yet again.

The glass door at the bottom of the stairwell led onto the night-darkened

street, already packed with tourists, revelers, and bleary-eyed residents trying to squeeze their way home through the rowdy crowds after a long, hot summer day. A draki male clad in a suit and tie rushed past, messenger bag bobbing at his hip as he wove his way around a family of some sort of equine shifters—perhaps horses, judging by their scents full of open skies and green fields—all so busy snapping photos of everything that they remained oblivious to anyone trying to get somewhere.

At the corner, a pair of bored malakim clad in the black armor of the

33rd kept their wings tucked in tight to their powerful bodies, no doubt to avoid any harried commuter or drunk idiot touching them. Touch an angel’s wings without permission and you’d be lucky to lose just a hand.

Firmly shutting the glass door behind her, Bryce soaked in the tangle of

sensations that was this ancient, vibrant city: the dry summer heat that threatened to bake her very bones; the honk of car horns slicing through the steady hiss and dribble of music leaking from the revel halls; the wind off the Istros River, three blocks away, rustling the swaying palms and cypresses; the hint of brine from the nearby turquoise sea; the seductive, night-soft smell of the crawling jasmine wrapped around the iron park fence nearby; the tang of puke and piss and stale beer; the beckoning, smoky spices crusting the slow-roasting lamb at the vendor’s cart on the corner … It all hit her in one awakening kiss.

Trying not to snap her ankles on the cobblestones, Bryce breathed in the

nightly offering of Crescent City, drank it deep, and vanished down the teeming street.

4

The Pearl and Rose was everything Bryce hated about this city.

But at least Danika now owed her fifty silver marks.

The bouncers had let her stride past them, up the three steps, and

through the open bronze-plated doors of the restaurant.

But even fifty silver marks wouldn’t put so much as a dent in paying for

this meal. No, this would be firmly in the gold zone.

Reid could certainly afford it. Given the size of his bank account, he

likely wouldn’t even glance at the check before handing over his black card.

Seated at a table in the heart of the gilded dining room, under the crystal

chandeliers dangling from the intricately painted ceiling, Bryce went through two glasses of water and half a bottle of wine while she waited.

Twenty minutes in, her phone buzzed in her black silk clutch. If Reid

was canceling on her, she’d kill him. There was no fucking way she could afford to pay for the wine—not without having to give up dance classes for the next month. Two months, actually.

But the messages weren’t from Reid, and Bryce read them three times

before chucking her phone back in her purse and pouring another glass of very, very expensive wine.

Reid was rich and he was late. He owed her.

Especially since the upper echelons of Crescent City were entertaining

themselves by sneering at her dress, the skin on display, the Fae ears but clearly human body.

Half-breed—she could nearly hear the hateful term as they thought it.

They considered her a lowly worker at best. Prey and dumpster fodder at worst.

Bryce took out her phone and read the messages a fourth time.

Connor had written, You know I’m shit with talking. But what I wanted

to say—before you tried to get into a fight with me instead, by the way—was that I think it’s worth it. You and me. Giving us a shot.

He’d added: I’m crazy about you. I don’t want anyone else. I haven’t for

a long while. One date. If it doesn’t work, then we’ll deal with it. But just give me a chance. Please.

Bryce was still staring at the messages, her head spinning from all that

gods-damned wine, when Reid finally appeared. Forty-five minutes late.

“Sorry, babe,” he said, leaning in to kiss her cheek before sliding onto

his chair. His charcoal-gray suit remained immaculate, his golden skin glowing above the collar of his white shirt. Not one dark brown hair on his head was out of place.

Reid had the easy manners of someone brought up with money,

education, and no doors locked to his desires. The Redners were one of the few human families who had risen into Vanir high society—and dressed for the part. Reid was meticulous about his appearance, down to the very last detail. Every tie he wore, she’d learned, was selected to bring out the green in his hazel eyes. His suits were always impeccably cut to his toned body.

She might have called him vain, had she not put such consideration into her own outfits. Had she not known that Reid worked with a personal trainer for the exact reason that she kept dancing—beyond her love for it—making sure her body was primed for when its strength might be needed to escape any would-be predator hunting the streets.

Since the day the Vanir had crawled through the Northern Rift and

overtaken Midgard eons ago, an event historians called the Crossing, running was the best option if a Vanir decided to make a meal of you. That is, if you didn’t have a gun or bombs or any of the horrid things people like Philip Briggs had developed to kill even a long-lived, quick-healing creature.

She often wondered about it: what it had been like before this planet

had found itself occupied by creatures from so many different worlds, all of them far more advanced and civilized than this one, when it was just

humans and ordinary animals. Even their calendar system hearkened to the Crossing, and the time before and after it: H.E. and V.E.—Human Era and Vanir Era.

Reid lifted his dark brows at the mostly empty bottle of wine. “Nice

choice.”

Forty-five minutes. Without a call or a message to tell her he’d be late.

Bryce gritted her teeth. “Something came up at work?” Reid shrugged, scanning the restaurant for high-ranking officials to

hobnob with. As the son of a man who had his name displayed in twenty-foot letters on three buildings in the CBD, people usually lined up to chat with him. “Some of the malakim are restless about developments in the Pangeran conflict. They needed reassurance their investments were still sound. The call ran long.”

The Pangeran conflict—the fighting Briggs so badly wanted to bring to

this territory. The wine that had gone to her head eddied into an oily pool in her gut. “The angels think the war might spread here?”

Spying no one of interest in the restaurant, Reid flipped open his

leather-bound menu. “No. The Asteri wouldn’t let that happen.”

“The Asteri let it happen over there.” His lips twitched downward. “It’s a complicated issue, Bryce.” Conversation over. She let him go back to studying the menu.

Reports of the territory across the Haldren Sea were grim: the human

resistance was prepared to wipe themselves out rather than submit to the Asteri and their “elected” Senate’s rule. For forty years now, the war had raged in the vast Pangeran territory, wrecking cities, creeping toward the stormy sea. Should the conflict cross it, Crescent City, sitting on Valbara’s southeastern coast—midway up a peninsula called the Hand for the shape of the arid, mountainous land that jutted out—would be one of the first places in its path.

Fury refused to talk about what she saw over there. What she did over

there. What side she fought for. Most Vanir did not find a challenge to more than fifteen thousand years of their reign amusing.

Most humans did not find fifteen thousand years of near-slavery, of

being prey and food and whores, to be all that amusing, either. Never mind that in recent centuries, the Imperial Senate had granted humans more rights —with the Asteri’s approval, of course. The fact remained that anyone who

stepped out of line was thrown right back to where they’d started: literal slaves to the Republic.

The slaves, at least, existed mostly in Pangera. A few lived in Crescent

City, namely among the warrior-angels in the 33rd, the Governor’s personal legion, marked by the SPQM slave tattoo on their wrists. But they blended in, for the most part.

Crescent City, for all that its wealthiest were grade A assholes, was still

a melting pot. One of the rare places where being a human didn’t necessarily mean a lifetime of menial labor. Though it didn’t entitle you to much else.

A dark-haired, blue-eyed Fae female caught Bryce’s cursory glance

around the room, her boy toy across the table marking her as some sort of noble.

Bryce had never decided whom she hated more: the winged malakim or

the Fae. The Fae, probably, whose considerable magic and grace made them think they were allowed to do what they pleased, with anyone they pleased.

A trait shared by many members of the House of Sky and Breath: the swaggering angels, the lofty sylphs, and the simmering elementals.

House of Shitheads and Bastards, Danika always called them. Though

her own allegiance to the House of Earth and Blood might have shaded her opinion a bit—especially when the shifters and Fae were forever at odds.

Born of two Houses, Bryce had been forced to yield her allegiance to

the House of Earth and Blood as part of accepting the civitas rank her father had gotten her. It had been the price paid for accepting the coveted citizen status: he’d petition for full citizenship, but she would have to claim Sky and Breath as her House. She’d resented it, resented the bastard for making her choose, but even her mother had seen that the benefits outweighed the costs.

Not that there were many advantages or protections for humans within

the House of Earth and Blood, either. Certainly not for the young man seated with the Fae female.

Beautiful, blond, no more than twenty, he was likely a tenth of his Fae

companion’s age. The tanned skin of his wrists held no hint of the four-lettered slave tattoo. So he had to be with her through his own free will, then—or desire for whatever she offered: sex, money, influence. It was a

fool’s bargain, though. She’d use him until she was bored, or he grew too old, and then dump his ass at the curb, still craving those Fae riches.

Bryce inclined her head to the noblewoman, who bared her too-white

teeth at the insolence. The Fae female was beautiful—but most of the Fae were.

She found Reid watching, a frown on his handsome face. He shook his

head—at her—and resumed reading the menu.

Bryce sipped her wine. Signaled the waiter to bring over another bottle.

I’m crazy about you.

Connor wouldn’t tolerate the sneering, the whispering. Neither would

Danika. Bryce had witnessed both of them rip into the stupid assholes who’d hissed slurs at her, or who mistook her for one of the many half-Vanir females who scraped a living in the Meat Market by selling their bodies.

Most of those women didn’t get the chance to complete the Drop—

either because they didn’t make it to the threshold of maturity or because they got the short end of the stick with a mortal life span. There were predators, both born and trained, who used the Meat Market as a personal hunting ground.

Bryce’s phone buzzed, right as the waiter finally made his way over,

fresh bottle of wine in hand. Reid frowned again, his disapproval heavy enough that she refrained from reading the message until she’d ordered her beef-with-cheese-foam sandwich.

Danika had written, Dump the limp-dicked bastard and put Connor out

of his misery. A date with him won’t kill you. He’s been waiting years, Bryce. Years. Give me something to smile about tonight.

Bryce cringed as she shoved her phone back into her bag. She looked

up to find Reid on his own phone, thumbs flying, his chiseled features illuminated by the dim screen. Their invention five decades ago had occurred right in Redner Industries’ famed tech lab, and vaulted the company into unprecedented fortune. A new era of linking the world, everyone claimed. Bryce thought they just gave people an excuse not to make eye contact. Or be bad dates.

“Reid,” she said. He just held up a finger.

Bryce tapped a red nail on the base of her wineglass. She kept her nails

long—and took a daily elixir to keep them strong. Not as effective as talons

or claws, but they could do some damage. At least enough to potentially get away from an assailant.

“Reid,” she said again. He kept typing, and looked up only when the

first course appeared.

It was indeed a salmon mousse. Over a crisp of bread, and encaged in

some latticework of curling green plants. Small ferns, perhaps. She swallowed her laugh.

“Go ahead and dig in,” Reid said distantly, typing again. “Don’t wait for

me.”

“One bite and I’ll be done,” she muttered, lifting her fork but wondering

how the Hel to eat the thing. No one around them used their fingers, but … The Fae female sneered again.

Bryce set down the fork. Folded her napkin into a neat square before

she rose. “I’m going.”

“All right,” Reid said, eyes fixed on his screen. He clearly thought she

was going to the bathroom. She could feel the eyes of a well-dressed angel at the next table travel up her expanse of bare leg, then heard the chair groan as he leaned back to admire the view of her ass.

Exactly why she kept her nails strong.

But she said to Reid, “No—I’m leaving. Thank you for dinner.” That made him look up. “What? Bryce, sit down. Eat.” As if his being late, being on the phone, weren’t part of this. As if she

were just something he needed to feed before he fucked. She said clearly, “This isn’t working out.”

His mouth tightened. “Excuse me?” She doubted he’d ever been dumped. She said with a sweet smile, “Bye,

Reid. Good luck with work.”

“Bryce.” But she had enough gods-damned self-respect not to let him explain,

not to accept sex that was merely okay basically in exchange for meals at restaurants she could never afford, and a man who had indeed rolled off her and gotten right back on that phone. So she swiped the bottle of wine and stepped away from the table, but not toward the exit.

She went up to the sneering Fae female and her human plaything and

said in a cool voice that would have made even Danika back away, “Like what you see?”

The female gave her a sweeping glance, from Bryce’s heels to her red

hair to the bottle of wine dangling from her fingers. The Fae female shrugged, setting the black stones in her long dress sparkling. “I’ll pay a gold mark to watch you two.” She inclined her head to the human at her table.

He offered Bryce a smile, his vacant face suggesting he was soaring

high on some drug.

Bryce smirked at the female. “I didn’t know Fae females had gotten so

cheap. Word on the street used to be that you’d pay us gold by the armful to pretend you’re not lifeless as Reapers between the sheets.”

The female’s tan face went white. Glossy, flesh-shredding nails snagged

on the tablecloth. The man across from her didn’t so much as flinch.

Bryce put a hand on the man’s shoulder—in comfort or to piss off the

female, she wasn’t sure. She squeezed lightly, again inclining her head toward the female, and strode out.

She swigged from the bottle of wine and flipped off the preening

hostess on her way through the bronze doors. Then snatched a handful of matchbooks from the bowl atop the stand, too.

Reid’s breathless apologies to the noble drifted behind her as Bryce

stepped onto the hot, dry street.

Well, shit. It was nine o’clock, she was decently dressed, and if she

went back to that apartment, she’d pace around until Danika bit her head off. And the wolves would shove their noses into her business, which she didn’t want to discuss with them at all.

Which left one option. Her favorite option, fortunately.

Fury picked up on the first ring. “What.” “Are you on this side of the Haldren or the wrong one?” “I’m in Five Roses.” The flat, cool voice was laced with a hint of

amusement—practically outright laughter, coming from Fury. “But I’m not watching television with the pups.”

“Who the Hel would want to do that?” A pause on the line. Bryce leaned against the pale stone exterior of the

Pearl and Rose. “I thought you had a date with what’s-his-face.”

“You and Danika are the worst, you know that?” She practically heard Fury’s wicked smile through the line. “I’ll meet

you at the Raven in thirty minutes. I need to finish up a job.”

“Go easy on the poor bastard.” “That’s not what I was paid to do.” The line went dead. Bryce swore and prayed Fury wouldn’t reek of

blood when she got to their preferred club. She dialed another number.

Juniper was breathless when she picked up on the fifth ring, right before

it went to audiomail. She must have been in the studio, practicing after-hours. As she always did. As Bryce loved to do whenever she had a spare moment herself. To dance and dance and dance, the world fading into nothing but music and breath and sweat. “Oh, you dumped him, didn’t you?”

“Did motherfucking Danika send a message to everyone?” “No,” the sweet, lovely faun replied, “but you’ve been on your date for

only an hour. Since the recap calls usually happen the morning after …”

“We’re going to the Raven,” Bryce snapped. “Be there in thirty.” She

hung up before Juniper’s quicksilver laugh set her cursing.

Oh, she’d find a way to punish Danika for telling them. Even though

she knew it’d been meant as a warning, to prepare them for any picking up the pieces, if necessary. Just as Bryce had checked in with Connor regarding Danika’s state earlier that evening.

The White Raven was only a five-minute walk away, right in the heart

of the Old Square. Which left Bryce with enough time to either really, truly get into trouble, or face what she’d been avoiding for an hour now.

She opted for trouble.

Lots of trouble, enough to empty out the seven hard-earned gold marks

in her purse as she handed them over to a grinning draki female, who slipped everything Bryce asked for into her waiting palm. The female had tried to sell her on some new party drug—Synth will make you feel like a god, she said—but the thirty gold marks for a single dose had been well above Bryce’s pay grade.

She was still left with five minutes. Standing across from the White

Raven, the club still teeming with revelers despite Briggs’s failed plan to blast it apart, Bryce pulled out her phone and opened the thread with Connor. She’d bet all the money she’d just blown on mirthroot that he was checking his phone every two seconds.

Cars crawled past, the bass of their sound systems thumping over the

cobblestones and cypresses, windows down to reveal passengers eager to

start their Thursday: drinking; smoking; singing along to the music; messaging friends, dealers, whoever might get them into one of the dozen clubs that lined Archer Street. Queues already snaked from the doors, including the Raven’s. Vanir peered up in anticipation at the white marble facade, well-dressed pilgrims waiting at the gates of a temple.

The Raven was just that: a temple. Or it had been. A building now

encased the ruins, but the dance floor remained the original, ancient stones of some long-forgotten god’s temple, and the carved stone pillars throughout still stood from that time. To dance inside was to worship that nameless god, hinted at in the age-worn carvings of satyrs and fauns drinking and dancing and fucking amid grapevines. A temple to pleasure— that’s what it had once been. And what it had become again.

A cluster of young mountain-lion shifters prowled past, a few twisting

back to growl in invitation. Bryce ignored them and sidled over to an alcove at the left of the Raven’s service doors. She leaned against the slick stone, tucked the wine into the crook of her arm, braced a foot on the wall behind her as she bobbed her head to the music pouring out of a nearby car, and finally typed: Pizza. Saturday night at six. If you’re late, it’s over.

Instantly, Connor began typing in reply. Then the bubble paused. Then

started again.

Then finally, the message came.

I’ll never keep you waiting.

She rolled her eyes and wrote, Don’t make promises you can’t keep.

More typing, deleting, typing. Then, You mean it—about the pizza?

Do I look like I’m joking, Connor?

You looked delicious when you left the apartment.

Heat curled in her, and she bit her lip. Charming, arrogant bastard. Tell

Danika I’m going to the Raven with Juniper and Fury. I’ll see you in two days.

Done. What about what’s-his-face?

REID is officially dumped.

Good. I was getting worried I’d have to kill him.

Her gut churned.

He quickly added, Kidding, Bryce. I won’t go alphahole on you, I

promise.

Before she could answer, her phone buzzed again.

Danika, this time. HOW DARE YOU GO TO THE RAVEN WITHOUT

ME. TRAITOR.

Bryce snorted. Enjoy Pack Night, loser.

DO NOT HAVE FUN WITHOUT ME. I FORBID YOU.

She knew that as much as it killed Danika to stay in, she wouldn’t leave

the pack. Not on the one night they all had together, the night they used to keep the bonds between them strong. Not after this shitstorm of a day. And especially not while Briggs was on the loose, with a reason to get back at the whole Pack of Devils.

That loyalty was why they loved Danika, why they fought so fiercely

for her, went to the mat for her again and again when Sabine publicly wondered if her daughter was worthy of the responsibilities and status as second in line. The power hierarchy among the wolves of Crescent City was dictated by dominance alone—but the three-generation lineage that made up the Prime of the wolves, Prime Apparent, and whatever Danika was (the Apparent Prime Apparent?) was a rarity. Powerful, ancient bloodlines was the usual explanation.

Danika had spent countless hours looking into the history of the

dominant shifter packs in other cities—why lions had come to rule in Hilene, why tigers oversaw Korinth, why falcons reigned in Oia. Whether the dominance that determined the Prime Alpha status passed through families or skipped around. Non-predatory shifters could head up a city’s Aux, but it was rare. Honestly, most of it bored Bryce to tears. And if Danika had ever learned why the Fendyr family claimed such a large share of the dominance pie, she’d never told Bryce.

Bryce wrote back to Connor, Good luck handling Danika.

He simply replied, She’s telling me the same about you.

Bryce was about to put her phone away when the screen flashed again.

Connor had added, You won’t regret this. I’ve had a long while to figure out all the ways I’m going to spoil you. All the fun we’re going to have.

Stalker. But she smiled.

Go enjoy yourself. I’ll see you in a few days. Message me when you’re

home safe.

She reread the conversation twice because she really was an absolute

fucking loser, and was debating asking Connor to skip waiting and just meet her now, when something cool and metal pressed against her throat.

“And you’re dead,” crooned a female voice.

Bryce yelped, trying to calm the heart that had gone from stupid-giddy

to stupid-scared in the span of one beat.

“Don’t fucking do that,” she hissed at Fury as the female lowered the

knife from Bryce’s throat and sheathed it across her back.

“Don’t be a walking target,” Fury said coolly, her long onyx hair tied

high in a ponytail that brought out the sharp lines of her light brown face.

She scanned the line into the Raven, her deep-set chestnut eyes marking everything and promising death to anyone who crossed her. But beneath that … mercifully, the black leather leggings, skintight velvet top, and ass-kicking boots did not smell of blood. Fury gave Bryce a once-over. “You barely put on any makeup. That little human should have taken one look at you and known you were about to dump his ass.”

“He was too busy on his phone to notice.” Fury glanced pointedly at Bryce’s own phone, still clenched in a death

grip in her hand. “Danika’s going to nail your balls to the wall when I tell her I caught you distracted like that.”

“It’s her own damn fault,” Bryce snapped.

A sharp smile was her only response. Bryce knew Fury was Vanir, but

she had no idea what kind. No idea what House Fury belonged to, either.

Asking wasn’t polite, and Fury, aside from her preternatural speed, grace, and reflexes, had never revealed another form, nor any inkling of magic beyond the most basic.

But she was a civitas. A full citizen, which meant she had to be

something they deemed worthy. Given her skill set, the House of Flame and Shadow was the likeliest place for her—even if Fury was certainly not a daemonaki, vampyr, or even a wraith. Definitely not a witch-turned-sorceress like Jesiba, either. Or a necromancer, since her gifts seemed to be taking life, not illegally bringing it back.

“Where’s the leggy one?” Fury asked, taking the wine bottle from

Bryce and swigging as she scanned the teeming clubs and bars along Archer Street.

“Hel if I know,” Bryce said. She winked at Fury and held up the plastic

bag of mirthroot, jostling the twelve rolled black cigarettes. “I got us some goodies.”

Fury’s grin was a flash of red lips and straight white teeth. She reached

into the back pocket of her leggings and held up a small bag of white powder that glittered with a fiery iridescence in the glow of the streetlamp. “So did I.”

Bryce squinted at the powder. “Is that what the dealer just tried to sell

me?”

Fury went still. “What’d she say it was?” “Some new party drug—gives you a godlike high, I don’t know. Super

expensive.”

Fury frowned. “Synth? Stay away from it. That’s some bad shit.” “All right.” She trusted Fury enough to heed the warning. Bryce peered

at the powder Fury still held in her hand. “I can’t take anything that makes me hallucinate for days, please. I have work tomorrow.” When she had to at least pretend she had some idea how to find that gods-damned Horn.

Fury tucked the bag into her black bra. She swigged from the wine

again before passing it back to Bryce. “Jesiba won’t be able to scent it on you, don’t worry.”

Bryce linked elbows with the slender assassin. “Then let’s go make our

ancestors roll over in their graves.”

5

Going on a date with Connor in a few days didn’t mean she had to behave.

So within the inner sanctum of the White Raven, Bryce savored every

delight it offered.

Fury knew the owner, Riso, either through work or whatever the Hel

she did in her personal life, and as such, they never had to wait in line. The flamboyant butterfly shifter always left a booth open for them.

None of the smiling, colorfully dressed waiters who brought over their

drinks so much as blinked at the lines of glittering white powder Fury arranged with a sweep of her hand or the plumes of smoke that rippled from Bryce’s parted lips as she tipped her head back to the domed, mirrored ceiling and laughed.

Juniper had a studio class at dawn, so she abstained from the powder

and smoke and booze. But it didn’t stop her from sneaking away for a good twenty minutes with a broad-chested Fae male who took in the dark brown skin, the exquisite face and curling black hair, the long legs that ended in delicate hooves, and practically begged on his knees for the faun to touch him.

Bryce reduced herself into the pulsing beat of the music, to the euphoria

glittering through her blood faster than an angel diving out of the sky, to the sweat sliding down her body as she writhed on the ancient dance floor. She would barely be able to walk tomorrow, would have half a brain, but holy shit—more, more, more.

Laughing, she swooped over the low-lying table in their private booth

between two half-crumbling pillars; laughing, she arched away, a red nail releasing its hold on one nostril as she sagged against the dark leather bench; laughing, she knocked back water and elderberry wine and stumbled again into the dancing throng.

Life was good. Life was fucking good, and she couldn’t gods-damn

wait to make the Drop with Danika and do this until the earth crumbled into dust.

She found Juniper dancing amid a pack of sylph females celebrating a

friend’s successful Drop. Their silvery heads were adorned with circlets of neon glow sticks chock-full of their friend’s designated allotment of her own firstlight, which she’d generated when she successfully completed the Drop. Juniper had managed to swipe a glow-stick halo for herself, and her hair shone with blue light as she extended her hands to Bryce, their fingers linking as they danced.

Bryce’s blood pulsed in time to the music, as if she had been crafted

just for this: the moment when she became the notes and rhythm and the bass, when she became song given form. Juniper’s glittering eyes told Bryce that she understood, had always understood the particular freedom and joy and unleashing that came from dancing. Like their bodies were so full of sound they could barely contain it, could barely stand it, and only dance could express it, ease it, honor it.

Males and females gathered to watch, their lust coating Bryce’s skin

like sweat. Juniper’s every movement matched hers without so much as a lick of hesitation, as if they were question and answer, sun and moon.

Quiet, pretty Juniper Andromeda—the exhibitionist. Even dancing in

the sacred, ancient heart of the Raven, she was sweet and mild, but she shone.

Or maybe that was all the lightseeker Bryce had ingested up her nose.

Her hair clung to her sweaty neck, her feet were utterly numb thanks to

the steep angle of her heels, her throat was ravaged from screaming along to the songs that blasted through the club.

She managed to shoot a few messages to Danika—and one video,

because she could barely read any of what was coming in anyway.

She’d be so royally fucked if she showed up at work tomorrow unable

to read.

Time slowed and bled. Here, dancing among the pillars and upon the

timeworn stones of the temple that had been reborn, no time existed at all.

Maybe she’d live here.

Quit her job at the gallery and live in the club. They could hire her to

dance in one of the steel cages dangling from the glass ceiling high above the temple ruins that made up the dance floor. They certainly wouldn’t spew bullshit about a wrong body type. No, they’d pay her to do what she loved, what made her come alive like nothing else.

It seemed like a reasonable enough plan, Bryce thought as she stumbled

down her own street later with no recollection of leaving the Raven, saying goodbye to her friends, or of how the Hel she’d even gotten here. Taxi?

She’d blown all her marks on the drugs. Unless someone had paid …

Whatever. She’d think about it tomorrow. If she could even sleep. She

wanted to stay awake, to dance for-gods-damn-ever. Only … oh, her feet fucking hurt. And they were near-black and sticky—

Bryce paused outside her building door and groaned as she unstrapped

her heels and gathered them in a hand. A code. Her building had a code to get in.

Bryce contemplated the keypad as if it’d open a pair of eyes and tell

her. Some buildings did that.

Shit. Shiiit. She pulled out her phone, the glaring screen light burning

her eyes. Squinting, she could make out a few dozen message alerts. They blurred, her eyes trying and failing to focus enough to read one single coherent letter. Even if she somehow managed to call Danika, her friend would rip her head off.

The screech of the building buzzer would piss off Danika even more.

Bryce cringed, hopping from foot to foot.

What was the code? The code, the code, the cooooode … Oh, there it was. Tucked into a back pocket of her mind.

She cheerfully punched in the numbers, then heard the buzz as the lock

opened with a faint, tinny sound.

She scowled at the reek of the stairwell. That gods-damned janitor.

She’d kick his ass. Impale him with these useless, cheap stilettos that had wrecked her feet—

Bryce set a bare foot on the stairs and winced. This was going to hurt.

Walking-on-glass hurt.

She let her heels clunk to the tile floor, whispering a fervent promise to

find them tomorrow, and gripped the black-painted metal banister with both hands. Maybe she could straddle the banister and scoot herself up the stairs.

Gods, it stunk. What did the people in this building eat? Or, for that

matter, who did they eat? Hopefully not wasted, stupid-high, half-Fae females who couldn’t manage to walk up the stairs.

If Fury had laced the lightseeker with something else, she’d fucking kill

her.

Snorting at the idea of even attempting to kill the infamous Fury Axtar,

Bryce hauled herself up the stairs, step by step.

She debated sleeping on the second-level landing, but the stench was

overwhelming.

Maybe she’d get lucky and Connor would still be at the apartment. And

then she’d really get lucky.

Gods, she wanted good sex. No-holds-barred, scream-your-lungs-out

sex. Break-the-bed sex. She knew Connor would be like that. More than that. It’d go far beyond the physical with him. It might honestly melt whatever was left of her mind after tonight.

It was why she’d been a coward, why she’d avoided thinking about it

from the moment he’d leaned in her doorway five years ago, having come to say hi to Danika and meet her new roommate, and they’d just … stared at each other.

Having Connor living four doors down freshman year had been the

worst sort of temptation. But Danika had given the order to stay away until Bryce approached him, and even though they hadn’t yet formed the Pack of Devils, Connor obeyed. It seemed Danika had lifted the order tonight.

Lovely, wicked Danika. Bryce smiled as she half crawled onto the third-

floor landing, found her balance, and dug her keys out of her purse—which she’d managed to hold on to by some miracle. She took a few swaying steps down the hall they shared with one other apartment.

Oh, Danika was going to be so pissed. So pissed that Bryce had not only

had fun without her, but that she’d gotten so wasted she couldn’t remember how to read. Or the code to the building.

The flickering firstlight stung her eyes enough that she again squinted

them to near-darkness and staggered down the hall. She should shower, if

she could remember how to operate the handles. Wash off her filthy, numb feet.

Especially after she stepped in a cold puddle beneath some dripping

ceiling pipe. She shuddered, bracing a hand on the wall, but kept staggering ahead.

Fuck. Too many drugs. Even her Fae blood couldn’t clear them out fast

enough.

But there was her door. Keys. Right—she had them in her hand already.

There were six. Which one was hers? One opened the gallery; one

opened the various tanks and cages in the archives; one opened Syrinx’s crate; one was to the chain on her scooter; one was to her scooter … and one was to the door. This door.

The brass keys tinkled and swayed, shining in the firstlights, then

blending with the painted metal of the hall. They slipped out of her slackening fingers, clanking on the tile.

“Fuuuuuuck.” The word was a long exhale.

Bracing a hand on the doorframe to keep from falling clean on her ass,

Bryce stooped to pick up the keys.

Something cool and wet met her fingertips.

Bryce closed her eyes, willing the world to stop spinning. When she

opened them, she focused on the tile before the door.

Red. And the smell—it wasn’t the reek of before.

It was blood.

And the apartment door was already open.

The lock had been mangled, the handle wrenched off completely.

Iron—the door was iron, and enchanted with the best spells money

could buy to keep out any unwanted guests, attackers, or magic. Those spells were the one thing Bryce had ever allowed Danika to purchase on her behalf. She hadn’t wanted to know how much they’d cost, not when it was likely double her parents’ annual salary.

But the door now looked like a crumpled piece of paper.

Blinking furiously, Bryce straightened. Fuck the drugs in her system—

fuck Fury. She’d promised no hallucinations.

Bryce was never drinking or polluting her body with those drugs ever

again. She’d tell Danika first thing tomorrow. No more. No. More.

She rubbed her eyes, mascara smearing on her fingertips. On her blood-

soaked fingertips—

The blood remained. The mangled door, too. “Danika?” she croaked. If the attacker was still inside …“Danika?” That bloody hand—her own hand—pushed the half-crumpled door

open farther.

Blackness greeted her.

The coppery tang of blood, and that festering odor, slammed into her.

Her entire body seized, every muscle going on alert, every instinct

screaming to run, run, run—

But her Fae eyes adjusted to the dark, revealing the apartment.

What was left of it.

What was left of them.

Help—she needed to get help, but— She staggered into the trashed apartment. “Danika?” The word was a raw, broken sound.

The wolves had fought. There wasn’t a piece of furniture that was

intact, that wasn’t shredded and splintered.

There wasn’t a body intact, either. Piles and clumps were all that

remained.

“DanikaDanikaDanika—” She needed to call someone, needed to scream for help, needed to get

Fury, or her brother, her father, needed Sabine—

Bryce’s bedroom door was destroyed, the threshold painted in blood.

The ballet posters hung in ribbons. And on the bed …

She knew in her bones it was not a hallucination, what lay on that bed,

knew in her bones that what bled out inside her chest was her heart.

Danika lay there. In pieces.

And at the foot of the bed, littering the torn carpet in even smaller

pieces, as if he’d gone down defending Danika … she knew that was Connor.

Knew the heap just to the right of the bed, closest to Danika … That

was Thorne.

Bryce stared. And stared.

Perhaps time stopped. Perhaps she was dead. She couldn’t feel her

body.

A clanging, echoing thunk sounded from outside. Not from the

apartment, but the hall.

She moved. The apartment warped, shrinking and expanding as if it

were breathing, the floors rising with each inhale, but she managed to move.

The small kitchen table lay in fragments. Her blood-slick, shaking

fingers wrapped around one of its wooden legs, silently lifting it over her shoulder. She peered into the hall.

It took a few blinks to clear her contracting vision. The gods-damned

drugs—

The trash chute hatch lay open. Blood that smelled of wolf coated the

rusty metal door, and prints that did not belong to a human stained the tile floor, aiming toward the stairs.

It was real. She blinked, over and over, swaying against the door— Real. Which meant— From far away, she saw herself launch into the hallway.

Saw herself slam into the opposite wall and rebound off it, then

scramble into a sprint toward the stairwell.

Whatever had killed them must have heard her coming and hidden

inside the trash chute, waiting for the chance to leap out at her or slink away unnoticed—

Bryce hit the stairs, a glowing white haze creeping over her vision. It

blazed through every inhibition, disregarded every warning bell.

The glass door at the bottom of the stairs was already shattered. People

screamed outside.

Bryce leapt from the top of the landing.

Her knees popped and buckled as she cleared the stairs, her bare feet

shredding on the glass littering the lobby floor. Then they ripped open more as she hurtled through the door and into the street, scanning—

People were gasping to the right. Others were screaming. Cars had

halted, drivers and passengers all staring toward a narrow alley between the building and its neighbor.

Their faces blurred and stretched, twisting their horror into something

grotesque, something strange and primordial and—

This was no hallucination.

Bryce sprinted across the street, following the screams, the reek—

Her breath tore apart her lungs as she hurtled along the alley, dodging

piles of trash. Whatever she was chasing had gotten only a brief head start.

Where was it, where was it?

Every logical thought was a ribbon floating above her head. She read

them, as if following a stock ticker mounted on a building’s side in the

CBD.

One glimpse, even if she couldn’t kill it. One glimpse, just to ID it, for

Danika—

Bryce cleared the alley, careening onto bustling Central Avenue, the

street full of fleeing people and honking cars. She leapt over their hoods, scaling them one after another, every movement as smooth as one of her dance steps. Leap, twirl, arch—her body did not fail her. Not as she followed the creature’s rotting stench to another alley. Another and another.

They were almost at the Istros. A snarl and roar rent the air ahead. It had

come from another connected alley, more of a dead-end alcove between two brick buildings.

She hefted the table leg, wishing she’d grabbed Danika’s sword instead,

wondering if Danika had even had time to unsheathe it—

No. The sword was in the gallery, where Danika had ignored Jesiba’s

warning and left it in the supply closet. Bryce launched herself around the alley’s corner.

Blood everywhere. Everywhere.

And the thing halfway down the alley … not Vanir. Not one she’d

encountered before.

A demon? Some feral thing with smooth, near-translucent gray skin. It

crawled on four long, spindly limbs, but looked vaguely humanoid. And it was feasting on someone else.

On—on a malakh.

Blood covered the angel’s face, soaking his hair and veiling the

swollen, battered features beneath. His white wings were splayed and snapped, his powerful body arced in agony as the beast ripped at his chest with a maw of clear, crystalline fangs that easily dug through skin and bone —

She did not think, did not feel.

She moved, fast like Randall had taught her, brutal like he’d made her

learn to be.

She slammed the table leg into the creature’s head so hard that bone and

wood cracked.

It was thrown off the angel and whirled, its back legs twisting beneath it

while its front legs—arms—gouged lines in the cobblestones.

The creature had no eyes. Only smooth planes of bone above deep slits

—its nose.

And the blood that leaked from its temple … it was clear, not red.

Bryce panted, the malakh male groaning some wordless plea as the

creature sniffed at her.

She blinked and blinked, willing the lightseeker and mirthroot out of

her system, willing the image ahead to stop blurring—

The creature lunged. Not for her—but the angel. Right back to the chest

and heart it was trying to get to. The more considerable prey.

Bryce launched forward, table leg swinging again. The reverberations

against bone bit into her palm. The creature roared, blindly surging at her.

She dodged, but its sharp, clear fangs ripped her thigh clean open as she

twisted away.

She screamed, losing her balance, and swung upward as it leapt again,

this time for her throat.

Wood smashed those clear teeth. The demon shrieked, so loudly that her

Fae ears nearly ruptured, and she dared all of one blink—

Claws scraped, hissing sounded, and then it was gone.

It was just clearing the lip of the brick building the malakh lay slumped

against. She could track it from the streets, could keep it in sight long enough for the Aux or 33rd to come—

Bryce had dared one step when the angel groaned again. His hand was

against his chest, pushing weakly. Not hard enough to stop the death-bite from gushing blood. Even with his fast healing, even if he’d made the Drop, the injuries were substantial enough to be fatal.

Someone screamed in a nearby street as the creature jumped between

buildings.

Go, go, go.

The angel’s face was so battered it was barely more than a slab of

swollen flesh.

The table leg clattered into a puddle of the angel’s blood as she dove for

him, biting down her scream at the burning gash in her thigh. Someone had

poured acid onto her skin, her bones.

Unbearable, impenetrable darkness swept through her, blanketing

everything within.

But she shoved her hand against the angel’s wound, not allowing herself

to feel the wet, torn flesh, the jagged bone of his cleaved sternum. The creature had been eating its way into his heart—

“Phone,” she panted. “Do you have a phone?” The angel’s white wing was so shredded it was mostly red splinters. But

it shifted slightly to reveal the pocket of his black jeans. The square lump in them.

How she managed to pull out the phone with one hand was beyond her.

Time was still snagging, speeding and stopping. Pain lanced through her leg with every breath.

But she gripped the sleek black device in her wrecked hands, her red

nails almost snapping with the force as she punched in the emergency number.

A male voice answered on the first ring. “Crescent City Rescue—” “Help.” Her voice broke. “Help.” A pause. “Miss, I need you to specify where you are, what the situation

is.”

“Old Square. River—off the river, near Cygnet Street …” But that was

where she lived. She was blocks away from that. Didn’t know the cross streets. “Please—please help.”

The angel’s blood soaked her lap. Her knees were bleeding, scraped

raw.

And Danika was

And Danika was

And Danika was “Miss, I need you to tell me where you are—we can have wolves on the

scene in a minute.”

She sobbed then, and the angel’s limp fingers brushed against her torn

knee. As if in comfort.

“Phone,” she managed, interrupting the responder. “His phone—track

it, track us. Find us.”

“Miss, are you—” “Track this phone number.” “Miss, I need a moment to—” She pulled up the main screen of the phone, clicking through pages in a

haze until she found the number herself. “112 03 0577.”

“Miss, the records are—” “112 03 0577!” she screamed into the phone. Over and over. “112 03

0577!”

It was all she could remember. That stupid number. “Miss—holy gods.” The line crackled. “They’re coming,” the responder

breathed.

He tried to inquire about the injuries on the male, but she dropped the

angel’s phone as the drugs pulled her back, yanked her down, and she swayed. The alley warped and rippled.

The angel’s gaze met hers, so full of agony she thought it was what her

soul must look like.

His blood poured out between her fingers. It did not stop.

6

The half-Fae female looked like Hel.

No, not Hel, Isaiah Tiberian realized as he studied her through the one-

way mirror in the legion’s holding center. She looked like death.

Looked like the soldiers he’d seen crawl off the blood-drenched

battlefields of Pangera.

She sat at the metal table in the center of the interrogation room, staring

at nothing. Just as she had done for hours now.

A far cry from the screaming, thrashing female Isaiah and his unit had

found in the Old Square alley, her gray dress ripped, her left thigh gushing enough blood that he wondered if she’d faint. She’d been half-wild, either from the sheer terror of what had occurred, the grief sinking in, or the drugs that had been coursing through her system.

Likely a combination of all three. And considering that she was not only

a source of information regarding the attack, but also currently a danger to herself, Isaiah had made the call to bring her into the sterile, subterranean processing center a few blocks from the Comitium. A witness, he’d made damn sure the records stated. Not a suspect.

He blew out a long breath, resisting the urge to rest his forehead against

the observation window. Only the incessant hum of the firstlights overhead filled the space.

The first bit of quiet he’d had in hours. He had little doubt it would end

soon.

As if the thought had tempted Urd herself, a rough male voice spoke

from the door behind him. “She’s still not talking?”

It took all two centuries of Isaiah’s training on and off the battlefield to

avoid flinching at that voice. To turn slowly toward the angel he knew would be leaning against the doorway, wearing his usual black battle-suit— an angel who reason and history reminded him was an ally, though every instinct roared the opposite.

Predator. Killer. Monster.

Hunt Athalar’s angular dark eyes, however, remained fixed on the

window. On Bryce Quinlan. Not one gray feather on his wings rustled. Ever since their first days in the 17th Legion in southern Pangera, Isaiah had tried to ignore the fact that Hunt seemed to exist within a permanent ripple of stillness. It was the bated silence before a thunderclap, like the entire land held its breath when he was near.

Given what he’d seen Hunt do to his enemies and chosen targets, it

came as no surprise.

Hunt’s stare slid toward him.

Right. He’d been asked a question. Isaiah shifted his white wings. “She

hasn’t said a word since she was brought in.”

Hunt again regarded the female through the window. “Has the order

come down yet to move her to another room?”

Isaiah knew exactly what sort of room Hunt referred to. Rooms

designed to get people to talk. Even witnesses.

Isaiah straightened his black silk tie and offered up a half-hearted plea

to the five gods that his charcoal business suit wouldn’t be stained with blood by sunrise. “Not yet.”

Hunt nodded once, his golden-brown face betraying nothing.

Isaiah scanned the angel, since Hunt sure as Hel wasn’t going to

volunteer anything without being prompted. No sign of the skull-faced helmet that had earned Hunt a nickname whispered down every corridor and street in Crescent City: the Umbra Mortis.

The Shadow of Death.

Unable to decide whether to be relieved or worried at the absence of

Hunt’s infamous helmet, Isaiah wordlessly handed Micah’s personal assassin a thin file.

He made sure his dark brown fingers didn’t touch Hunt’s gloved ones.

Not when blood still coated the leather, its scent creeping through the room.

He recognized the angelic scent in that blood, so the other scent had to be Bryce Quinlan’s.

Isaiah jerked his chin to the white-tiled interrogation room. “Bryce

Quinlan, twenty-three years old, half-Fae, half-human. Blood test from ten years ago confirmed she’ll have an immortal life span. Power rating near-negligible. Hasn’t made the Drop yet. Listed as a full civitas. Found in the alley with one of our own, trying to keep his heart from falling out with her bare hands.”

The words sounded so damn clinical. But he knew Hunt was well

versed in the details. They both were. They’d been in that alley, after all.

And they knew that even here, in the secure observation room, they’d be fools to risk saying anything delicate aloud.

It had taken both of them to get Bryce to her feet, only for her to

collapse against Isaiah—not from grief but from pain.

Hunt had realized it first: her thigh had been shredded open.

She’d still been nearly feral, had thrashed as they guided her back to the

ground, Isaiah calling for a medwitch as the blood gushed out of her thigh.

An artery had been hit. It was a gods-damn miracle she wasn’t dead before they arrived.

Hunt had cursed up a storm as he knelt before her, and she’d bucked,

nearly kicking him in the balls. But then he’d pulled off his helmet. Looked her right in the eye.

And told her to calm the fuck down.

She’d fallen completely silent. Just stared at Hunt, blank and hollow.

She didn’t so much as flinch with each punch of the staple gun Hunt had pulled from the small medkit built into his battle-suit. She just stared and stared and stared at the Umbra Mortis.

Yet Hunt hadn’t lingered after he’d stapled her leg shut—he’d launched

into the night to do what he did best: find their enemies and obliterate them.

As if noticing the blood on his gloves, Hunt swore and peeled them off,

dumping them into the metal trash can by the door.

Then the male leafed through Quinlan’s thin file, his shoulder-length

black hair slipping over his unreadable face.

“Seems like she’s your standard spoiled party girl,” he said, turning the

pages. A corner of Hunt’s mouth curved upward, anything but amused. “And what a surprise: she’s Danika Fendyr’s roommate. The Party Princess herself.”

No one but the 33rd used that term—because no one else in Lunathion,

not even the Fae royals, would have dared. But Isaiah motioned to keep reading. Hunt had left the alley before he’d learned the entire scope of this disaster.

Hunt kept reading. His brows rose. “Holy fucking Urd.” Isaiah waited for it.

Hunt’s dark eyes widened. “Danika Fendyr is dead?” He read further.

“Along with the entire Pack of Devils.” He shook his head and repeated, “Holy fucking Urd.”

Isaiah took back the file. “It is totally and completely fucked, my

friend.”

Hunt’s jaw clenched. “I didn’t find any trace of the demon that did

this.”

“I know.” At Hunt’s questioning glance, Isaiah clarified, “If you had,

you’d be holding a severed head in your hands right now and not a file.”

Isaiah had been there—on many occasions—when Hunt had done just

that, returning triumphant from a demon-hunting mission he’d been ordered to go on by whatever Archangel currently held their reins.

Hunt’s mouth twitched slightly, as if remembering the last time he’d

presented a kill in such a manner, but he crossed his powerful arms. Isaiah ignored the inherent dominance in the position. There was a pecking order among them, the five-warrior team who made up the triarii—the most elite of all the Imperial Legion units. Micah’s little cabal.

Though Micah had appointed Isaiah the Commander of the 33rd, he’d

never formally declared him its leader. But Isaiah had always assumed he stood right at the top, the unspoken finest soldier of the triarii, despite his fancy suit and tie.

Where Hunt fell, however … no one had really decided in the two years

since he’d arrived from Pangera. Isaiah wasn’t entirely sure he really wanted to know, either.

Tracking down and eliminating any demons who crept through cracks

in the Northern Rift or entered this world through an illegal summoning was

his official role, and one well suited to Hunt’s particular skill set. The gods knew how many of them he’d tracked down over the centuries, starting from that very first Pangeran unit they’d been in together—the 17th— dedicated to sending the creatures into the afterlife.

But the work Hunt did in the shadows for the Archangels—for Micah,

currently—that was what had earned him his nickname. Hunt answered directly to Micah, and the rest of them stayed out of his way.

“Naomi just arrested Philip Briggs for the murders,” Isaiah said, naming

the captain of the 33rd’s infantry. “Briggs got out of jail today—and Danika and the Pack of Devils were the ones who busted him in the first place.” That the honor hadn’t gone to the 33rd had irked Isaiah to no end. At least Naomi had been the one to apprehend him tonight. “How the fuck a human like Briggs could summon a demon that powerful, I don’t know.”

“I suppose we’ll find out soon enough,” Hunt said darkly.

Yeah, they fucking would. “Briggs has to be ten kinds of stupid to have

been released only to go for a kill that big.” The leader of the Keres rebels —an offshoot of the larger rebellion movement, the Ophion—hadn’t seemed dumb, though. Just a fanatic hell-bent on starting a conflict to mirror the war raging across the sea.

“Or maybe Briggs acted on the sole chance of freedom he had before

we found an excuse to bring him back into custody,” Hunt countered. “He knew his time was limited and wanted to make sure he got one up on the Vanir first.”

Isaiah shook his head. “What a mess.” Understatement of the century.

Hunt blew out a breath. “Has the press gotten wind of anything?” “Not yet,” Isaiah said. “And I got the order a few minutes ago that

we’re to keep it quiet—even if it’ll be all over the news tomorrow morning.”

Hunt’s eyes gleamed. “I’ve got no one to tell.” Indeed, Hunt and the concept of friends didn’t mesh well. Even among

the triarii, even after being here for two years, Hunt still kept to himself.

Still worked relentlessly toward one thing: freedom. Or rather, the slim chance of it.

Isaiah sighed. “How soon until Sabine gets here?” Hunt checked his phone. “Sabine’s on her way downstairs right—” The

door blew open. Hunt’s eyes flickered. “Now.”

Sabine looked barely older than Bryce Quinlan, with her fine-boned

face and long, silvery blond hair, but there was only an immortal’s rage in her blue eyes. “Where is that half-breed whore—” She simmered as she spotted Bryce through the window. “I’ll fucking kill her—”

Isaiah extended a white wing to block the Prime Apparent’s path back

out the door and into the interrogation room, a few steps to its left.

Hunt fell into a casual stance on her other side. Lightning danced along

his knuckles.

A mild showing of the power Isaiah had witnessed being unleashed

upon their enemies: lightning, capable of bringing down a building.

Whether ordinary angel or Archangel, the power was always some

variation of the same: rain, storms, the occasional tornado—Isaiah himself could summon wind capable of keeping a charging enemy at bay, but none in living memory possessed Hunt’s ability to harness lightning to his will.

Or the depth of power to make it truly destructive. It had been Hunt’s salvation and destruction.

Isaiah let one of his cold breezes sift through Sabine’s corn-silk hair,

over to Hunt.

They’d always worked well together—Micah had known it when he put

Hunt with Isaiah two years ago, despite the entwined thorns tattooed across both their brows. Most of Hunt’s mark was hidden by his dark hair, but there was no concealing the thin black band on his forehead.

Isaiah could barely remember what his friend had looked like before

those Pangeran witches had branded him, working their infernal spells into the ink itself so they might never let his crimes be forgotten, so the witch-magic bound the majority of his power.

The halo, they called it—a mockery of the divine auras early humans

had once portrayed angels as possessing.

There was no hiding it on Isaiah’s brow, either, the tattoo on it the same

as on Hunt’s, and on the brows of the nearly two thousand rebel angels who had been such idealistic, brave fools two centuries ago.

The Asteri had created the angels to be their perfect soldiers and loyal

servants. The angels, gifted with such power, had relished their role in the world. Until Shahar, the Archangel they’d once called the Daystar. Until Hunt and the others who’d flown in Shahar’s elite 18th Legion.

Their rebellion had failed—only for the humans to begin their own

forty years ago. A different cause, a different group and species of fighters, but the sentiment was essentially the same: the Republic was the enemy, the rigid hierarchies utter bullshit.

When the human rebels had started their war, one of the idiots should

have asked the Fallen angels how their rebellion had failed, long before those humans were even born. Isaiah certainly could have given them some pointers on what not to do. And enlightened them about the consequences.

For there was also no hiding the second tattoo, stamped on their right

wrists: SPQM.

It adorned every flag and letterhead of the Republic—the four letters

encircled with seven stars—and adorned the wrist of every being owned by it. Even if Isaiah chopped off his arm, the limb that regrew would bear the mark. Such was the power of the witch-ink.

A fate worse than death: to become an eternal servant to those they’d

sought to overthrow.

Deciding to spare Sabine from Hunt’s way of dealing with things, Isaiah

asked mildly, “I understand you are grieving, but do you have reason, Sabine, to want Bryce dead?”

Sabine snarled, pointing at Bryce, “She took the sword. That wannabe

wolf took Danika’s sword. I know she did, it’s not at the apartment—and it’s mine.”

Isaiah had seen those details: that the heirloom of the Fendyr family

was missing. But there was no sign of Bryce Quinlan possessing it. “What does the sword have to do with your daughter’s death?”

Rage and grief warred in that feral face. Sabine shook her head,

ignoring his question, and said, “Danika couldn’t stay out of trouble. She could never keep her mouth shut and know when to be quiet around her enemies. And look what became of her. That stupid little bitch in there is still breathing, and Danika is not.” Her voice nearly cracked. “Danika should have known better.”

Hunt asked a shade more gently, “Known better about what?” “All of it,” Sabine snapped, and again shook her head, clearing her grief

away. “Starting with that slut of a roommate.” She whirled on Isaiah, the portrait of wrath. “Tell me everything.”

Hunt said coolly, “He doesn’t have to tell you shit, Fendyr.”

As Commander of the 33rd Imperial Legion, Isaiah held an equal rank

to Sabine: they both sat on the same governing councils, both answered to males of power within their own ranks and their own Houses.

Sabine’s canines lengthened as she surveyed Hunt. “Did I fucking speak

to you, Athalar?”

Hunt’s eyes glittered. But Isaiah pulled out his phone, typing as he cut

in calmly, “We’re still getting the reports in. Viktoria is coming to talk to Miss Quinlan right now.”

“I’ll talk to her,” Sabine seethed. Her fingers curled, as if ready to rip

out Hunt’s throat. Hunt gave her a sharp smile that told her to just try, the lightning around his knuckles twining up his wrist.

And fortunately for Isaiah, the interrogation room’s door opened and a

dark-haired woman in an immaculately tailored navy suit walked in.

They were a front, those suits that he and Viktoria wore. A sort of

armor, yes, but also a last attempt to pretend that they were even remotely normal.

It was no wonder Hunt never bothered with them.

As Viktoria made her graceful approach, Bryce gave no

acknowledgment of the stunning female who usually made people of all Houses do a double take.

But Bryce had been that way for hours now. Blood still stained the

white bandage around her bare thigh. Viktoria sniffed delicately, her pale green eyes narrowing beneath the halo’s dark tattoo on her brow. The wraith had been one of the few non-malakim who had rebelled with them two centuries ago. She’d been given to Micah soon afterward, and her punishment had gone beyond the brow tattoo and slave markings. Not nearly as brutal as what Isaiah and Hunt had endured in the Asteri’s dungeons, and then in various Archangels’ dungeons for years afterward, but its own form of torment that lasted even when their own had stopped.

Viktoria said, “Miss Quinlan.” She didn’t respond.

The wraith dragged over a steel chair from the wall and set it on the

other side of the table. Pulling a file from her jacket, Viktoria crossed her long legs as she perched on the seat.

“Can you tell me who is responsible for the bloodshed tonight?” Not even a hitch of breath. Sabine growled softly.

The wraith folded her alabaster hands in her lap, the unnatural elegance

the only sign of the ancient power that rippled beneath the calm surface.

Vik had no body of her own. Though she’d fought in the 18th, Isaiah

had learned her history only when he’d arrived here ten years ago. How Viktoria had acquired this particular body, who it had once belonged to, he didn’t ask. She hadn’t told him. Wraiths wore bodies the way some people owned cars. Vainer wraiths switched them often, usually at the first sign of aging, but Viktoria had held on to this one for longer than usual, liking its build and movement, she’d said.

Now she held on to it because she had no choice. It had been Micah’s

punishment for her rebellion: to trap her within this body. Forever. No more changing, no more trading up for something newer and sleeker. For two hundred years, Vik had been contained, forced to weather the slow erosion of the body, now plainly visible: the thin lines starting to carve themselves around her eyes, the crease now etched in her forehead above the tattoo’s twining band of thorns.

“Quinlan’s gone into shock,” Hunt observed, monitoring Bryce’s every

breath. “She’s not going to talk.”

Isaiah was inclined to agree, until Viktoria opened the file, scanned a

piece of paper, and said, “I, for one, believe that you are not in full control of your body or actions right now.”

And then she read a shopping list of a cocktail of drugs and alcohol that

would stop a human’s heart dead. Stop a lesser Vanir’s heart, too, for that matter.

Hunt swore again. “Is there anything she didn’t snort or smoke

tonight?”

Sabine bristled. “Half-breed trash—” Isaiah threw Hunt a look. All that was needed to convey the request.

Never an order—he’d never dared to order Hunt around. Not when the

male possessed a hair-trigger temper that had left entire imperial fighting units in smoldering cinders. Even with the spells of the halo binding that lightning to a tenth of its full strength, Hunt’s skills as a warrior made up for it.

But Hunt’s chin dipped, his only sign that he’d agreed to Isaiah’s

request. “You’ll need to complete some paperwork upstairs, Sabine.” Hunt blew out a breath, as if reminding himself that Sabine was a mother who

had lost her only child tonight, and added, “If you want time to yourself, you can take it, but you need to sign—”

“Fuck signing things and fuck time to myself. Crucify the bitch if you

have to, but get her to give a statement.” Sabine spat on the tiles at Hunt’s booted feet.

Ether coated Isaiah’s tongue as Hunt gave her the cool stare that served

as his only warning to opponents on a battlefield. None had ever survived what happened next.

Sabine seemed to remember that, and wisely stormed into the hall. She

flexed her hand as she did, four razor-sharp claws appearing, and slashed them through the metal door.

Hunt smiled at her disappearing figure. A target marked. Not today, not

even tomorrow, but at one point in the future …

And people claimed the shifters got along better with the angels than

the Fae.

Viktoria was saying gently to Bryce, “We have video footage from the

White Raven, confirming your whereabouts. We have footage of you walking home.”

Cameras covered all of Lunathion, with unparalleled visual and audio

coverage, but Bryce’s apartment building was old, and the mandatory monitors in the hallways hadn’t been repaired in decades. The landlord would be getting a visit tonight for the code violations that had fucked this entire investigation. One tiny sliver of audio was all the building cameras had managed to catch—just the audio. It held nothing beyond what they already knew. The phones of the Pack of Devils had all been destroyed in the attack. Not one message had gone out.

“What we don’t have footage of, Bryce,” Viktoria went on, “is what

happened in that apartment. Can you tell me?”

Slowly, as if she drifted back into her battered body, Bryce turned her

amber eyes to Viktoria.

“Where’s her family?” Hunt asked roughly. “Human mother lives with the stepfather in one of the mountain towns

up north—both peregrini,” Isaiah said. “The sire wasn’t registered or refused to acknowledge paternity. Fae, obviously. And likely one with some standing, since he bothered to get her civitas status.”

Most of the offspring born to human mothers took their peregrini rank.

And though Bryce had something of the Fae’s elegant beauty, her face marked her as human—the gold-dusted skin, the smattering of freckles over her nose and high cheekbones, the full mouth. Even if the silken flow of red hair and arched ears were pure Fae.

“Have the human parents been notified?” Isaiah dragged a hand over his tight brown curls. He’d been awoken by

his phone’s shrill ringing at two in the morning, hurtled from the barracks a minute after that, and was now starting to feel the effects of a sleepless night. Dawn was likely not far off. “Her mother was hysterical. She asked over and over if we knew why they’d attacked the apartment, or if it was Philip Briggs. She saw on the news that he’d been released on a technicality and was certain he did this. I have a patrol from the 31st flying out right now; the parents will be airborne within the hour.”

Viktoria’s voice slid through the intercom as she continued her

interview. “Can you describe the creature that attacked your friends?”

But Quinlan was gone again, her eyes vacant.

They had fuzzy footage thanks to the street cameras, but the demon had

moved faster than the wind and had known to keep out of lens range. They hadn’t been able to ID it yet—even Hunt’s extensive knowledge hadn’t helped. All they had of it was a vague, grayish blur no slowdown could clarify. And Bryce Quinlan, charging barefoot through the city streets.

“That girl isn’t ready to give a statement,” Hunt said. “This is a waste of

our time.”

But Isaiah asked him, “Why does Sabine hate Bryce so much—why

imply she’s to blame for all this?” When Hunt didn’t answer, Isaiah jerked his chin toward two files on the edge of the desk. “Look at Quinlan’s. Only one standing crime before this—for public indecency during a Summer Solstice parade. She got a little frisky against a wall and was caught in the

act. Holding cell overnight, paid the fine the next day, did community service for a month to get it wiped off any permanent record.” Isaiah could have sworn a ghost of a smile appeared on Hunt’s mouth.

But Isaiah tapped a calloused finger on the impressively thick stack

beside it. “This is part one of Danika Fendyr’s file. Of seven. Starts with petty theft when she was ten, continues until she reached her majority five

years ago. Then it goes eerily quiet. If you ask me, Bryce was the one who was led down a road of ruination—and then maybe led Danika out of hers.”

“Not far enough to keep from snorting enough lightseeker to kill a

horse,” Hunt said. “I’m assuming she didn’t party alone. Were there any other friends with her tonight?”

“Two others. Juniper Andromeda, a faun who’s a soloist at the City

Ballet, and …” Isaiah flipped open the case file and muttered a prayer. “Fury Axtar.”

Hunt swore softly at the mercenary’s name.

Fury Axtar was licensed to kill in half a dozen countries. Including this

one.

Hunt asked, “Fury was with Quinlan tonight?” They’d crossed paths with the merc enough to know to stay the Hel

away. Micah had even ordered Hunt to kill her. Twice.

But she had too many high-powered allies. Some, it was whispered, on

the Imperial Senate. So both times, Micah had decided that the fallout over the Umbra Mortis turning Fury Axtar into veritable toast would be more trouble than it was worth.

“Yes,” Isaiah said. “Fury was with her at the club.” Hunt frowned. But Viktoria leaned in to speak to Bryce once more. “We’re trying to find who did this. Can you give us the information we

need?”

Only a shell sat before the wraith.

Viktoria said, in that luxurious purr that usually had people eating out of

her palm, “I want to help you. I want to find who did this. And punish them.”

Viktoria reached into her pocket, pulled out her phone, and set it faceup

on the table. Instantly, its digital feed appeared on the small screen in the room with Isaiah and Hunt. They glanced between the wraith and the screen as a series of messages opened.

“We downloaded the data from your phone. Can you walk me through

these?”

Glassy eyes tracked a small screen that rose from a hidden compartment

in the linoleum floor. It displayed the same messages Isaiah and Hunt now read.

The first one, sent from Bryce, read, TV nights are for waggle-tailed

pups. Come play with the big bitches.

And then a short, dark video, shaking as someone roared with laughter

while Bryce flipped off the camera, leaned over a line of white powder— lightseeker—and sniffed it right up her freckled nose. She was laughing, so bright and alive that the woman in the room before them looked like a gutted corpse, and she shrieked into the camera, “LIGHT IT UP,

DANIKAAAAA!”

Danika’s written reply was precisely what Isaiah expected from the

Prime Apparent of the wolves, whom he’d seen only from a distance at formal events and who had seemed poised to start trouble wherever she went: I FUCKING HATE YOU. STOP DOING LIGHTSEEKER WITHOUT

ME. ASSHOLE.

Party Princess, indeed.

Bryce had written back twenty minutes later, I just hooked up with

someone in the bathroom. Don’t tell Connor.

Hunt shook his head.

But Bryce sat there as Viktoria read the messages aloud, the wraith

stone-faced.

Danika wrote back, Was it good?!!?

Only good enough to take the edge off. “This isn’t relevant,” Hunt murmured. “Pull in Viktoria.” “We have our orders.” “Fuck the orders. That woman is about to break, and not in a good

way.”

Then Bryce stopped responding to Danika.

But Danika kept messaging. One after another. Over the next two hours.

The show’s over. Where are you assholes?

Why aren’t you picking up your phone? I’m calling Fury.

Where the FUCK is Fury?

Juniper never brings her phone, so I’m not even gonna bother with her.

Where are you?!!!

Should I come to the club? The pack’s leaving in ten. Stop fucking

strangers in the bathroom, because Connor’s coming with me.

BRYYYYCE. When you look at your phone, I hope the 1,000 alerts piss

you off.

Thorne is telling me to stop messaging you. I told him to mind his own

fucking business.

Connor says to grow the Hel up and stop doing shady-ass drugs,

because only losers do that shit. He wasn’t happy when I said I’m not sure I can let you date a holier-than-thou priss.

Okay, we’re leaving in five. See you soon, cocksucker. Light it up.

Bryce stared at the screen unblinkingly, her torn face sickly pale in the

light of the monitor.

“The building’s cameras are mostly broken, but the one in the hall was

still able to record some audio, though its video footage was down,” Viktoria said calmly. “Shall I play it?”

No response. So Viktoria played it.

Muffled snarling and screaming filled the speakers—quiet enough that

it was clear the hall camera had picked up only the loudest noises coming from the apartment. And then someone was roaring—a feral wolf’s roar. “Please, please—”

The words were cut off. But the hall camera’s audio wasn’t.

Danika Fendyr screamed. Something tumbled and crashed in the

background—as if she’d been thrown into furniture. And the hall camera kept recording.

The screaming went on, and on, and on. Interrupted only by the

camera’s fritzed system. The muffled grunts and growls were wet and vicious, and Danika was begging, sobbing as she pleaded for mercy, wept and screamed for it to stop—

“Turn it off,” Hunt ordered, stalking from the room. “Turn it off now.”

He was out so fast Isaiah couldn’t stop him, instantly crossing the space to the door beside theirs and flinging it open before Isaiah had cleared the room.

But there was Danika, audio crackling in and out, the sound of her

voice still pleading for mercy coming from the speakers in the ceiling.

Danika, being devoured and shredded.

The silence from the murderer was as chilling as Danika’s sobbing

screams.

Viktoria twisted toward the door as Hunt barreled in, his face dark with

fury, wings spreading. The Shadow of Death unleashed.

Isaiah tasted ether. Lightning writhed at Hunt’s fingertips.

Danika’s unending, half-muffled screams filled the room.

Isaiah stepped into the chamber in time to see Bryce explode.

He summoned a wall of wind around himself and Vik, Hunt no doubt

doing the same, as Bryce shot out of her chair and flipped the table. It soared over Viktoria’s head and slammed into the observation window.

A feral growl filled the room as she grabbed the chair she’d been sitting

on, hurling it against the wall, so hard its metal frame dented and crumpled.

She vomited all over the floor. If his power hadn’t been around Viktoria,

it would have showered her absurdly expensive bespoke heels.

The audio finally cut off when the hall camera went on the fritz again—

and stayed that way.

Bryce panted, staring at her mess. Then fell to her knees in it.

She puked again. And again. And then curled over her knees, her silky

hair falling into the vomit as she rocked herself in the stunned silence.

She was half-Fae, assessed at a power level barely on the grid. What

she’d just done to the table and chair … Pure, physical rage. Even the most aloof of the Fae couldn’t halt an eruption of primal wrath when it overtook them.

Unfazed, Hunt approached her, his gray wings high to avoid dragging

through the vomit.

“Hey.” Hunt knelt at Bryce’s side. He reached for her shoulder, but

lowered his hand. How many people ever saw the hands of the Umbra Mortis reach for them with no hint of violence?

Hunt nodded toward the destroyed table and chair. “Impressive.” Bryce bowed farther over herself, her tan fingers near-white as they dug

into her back hard enough to bruise. Her voice was a broken rasp. “I want to go home.”

Hunt’s dark eyes flickered. But he said nothing more.

Viktoria, frowning at the mess, slipped away to find someone to clean

it.

Isaiah said, “You can’t go home, I’m afraid. It’s an active crime scene.”

And it was so wrecked that even if they scrubbed it with bleach, no Vanir would be able to walk in and not scent the slaughter. “It’s not safe for you to return until we’ve found who did this. And why they did it.”

Then Bryce breathed, “Does S-Sabine—”

“Yes,” Isaiah said gently. “Everyone who was in Danika’s life has been

notified.”

The entire world would know in a few hours.

Still kneeling beside her, Hunt said roughly, “We can move you to a

room with a cot and a bathroom. Get you some clothes.”

Her dress was so torn that most of her skin was on display, a rip along

the waist revealing the hint of a dark tattoo down her back. He’d seen whores in the Meat Market wearing more modest clothes.

The phone in Isaiah’s pocket buzzed. Naomi. The voice of the captain

of the 33rd’s infantry was strained when Isaiah answered. “Let the girl go.

Right now. Get her out of this building, and for all our sakes, do not put anyone on her tail. Especially Hunt.”

“Why? The Governor gave us the opposite order.” “I got a phone call,” Naomi said. “From Ruhn fucking Danaan. He’s

livid that we didn’t notify Sky and Breath about bringing in the girl. Says it falls under the Fae’s jurisdiction and whatever the fuck else. So screw what the Governor wants—he’ll thank us later for avoiding this enormous fucking headache. Let the girl go now. She can come back in with a Fae escort, if that’s what those assholes want.”

Hunt, having heard the entire conversation, studied Bryce Quinlan with

a predator’s unflinching assessment. As one of the triarii, Naomi Boreas answered only to Micah and owed them no explanation, but to disregard his direct order in favor of the Fae … Naomi added, “Do it, Isaiah.” Then she hung up.

Despite Bryce’s pointed Fae ears, her glazed eyes registered no sign that

she’d heard.

Isaiah pocketed his phone. “You’re free to go.” She uncurled on surprisingly steady legs, despite the bandage on one of

them. Yet blood and dirt caked her bare feet. Enough of the former that Hunt said, “We’ve got a medwitch on-site.”

But Bryce ignored him and limped out, through the open door and into

the hall.

His eyes fixed on the doorway as the scuffle-hop of her steps faded.

For a long minute, neither of them spoke. Then Hunt blew out a breath

and rose. “What room is Naomi putting Briggs in?”

Isaiah didn’t get the chance to answer before footsteps sounded down

the hall, approaching fast. Definitely not Bryce’s.

Even in one of the most secure places in this city, Isaiah and Hunt

positioned their hands within easy reach of their weapons, the former crossing his arms so that he might draw the gun hidden beneath his suit jacket, the latter letting his hand dangle at his thigh, inches from the black-hilted knife sheathed there. Lightning again writhed at Hunt’s fingers.

A dark-haired Fae male burst through the interrogation room door. Even

with a silver hoop through his lower lip, even with one side of his long raven-black hair buzzed, even with the sleeves of tattoos beneath the leather jacket, there was no disguising the heritage the strikingly handsome face broadcasted.

Ruhn Danaan, Crown Prince of the Valbaran Fae. Son of the Autumn

King and the current possessor of the Starsword, fabled dark blade of the ancient Starborn Fae. Proof of the prince’s Chosen One status among the Fae—whatever the Hel that meant.

That sword was currently strapped across Ruhn’s back, its black hilt

devouring the glaring firstlights. Isaiah had once heard someone say the sword was made from iridium mined from a meteorite, forged in another world—before the Fae had come through the Northern Rift.

Danaan’s blue eyes simmered like the heart of a flame—though Ruhn

himself bore no such magic. Fire magic was common among the Valbaran Fae, wielded by the Autumn King himself. But rumor claimed Ruhn’s magic was more like those of his kin who ruled the sacred Fae isle of Avallen across the sea: power to summon shadows or mist that could not only veil the physical world, but the mind as well. Perhaps even telepathy.

Ruhn glanced at the vomit, scenting the female who’d just left. “Where

the fuck is she?”

Hunt went still at the cold command in the prince’s voice. “Bryce Quinlan has been released,” Isaiah said. “We sent her upstairs a

few minutes ago.”

Ruhn had to have taken a side entrance if he’d missed her, and they

hadn’t been warned by the front desk of his arrival. Perhaps he’d used that magic of his to worm through the shadows.

The prince turned toward the doorway, but Hunt said, “What’s it to

you?”

Ruhn bristled. “She’s my cousin, asshole. We take care of our own.” A distant cousin, since the Autumn King had no siblings, but apparently

the prince knew Bryce well enough to intervene.

Hunt threw Ruhn a grin. “Where were you tonight?” “Fuck you, Athalar.” Ruhn bared his teeth. “I suppose you heard that

Danika and I got into it over Briggs at the Head meeting. What a lead. Good job.” Each word came out more clipped than the last. “If I wanted to kill Danika, I wouldn’t summon a fucking demon to do it. Where the fuck is Briggs? I want to talk to him.”

“He’s incoming.” Hunt was still smiling. That lightning still danced at

his knuckles. “And you don’t get the first shot at him.” Then he added, “Daddy’s clout and cash only get you so far, Prince.”

It made no difference that Ruhn headed up the Fae division of the Aux,

and was as well trained as any of their elite fighters. Or that the sword on his back wasn’t merely decorative.

It didn’t matter to Hunt. Not where royals and rigid hierarchies were

concerned.

Ruhn said, “Keep talking, Athalar. Let’s see where it gets you.” Hunt smirked. “I’m shaking.” Isaiah cleared his throat. Burning Solas, the last thing he needed tonight

was a brawl between one of his triarii and a prince of the Fae. He said to Ruhn, “Can you tell us if Miss Quinlan’s behavior before the murder tonight was unusual or—”

“The Raven’s owner told me she was drunk and had snorted a pile of

lightseeker,” Ruhn snapped. “But you’ll find Bryce with that kind of shit in her system at least one night a week.”

“Why does she do it at all?” Isaiah asked.

Ruhn crossed his arms. “She does what she wants. She always has.”

There was enough bitterness there to suggest history—bad history.

Hunt drawled, “Just how close are you two?” “If you’re asking whether I’m fucking her,” Ruhn seethed, “the answer,

asshole, is no. She’s family.”

“Distant family,” Hunt pointed out. “I heard the Fae like to keep their

bloodline undiluted.”

Ruhn held his stare. And as Hunt smiled again, ether filled the room, the

promise of a storm skittering over Isaiah’s skin.

Wondering if he’d be dumb enough to get between them when Ruhn

attempted to bash in Hunt’s teeth and Hunt turned the prince into a pile of smoldering bones, Isaiah said quickly, “We’re just trying to do our job, Prince.”

“If you assholes had kept an eye on Briggs like you were supposed to,

maybe this wouldn’t have happened at all.”

Hunt’s gray wings flared slightly—a malakh’s usual stance when

preparing for a physical fight. And those dark eyes … They were the eyes of the feared warrior, the Fallen angel. The one who had smashed apart the battlefields he’d been ordered to fight on. The one who killed on an Archangel’s whim, and did it so well they called him the Shadow of Death.

“Careful,” Hunt said. “Stay the fuck away from Bryce,” Ruhn snarled before striding back

through the door, presumably after his cousin. At least Bryce would have an escort.

Hunt flipped off the empty doorway. After a moment, he murmured,

“The tracking device in the water Quinlan drank when she got here. What’s the time frame on it?”

“Three days,” Isaiah replied.

Hunt studied the knife sheathed at his thigh. “Danika Fendyr was one of

the strongest Vanir in the city, even without making the Drop. She begged like a human by the end.”

Sabine would never recover from the shame. “I don’t know of a demon that kills like that,” Hunt mused. “Or

disappears that easily. I couldn’t find a trace. It’s like it vanished back to Hel.”

Isaiah said, “If Briggs is behind it, we’ll learn what the demon is soon

enough.”

If Briggs talked at all. He certainly hadn’t when he’d been busted in his

bomb lab, despite the best efforts of the 33rd’s interrogators and the Aux.

Isaiah added, “I’ll have every available patrol quietly looking out for

other young packs in the Auxiliary. If it winds up not being related to Briggs, then it could be the start of a pattern.”

Hunt asked darkly, “If we find the demon?” Isaiah shrugged. “Then make sure it’s not a problem anymore, Hunt.”

Hunt’s eyes sharpened into lethal focus. “And Bryce Quinlan—after the

three days are up?”

Isaiah frowned at the table, the crumpled chair. “If she’s smart, she’ll lie

low and not attract the attention of any other powerful immortals for the rest of her life.”

7

The black steps ringing the foggy shore of the Bone Quarter bit into Bryce’s knees as she knelt before the towering ivory gates.

The Istros spread like a gray mirror behind her, silent in the predawn

light.

As quiet and still as she had gone, hollowed out and drifting.

Mist curled around her, veiling all but the obsidian steps she knelt on

and the carved bone gates looming overhead. The rotting black boat at her back was her only companion, its moldy, ancient rope draped over the steps in lieu of a mooring. She’d paid the fee—the boat would linger here until she was done. Until she had said what she needed to say.

The living realm remained a world away, the spires and skyscrapers of

the city hidden by that swirling mist, its car horns and array of voices rendered mute. She’d left behind any mortal possessions. They would have no value here, among the Reapers and the dead.

She’d been glad to leave them—especially her phone, so full of anger

and hatred.

Ithan’s latest audiomail had come only an hour ago, stirring her from

the unsleeping stupor in which she’d spent the past six nights, staring at the dark ceiling of the hotel room she was sharing with her mother. Ignoring every call and message.

Ithan’s words had lingered, though, when she’d slipped into the hotel

bathroom to listen.

Don’t come to the Sailing tomorrow. You’re not welcome there.

She’d listened to it over and over, the first words to echo in her silent

head.

Her mother hadn’t woken from the bed beside hers when Bryce had

exited the hotel room on Fae-soft feet, taking the service elevator and leaving through the unwatched alley door. She hadn’t left that room for six days, just sat staring vacantly at the floral hotel wallpaper. And now, with the seventh dawning … Only for this would she leave. Would she remember how to move her body, how to speak.

Danika’s Sailing would commence at dawn, and the Sailings for the rest

of the pack would follow. Bryce would not be there to witness them. Even without the wolves banning her from it, she couldn’t have endured it. To see the black boat pushed from the dock, all that was left of Danika with it, her soul to be judged either worthy or unworthy of entering the sacred isle across the river.

There was only silence here. Silence and mist.

Was this death? Silence and fog?

Bryce ran her tongue over her dry, chapped lips. She did not remember

the last time she’d drunk anything. Had a meal. Only her mother coaxing her to take a sip of water.

A light had gone out inside her. A light had been extinguished.

She might as well have been staring inside herself: Darkness. Silence.

Mist.

Bryce lifted her head, peering up toward the carved bone gates, hewn

from the ribs of a long-dead leviathan who’d prowled the deep seas of the north. The mist swirled tighter, the temperature dropping. Announcing the arrival of something ancient and terrible.

Bryce remained kneeling. Bowed her head.

She was not welcome at the Sailing. So she had come here to say

goodbye. To give Danika this one last thing.

The creature that dwelt in the mist emerged, and even the river at her

back trembled.

Bryce opened her eyes. And slowly lifted her gaze.

PART II

THE TRENCH

8

TWENTY-TWO MONTHS

LATER

Bryce Quinlan stumbled from the White Raven’s bathroom, a lion shifter nuzzling her neck, his broad hands grabbing at her waist.

It was easily the best sex she’d had in three months. Maybe longer than

that. Maybe she’d keep him for a while.

Maybe she should learn his name first. Not that it mattered. Her

meeting was at the VIP bar across the club in … well, shit. Right now.

The beat of the music pounded against her bones, echoing off the

carved pillars, an incessant summons that Bryce ignored, denied. Just as she had every day for the past two years.

“Let’s dance.” The golden-haired lion’s words rumbled against her ear

as he gripped her hand to drag her toward the teeming throng on the ancient stones of the dance floor.

She planted her feet as firmly as her four-inch stilettos would allow.

“No, thanks. I’ve got a business meeting.” Not a lie, though she would have turned him down regardless.

The corner of the lion’s lip twitched as he surveyed her short-as-sin

black dress, the bare legs she’d had wrapped around his waist moments ago.

Urd spare her, his cheekbones were unreal. So were those golden eyes, now narrowing in amusement. “You go to business meetings looking like that?”

She did when her boss’s clients insisted on meeting in a neutral space

like the Raven, fearful of whatever monitoring or spells Jesiba had at the gallery.

Bryce never would have come here—had so rarely come back here at

all—on her own. She’d been sipping sparkling water at the normal bar within the club, not the VIP one she was supposed to be sitting at on the mezzanine, when the lion approached her with that easy smile and those broad shoulders. She’d been in such need of a distraction from the tension building in her with each moment in here that she’d barely finished her glass before she’d dragged him into the bathroom. He’d been all too happy to oblige her.

Bryce said to the lion, “Thanks for the ride.” Whatever your name is.

It took him a blink to realize she was serious about the business

meeting. Red crept over his tanned cheeks. Then he blurted, “I can’t pay you.”

It was her turn to blink. Then she tipped her head back and laughed.

Just perfect: he thought she was one of the whores in Riso’s employ.

Sacred prostitution, Riso had once explained—since the club lay on the ruins of a temple to pleasure, it was his duty to continue its traditions.

“Consider it on the house,” she crooned, patting him on the cheek

before she turned toward the glowing golden bar on the glass mezzanine hovering over the cavernous space.

She didn’t let herself look toward the booth tucked between two age-

worn pillars. Didn’t let herself see who might now be occupying it. Not Juniper, who was too busy these days for more than the occasional brunch, and certainly not Fury, who didn’t bother to take her calls, or answer messages, or even visit this city.

Bryce rolled her shoulders, shoving the thoughts away.

The jaguar shifters standing guard atop the illuminated golden staircase

that linked the VIP mezzanine with the converted temple pulled aside their black velvet rope to let her pass. Twenty glass stools flanked the solid gold bar, and only a third of them were occupied. Vanir of every House sat in them. No humans, though.

Except for her, if she even counted.

Her client was already seated at the far end of the bar, his dark suit tight

over his bulky frame, long black hair slicked back to reveal a sharp-boned face and inky eyes.

Bryce rattled off his details to herself as she sauntered up to him,

praying he wasn’t the sort to mark that she was technically two minutes late.

Maximus Tertian: two-hundred-year-old vampyr; unwed and unmated;

son of Lord Cedrian, richest of the Pangeran vamps and the most monstrous, if rumor was to be believed. Known for filling bathtubs with the blood of human maidens in his frosty mountain keep, bathing in their youth —

Not helpful. Bryce plastered on a smile and claimed the stool beside his,

ordering a sparkling water from the bartender. “Mr. Tertian,” she said by way of greeting, extending her hand.

The vampyr’s smile was so smooth she knew ten thousand pairs of

underwear had likely dropped at the sight of it over the centuries. “Miss Quinlan,” he purred, taking her hand and brushing a kiss to the back of it.

His lips lingered just long enough that she suppressed the urge to yank her fingers back. “A pleasure to meet you in the flesh.” His eyes dipped toward her neck, then the cleavage exposed by her dress. “Your employer might have a gallery full of art, but you are the true masterpiece.”

Oh please.

Bryce ducked her head, making herself smile. “You say that to all the

girls.”

“Only the mouthwatering ones.” An offer for how this night could end, if she wanted: being sucked and

fucked. She didn’t bother to inform him she’d already had that particular need scratched, minus the sucking. She liked her blood where it was, thank you very much.

She reached into her purse, pulling out a narrow leather folio—an exact

replica of what the Raven used to hand out steep bills to its most exclusive patrons. “Your drink’s on me.” She slid the folio toward him with a smile.

Maximus peered at the ownership papers for the five-thousand-year-old

onyx bust of a long-dead vampyr lord. The deal had been a triumph for Bryce after weeks of sending out feelers to potential buyers, taunting them with the chance to buy a rare artifact before any of their rivals. She’d had

her eye on Maximus, and during their endless phone calls and messages, she’d played him well, drawing upon his hatred for other vampyr lords, his fragile ego, his unbearable arrogance.

It was an effort now to suppress her smile as Maximus—never Max—

nodded while he read. Giving him the illusion of privacy, Bryce pivoted on the stool to peer at the teeming club below.

A cluster of young females adorned in firstlight glow-stick halos danced

together near a pillar, laughing and singing and passing a bottle of sparkling wine among them.

Bryce’s chest tightened. She’d once planned to have her Drop party at

the Raven. Had planned to be as obnoxious as those females down there, partying with her friends from the moment she emerged from the Ascent until she either passed out or was kicked to the curb.

The party, honestly, was what she’d wanted to focus on. What most

people tried to focus on. Rather than the sheer terror of the Drop ritual itself.

But it was a necessary rite. Because the firstlight grid’s power was

generated by the pure, undiluted light each Vanir emitted while making the Drop. And it was only during the Drop that the flash of firstlight appeared— raw, unfiltered magic. It could heal and destroy and do everything in between.

Captured and bottled, the first glow was always used for healing, then

the rest of it was handed over to the energy plants to fuel their lights and cars and machines and tech; some of it was used for spells, and some was reserved for whatever shady shit the Republic wanted.

The “donation” of the firstlight by each citizen was a key element of the

Drop ritual, part of why it was always done in a government center: a sterile room, where the light from the person making the Drop was gobbled up during the transition into immortality and true power. All tracked by the Eleusian system, able to monitor every moment of it through vibrations in the world’s magic. Indeed, family members sometimes watched the feeds in an adjacent room.

The Drop was the easy part: falling into one’s power. But once the

bottom was reached, one’s mortal body expired. And then the clock began counting down.

Mere minutes were allowed for the race back up to life—before the

brain shut down permanently from lack of oxygen. Six minutes to start barreling down a psychic runway along the bottom of one’s power, a single desperate shot at launching skyward toward life. The alternative to successfully making that leap: tumbling into an endless black pit and awaiting death. The alternative to getting enough momentum on that runway: tumbling into an endless black pit and awaiting death.

Which was why someone else had to act as an Anchor: a beacon, a

lifeline, a bungee cord that would snap their companion back up to life once they leapt off the runway. To make the Drop alone was to die—to reach the bottom of one’s power, to have one’s heart stop beating upon hitting that nadir. No one knew if the soul continued living down there, lost forever, or if it died along with the body left in life.

It was why Anchors were usually family—parents or siblings—or

trusted friends. Someone who wouldn’t leave you stranded. Or a government employee who had a legal obligation not to do so. Some claimed those six minutes were called the Search—that during that time, you faced the very depths of your soul. But beyond that, there was no hope of survival.

It was only upon making the Ascent and reaching that threshold back to

life, brimming with new power, that immortality was attained, the aging process slowed to a glacial drip and the body rendered near-indestructible as it was bathed in all that ensuing firstlight, so bright it could blind the naked eye. And at the end of it, when the Drop Center’s sleek energy panels had siphoned off that firstlight, all any of them were left with to mark the occasion was a mere pinprick of that light in a bottle. A pretty souvenir.

These days, with Drop parties like the one below all the rage, the newly

immortal often used their allotment of their own firstlight to make party favors to hand out to their friends. Bryce had planned for glow sticks and key chains that said Kiss My Sparkly Ass! Danika had just wanted shot glasses.

Bryce tucked away that old ache in her chest as Maximus shut the folio

with a snap, his reading done. A matching folio appeared in his hand, then he nudged it across the shining gold surface of the bar.

Bryce glanced at the check within—for a mind-boggling sum that he

handed over as if passing her an empty gum wrapper—and smiled again.

Even as some small part of her cringed at the tiny fact that she wouldn’t receive any part of her commission on the piece. On any art in Jesiba’s gallery. That money went elsewhere.

“A pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Tertian.” There. Done. Time to go home and climb into bed and snuggle with

Syrinx. The best form of celebrating she could think of these days.

But a pale, strong hand landed on the folio. “Going so soon?”

Maximus’s smile grew again. “It’d be a shame for a pretty thing like you to leave when I was about to order a bottle of Serat.” The sparkling wine from the south of Valbara started at roughly a hundred gold marks a bottle. And apparently made pricks like him believe they were entitled to female company.

Bryce gave him a wink, trying to pull the folio with the check toward

her awaiting purse. “I think you’d be the one feeling sorry if a pretty thing like me left, Mr. Tertian.”

His hand remained on the folio. “For what I paid your boss, I’d think

some perks came with this deal.”

Well, it had to be a record: being mistaken for a whore twice within ten

minutes. She had no disdain for the world’s oldest profession, only respect and sometimes pity, but being mistaken for one of them had led to more unfortunate incidents than she liked. Yet Bryce managed to say calmly, “I’m afraid I have another meeting.”

Maximus’s hand slipped to her wrist, gripping hard enough to

demonstrate that he could snap every bone inside it with barely a thought.

She refused to allow her scent to shift as her stomach hollowed out. She

had dealt with his kind and worse. “Take your hand off me, please.”

She added the last word because she owed it to Jesiba to at least sound

polite—just once.

But Maximus surveyed her body with all the male, immortal

entitlement in the world. “Some like their prey to play hard to get.” He smiled up at her again. “I happen to be one of them. I’ll make it good for you, you know.”

She met his stare, hating that some small part of her wanted to recoil.

That it recognized him as a predator and her as his prey and she’d be lucky to even get the chance to run before she was eaten whole. “No, thank you.”

The VIP mezzanine went quiet, the ripple of silence a sure sign that

some bigger, badder predator had prowled in. Good.

Maybe it’d distract the vampyr long enough for her to snatch her wrist

back. And that check. Jesiba would flay her alive if she left without it.

Indeed, Maximus’s gaze drifted over her shoulder to whoever had

entered. His hand tightened on Bryce’s. Just hard enough that Bryce looked.

A dark-haired Fae male stalked up to the other end of the bar. Looking

right at her.

She tried not to groan. And not the way she’d groaned with that lion

shifter.

The Fae male kept looking at her as Maximus’s upper lip pulled back

from his teeth, revealing the elongated canines he so badly wanted to sink into her. Maximus snarled in warning. “You are mine.” The words were so guttural she could barely understand him.

Bryce sighed through her nose as the Fae male took a seat at the bar,

murmuring his drink order to the silver-haired sylph behind it. “That’s my cousin,” Bryce said. “Relax.”

The vampyr blinked. “What?” His surprise cost him: his grip loosened, and Bryce stashed the folio

with the check in her purse as she stepped back. At least her Fae heritage was good for moving quickly when necessary. Walking away, Bryce purred over a shoulder, “Just so you know—I don’t do possessive and aggressive.”

Maximus snarled again, but he’d seen who her “cousin” was. He didn’t

dare follow.

Even when the world thought they were only distantly related, one

didn’t fuck with the relatives of Ruhn Danaan.

If they had known Ruhn was her brother—well, technically her half

brother—no male would ever go near her. But thankfully, the world thought he was her cousin, and she was glad to keep it that way. Not just because of who their sire was and the secrecy that she’d long ago sworn to maintain.

Not just because Ruhn was the legitimate child, the fucking Chosen One, and she was … not.

Ruhn was already sipping from his whiskey, his striking blue eyes fixed

on Maximus. Promising death.

She was half-tempted to let Ruhn send Maximus scurrying back to his

daddy’s castle of horrors, but she’d worked so hard on the deal, had tricked

the asshole into paying nearly a third more than the bust was worth. All it would take was one phone call from Maximus to his banker and that check in her purse would be dead on arrival.

So Bryce went up to Ruhn, drawing his attention from the vampyr at

last.

Her brother’s black T-shirt and dark jeans were tight enough to show off

the muscles Fae went to pieces over, and that plenty of people on the VIP level were now ogling. The tattooed sleeves on his golden-skinned arms, however, were colorful and beautiful enough to piss off their father. Along with the line of rings in one arched ear, and the straight black hair that flowed to his waist save for one shaved side. All painting a glaring billboard that said Fuck You, Dad!

But Ruhn was still a Fae male. Still fifty years older than her. Still a

domineering dick whenever she ran into him or his friends. Which was whenever she couldn’t avoid it.

“Well, well, well,” Bryce said, nodding her thanks to the bartender as

another sparkling water appeared before her. She took a swig, swishing the bubbles to rinse away the lingering taste of lion and alphahole. “Look who decided to stop frequenting poseur rock clubs and start hanging with the cool kids. Seems like the Chosen One’s finally getting hip.”

“I always forget how annoying you are,” Ruhn said by way of greeting.

“And not that it’s any of your business, but I’m not here to party.”

Bryce surveyed her brother. No sign of the Starsword tonight—and,

glancing at him, beyond the telltale physical heritage of the Starborn line, little declared that he’d been anointed by Luna or genetics to usher their people to greater heights. But it had been years since they’d really spoken.

Maybe Ruhn had crawled back into the fold. It’d be a shame, considering the shit that had gone down to pull him out of it in the first place.

Bryce asked, “Is there a reason why you’re here, other than to ruin my

night?”

Ruhn snorted. “Still happy playing slutty secretary, I see.” Spoiled prick. For a few glittering years, they’d been best friends, a

dynamic duo against Motherfucker Number One—aka the Fae male who’d sired them—but that was ancient history. Ruhn had seen to that.

She frowned at the packed club below, scanning the crowd for any sign

of the two friends who trailed Ruhn everywhere, both pains in her ass.

“How’d you get in here, anyway?” Even a Fae Prince had to wait in line at the Raven. Bryce had once delighted in watching preening Fae assholes be turned away at the doors.

“Riso’s my buddy,” Ruhn said. “He and I play poker on Tuesday

nights.”

Of course Ruhn had somehow managed to befriend the club’s owner. A

rare breed of butterfly shifter, what Riso lacked in size he made up for with sheer personality, always laughing, always flitting about the club and dancing above the crowd. Feeding off its merriment as if it were nectar. He was picky about his close circle, though—he liked to cultivate interesting groups of people to entertain him. Bryce and Danika had never made the cut, but odds were that Fury was in that poker group. Too bad Fury didn’t answer her calls for Bryce to even ask about it.

Ruhn bared his teeth at Maximus as the glowering vamp headed toward

the golden steps. “Riso called me a few minutes ago and said you were here. With that fucking creep.”

“Excuse me?” Her voice sharpened. It had nothing to do with the fact

that she highly doubted the diplomatic club owner had used those terms.

Riso was more the type to say, She’s with someone who might cause the dancing to cease. Which would have been Riso’s idea of Hel.

Ruhn said, “Riso can’t risk tossing Tertian to the curb—he implied the

prick was being handsy and you needed backup.” A purely predatory gleam entered her brother’s eyes. “Don’t you know what Tertian’s father does?”

She grinned, and knew it didn’t reach her eyes. None of her smiles did

these days. “I do,” she said sweetly.

Ruhn shook his head in disgust. Bryce leaned forward to grab her drink,

each movement controlled—if only to keep from taking the water and throwing it in his face.

“Shouldn’t you be home?” Ruhn asked. “It’s a weekday. You’ve got

work in six hours.”

“Thanks, Mom,” she said. But getting home and taking off her bra did

sound fantastic. She’d been up before dawn again, sweat-soaked and breathless, and the day hadn’t improved from there. Maybe she’d be exhausted enough tonight to actually sleep.

But when Ruhn made no move to leave, Bryce sighed. “Let’s hear it,

then.”

There had to be another reason why Ruhn had bothered to come—there

always was, considering who had sired them.

Ruhn sipped from his drink. “The Autumn King wants you to lie low.

The Summit meeting is in just over a month, and he wants any loose cannons tied down.”

“What does the Summit meeting have to do with me?” They occurred

every ten years, a gathering of Valbara’s ruling powers to debate whatever issues or policies the Asteri ordered them to deal with. Each territory in the Republic held its own Summit meeting on a rotating schedule, so that one occurred in the world each year—and Bryce had paid attention to exactly zero of them.

“The Autumn King wants everyone associated with the Fae on their

best behavior—rumor says the Asteri are sending over some of their favored commanders, and he wants us all looking like good, obedient subjects. Honestly, I don’t fucking care, Bryce. I was just ordered to tell you to not … get into trouble until the meeting’s over.”

“You mean, don’t do anything embarrassing.” “Basically,” he said, drinking again. “And look: beyond that, shit

always gets intense around the Summit meetings, so be careful, okay?

People come out of the woodwork to make their agendas known. Be on your guard.”

“I didn’t know Daddy bothered to care about my safety.” He never had

before.

“He doesn’t,” Ruhn said, lips thinning, the silver hoop through the

bottom one shifting with the movement. “But I’ll make him care about it.”

She considered the rage in his blue eyes—it wasn’t directed at her.

Ruhn hadn’t yet fallen in line, then. Hadn’t bought into his Chosen One greatness. She took another sip of water. “Since when does he listen to you?”

“Bryce. Just stay out of trouble—on all fronts. For whatever reason, this

Summit is important to him. He’s been on edge about it—beyond the whole everyone-needing-to-behave-themselves bullcrap.” He sighed. “I haven’t seen him this riled since two years ago …”

The words trailed off as he caught himself. But she got his meaning.

Since two years ago. Since Danika. And Connor.

The glass in her hands cracked.

“Easy,” Ruhn murmured. “Easy.” She couldn’t stop clutching the glass, couldn’t get her body to back

down from the primal fury that surged up, up—

The heavy crystal glass exploded in her hands, water spraying across

the golden bar. The bartender whirled, but kept away. No one along the bar dared look for more than a breath—not at the Crown Prince of the Valbaran Fae.

Ruhn gripped Bryce’s face with a hand. “Take a fucking breath.” That horrible, useless Fae side of her obeyed the dominance in his

command, her body falling back on instincts that had been bred into her, despite her best attempts to ignore them.

Bryce sucked in a breath, then another. Gasping, shuddering sounds.

But with each breath, the blinding wrath receded. Eddied away.

Ruhn held her gaze until she stopped snarling, until she could see

clearly. Then he slowly released her face—and took a deep breath of his own. “Fuck, Bryce.”

She stood on wobbling legs and adjusted the strap of her purse over her

shoulder, making sure Maximus’s outrageous check was still inside. “Message received. I’ll lie low and act my classiest until the Summit.”

Ruhn scowled and slid off the stool with familiar Fae grace. “Let me

walk you home.”

“I don’t need you to.” Besides, no one went to her apartment. Which

wasn’t technically even her apartment, but that was beside the point. Only her mom and Randall, and occasionally Juniper if she ever left the dance studio, but no one else was allowed inside. It was her sanctuary, and she didn’t want Fae scents anywhere near it.

But Ruhn ignored her refusal and scanned the bar. “Where’s your coat?” She clenched her jaw. “I didn’t bring one.” “It’s barely spring.” She stomped past him, wishing she’d worn boots instead of stilettos.

“Then it’s a good thing I have my alcohol sweater on, isn’t it?” A lie. She hadn’t touched a drink in nearly two years.

Ruhn didn’t know that, though. Nor did anyone else.

He trailed her. “You’re hilarious. Glad all those tuition dollars went to

something.”

She strode down the stairs. “At least I went to college and didn’t sit at

home on a pile of Daddy’s cash, playing video games with my dickbag friends.”

Ruhn growled, but Bryce was already halfway down the staircase to the

dance floor. Moments later, she was elbowing her way through the crowds between the pillars, then breezing down the few steps into the glass-enclosed courtyard—still flanked on two sides by the temple’s original stone walls—and toward the enormous iron doors. She didn’t wait to see if Ruhn still trailed before she slipped out, waving at the half-wolf, half-daemonaki bouncers, who returned the gesture.

They were good guys—years ago, on rougher nights, they had always

made sure Bryce got into a taxi. And that the driver knew exactly what would happen if she didn’t get home in one piece.

She made it a block before she sensed Ruhn catching up, a storm of

temper behind her. Not close enough for someone to know they were together, but near enough for her senses to be full of his scent, his annoyance.

At least it kept any would-be predators from approaching her.

When Bryce reached the glass-and-marble lobby of her building,

Marrin, the ursine shifter behind the front desk, buzzed her through the double doors with a friendly wave. Pausing with a hand on the glass doors, she glanced over a shoulder to where Ruhn leaned against a black-painted lamppost. He lifted a hand in farewell—a mockery of one.

She flipped him off and walked into her building. A quick hello to

Marrin, an elevator ride up to the penthouse, five levels above, and the small cream-colored hallway appeared. She sighed, heels sinking into the plush cobalt runner that flowed between her apartment and the one across the hall, and opened her purse. She found her keys by the glow of the firstlight orb in the bowl atop the blackwood table against the wall, its radiance gilding the white orchid drooping over it.

Bryce unlocked her door, first by key, then by the finger pad beside the

knob. The heavy locks and spells hissed as they faded away, and she stepped into her dark apartment. The scent of lilac oil from her diffuser caressed her as Syrinx yowled his greeting and demanded to be immediately released from his crate. But Bryce leaned back against the door.

She hated knowing that Ruhn still lurked on the street below, the Crown

Fucking Prince of Possessive and Aggressive Alphaholes, staring at the massive floor-to-ceiling wall of windows across the great room before her, waiting for the lights to come on.

His banging on the door in three minutes would be inevitable if she

refused to turn on the lights. Marrin wouldn’t be stupid enough to stop him.

Not Ruhn Danaan. There had never been a door shut for him, not once in his entire life.

But she wasn’t in the mood for that battle. Not tonight.

Bryce flicked on the panel of lights beside the door, illuminating the

pale wood floors, the white plush furniture, the matching white walls. All of it as pristine as the day she’d moved in, almost two years ago—all of it far above her pay grade.

All of it paid for by Danika. By that stupid fucking will.

Syrinx grumbled, his cage rattling. Another possessive and aggressive

alphahole. But a small, fuzzy one, at least.

With a sigh, Bryce kicked off her heels, unhooked her bra at last, and

went to let the little beast out of his cage.

9

“Please.”

The male’s whimper was barely discernible with the blood filling his

mouth, his nostrils. But he still tried again. “Please.”

Hunt Athalar’s sword dripped blood onto the soaked carpet of the dingy

apartment in the Meadows. Splatters of it coated the visor of his helmet, speckling his line of vision as he surveyed the lone male standing.

Kneeling, technically.

The male’s friends littered the living room floor, one of them still

spurting blood from what was now his stump of a neck. His severed head lay on the sagging sofa, gaping face rolled into the age-flattened cushions.

“I’ll tell you everything,” the male pleaded, sobbing as he pressed his

hand against the gash on his shoulder. “They didn’t tell you all of it, but I can.”

The male’s terror filled the room, overpowering the scent of blood, its

reek as bad as stale piss in an alley.

Hunt’s gloved hand tightened on his blade. The male noted it and began

shaking, a stain paler than blood leaking across his pants. “I’ll tell you more,” the man tried again.

Hunt braced his feet, rooting his strength into the floor, and slashed his

blade.

The male’s innards spilled onto the carpet with a wet slap. Still the male

kept screaming.

So Hunt kept working.

Hunt made it to the Comitium barracks without anyone seeing him.

At this hour, the city at least appeared asleep. The five buildings that

made up the Comitium’s complex did, too. But the cameras throughout the 33rd Legion’s barracks—the second of the Comitium’s spire-capped towers —saw everything. Heard everything.

The white-tiled halls were dim, no hint of the hustle that would fill them

come dawn.

The helmet’s visor cast everything into stark relief, its audio receptors

picking up sounds from behind the shut bedroom doors lining either side of hallway: low-level sentries playing some video game, doing their best to keep their voices down as they cursed at each other; a female sentry talking on the phone; two angels fucking each other’s brains out; and several snorers.

Hunt passed his own door, instead aiming for the shared bathroom in

the center of the long hallway, accessible only through the common room.

Any hope for an unnoticed return vanished at the sight of the golden light leaking from beneath the shut door and the sound of voices beyond it.

Too tired, too filthy, Hunt didn’t bother to say hello as he entered the

common room, prowling past the scattering of couches and chairs toward the bathroom.

Naomi was sprawled on the worn green couch before the TV, her black

wings spread. Viktoria lounged in the armchair next to her, watching the day’s sports highlights, and on the other end of the couch sat Justinian, still in his black legionary armor.

Their conversation stalled as Hunt entered. “Hey,” Naomi said, her inky braid draping over her shoulder. She wore

her usual black—the triarii’s usual black—though there was no trace of her wicked weapons or their holsters.

Viktoria seemed content to let Hunt pass without greeting. It was why

he liked the wraith more than nearly anyone else in Micah Domitus’s inner circle of warriors, had liked her since those early days in the 18th, when she’d been one of the few non-angel Vanir to join their cause. Vik never pushed when Hunt didn’t want to be bothered. But Justinian—

The angel sniffed, scenting the blood on Hunt’s clothes, his weapons.

How many different people it belonged to. Justinian blew out a whistle. “You are one sick fuck, you know that?”

Hunt continued toward the bathroom door. His lightning didn’t so much

as hiss inside him.

Justinian went on, “A gun would have been a Hel of a lot cleaner.” “Micah didn’t want a gun for this,” Hunt said, his voice hollow even to

his ears. It had been that way for centuries now; but tonight, these kills he’d made, what they’d done to earn the wrath of the Archangel … “They didn’t deserve a gun,” he amended. Or the swift bolt of his lightning.

“I don’t want to know,” Naomi grumbled, punching up the volume of

the TV. She pointed with the remote at Justinian, the youngest in the triarii. “And neither do you, so shut it.”

No, they really didn’t want to know.

Naomi—the only one of the triarii who was not Fallen—said to Hunt,

“Isaiah told me that Micah wants you two playing investigators tomorrow for some shit in the Old Square. Isaiah will call you after breakfast with the details.”

The words barely registered. Isaiah. Tomorrow. Old Square.

Justinian snorted. “Good luck, man.” He swigged from his beer. “I hate

the Old Square—it’s all university brats and tourist creeps.” Naomi and Viktoria grunted their agreement.

Hunt didn’t ask why they were up, or where Isaiah was, given that he

couldn’t deliver the message. The angel was likely with whatever handsome male he was currently dating.

As Commander of the 33rd, acquired by Micah to shore up Crescent

City’s defenses, Isaiah had enjoyed every second here since he’d arrived more than a decade ago. In four years, Hunt hadn’t seen the city’s appeal beyond it being a cleaner, more organized version of any Pangeran metropolis, with streets in clean lines rather than meandering curves that often doubled back on themselves, as if in no hurry to get anywhere.

But at least it wasn’t Ravilis. And at least it was Micah ruling over it,

not Sandriel.

Sandriel—the Archangel and Governor of the northwestern quadrant of

Pangera, and Hunt’s former owner before Micah had traded with her, desiring to have Hunt clear Crescent City of any enemies. Sandriel—his dead lover’s twin sister.

The formal papers declared that Hunt’s duties would be to track down

and dispatch any loose demons. But considering that those sorts of disasters

happened only once or twice a year, it was glaringly obvious why he’d really been brought over. He’d done most of the assassinating for Sandriel, the Archangel who bore the same face as his beloved, for the fifty-three years she’d possessed him.

A rare occurrence, for both siblings to bear an Archangel’s title and

power. A good omen, people had believed. Until Shahar—until Hunt, leading her forces—had rebelled against everything the angels stood for.

And betrayed her sister in the process.

Sandriel had been the third of his owners after the defeat at Mount

Hermon, and had been arrogant enough to believe that despite the two Archangels before her who had failed to do so, she might be the one to break him. First in her horror show of a dungeon. Then in her blood-soaked arena in the heart of Ravilis, pitting him against warriors who never stood a chance. Then by commanding him to do what he did best: slipping into a room and ending lives. One after another after another, year after year, decade after decade.

Sandriel certainly had motivation to break him. During that too-short

battle at Hermon, it was her forces that Hunt had decimated, his lightning that turned soldier after soldier into charred husks before they could draw their swords. Sandriel had been Shahar’s prime target, and Hunt had been ordered to take her out. By whatever means necessary.

And Shahar had good reason to go after her sister. Their parents had

both been Archangels, whose titles had passed to their daughters after an assassin had somehow managed to rip them to shreds.

He’d never forget Shahar’s theory: that Sandriel had killed their parents

and framed the assassin. That she’d done it for herself and her sister, so they might rule without interference. There had never been proof to pin it on Sandriel, but Shahar believed it to her dying day.

Shahar, the Daystar, had rebelled against her fellow Archangels and the

Asteri because of it. She’d wanted a world free of rigid hierarchies, yes— would have brought their rebellion right to the crystal palace of the Asteri if it had been successful. But she’d also wanted to make her sister pay. So Hunt had been unleashed.

Fools. They had all been fools.

It made no difference if he’d admitted his folly. Sandriel believed he’d

lured her twin into the rebellion, that he had turned Shahar against her. That

somehow, when sister had drawn blade against sister, so nearly identical in face and build and fighting technique that it was like watching someone battle their reflection, it was his fucking fault that it had ended with one of them dead.

At least Micah had offered him the chance to redeem himself. To prove

his utter loyalty and submission to the Archangels, to the empire, and then one day get the halo removed. Decades from now, possibly centuries, but considering that the oldest angels lived to be nearly eight hundred … maybe he’d earn back his freedom in time to be old. He could potentially die free.

Micah had offered Hunt the bargain from his first day in Crescent City

four years ago: a kill for every life he’d taken that bloody day on Mount Hermon. Every angel he’d slaughtered during that doomed battle, he was to pay back. In the form of more death. A death for a death, Micah had said.

When you’ve fulfilled the debt, Athalar, we’ll discuss removing that tattoo on your brow.

Hunt had never known the tally—how many he’d killed that day. But

Micah, who’d been on that battlefield, who’d watched while Shahar fell at her twin sister’s hand, had the list. They’d had to pay out commissions for all the legionaries. Hunt had been about to ask how they’d been able to determine which killing blows had been made by his blade and not someone else’s, when he’d seen the number.

Two thousand two hundred and seventeen.

It was impossible for him to have personally killed that many in one

battle. Yes, his lightning had been unleashed; yes, he’d blasted apart entire units, but that many?

He’d gaped. You were Shahar’s general, Micah said. You commanded

the 18th. So you will atone, Athalar, not only for the lives you took, but those your traitorous legion took as well. At Hunt’s silence, Micah had added, This is not some impossible task. Some of my missions will count for more than one life. Behave, obey, and you will be able to reach this number.

For four years now, he had behaved. He had obeyed. And tonight had

put him at a grand total of eighty-fucking-two.

It was the best he could hope for. All he worked for. No other Archangel

had ever offered him the chance. It was why he’d done everything Micah had ordered him to do tonight. Why every thought felt distant, his body pulled from him, his head full of a dull roaring.

Micah was an Archangel. A Governor appointed by the Asteri. He was a

king among angels, and law unto himself, especially in Valbara—so far from the seven hills of the Eternal City. If he deemed someone a threat or in need of justice, then there would be no investigation, no trial.

Just his command. Usually to Hunt.

It would arrive in the form of a file in his barracks mailbox, the imperial

crest on its front. No mention of his name. Just SPQM, and the seven stars surrounding the letters.

The file contained all he needed: names, dates, crimes, and a timeline

for Hunt to do what he did best. Plus any requests from Micah regarding the method employed.

Tonight it had been simple enough—no guns. Hunt understood the

unwritten words: make them suffer. So he had.

“There’s a beer with your name on it when you come out,” Viktoria

said, her eyes meeting Hunt’s even with the helmet on. Nothing but a casual, cool invitation.

Hunt continued into the bathroom, the firstlights fluttering to life as he

shouldered his way through the door and approached one of the shower stalls. He cranked the water to full heat before stalking back to the row of pedestal sinks.

In the mirror above one, the being who stared back was as bad as a

Reaper. Worse.

Blood splattered the helmet, right over the painted silver skull’s face. It

gleamed faintly on the intricate leather scales of his battle-suit, on his black gloves, on the twin swords peeking above his shoulders. Flecks of it even stained his gray wings.

Hunt peeled off the helmet and braced his hands on the sink.

In the harsh bathroom firstlights, his light brown skin was pallid under

the black band of thorns across his brow. The tattoo, he’d learned to live with. But he shrank from the look in his dark eyes. Glazed. Empty. Like staring into Hel.

Orion, his mother had named him. Hunter. He doubted she would have

done so, would have so lovingly called him Hunt instead, if she’d known what he’d become.

Hunt glanced to where his gloves had left red stains on the porcelain

sink.

Tugging off the gloves with brutal efficiency, Hunt prowled to the

shower stall, where the water had reached near-scalding temperatures. He removed his weapons, then his battle-suit, leaving more streaks of blood on the tiles.

Hunt stepped under the spray, and submitted himself to its relentless

burning.

10

It was barely ten in the morning, and Tuesday was already fucked.

Keeping a smile pasted on her face, Bryce lingered by her ironwood

desk in the showroom of the gallery while a Fae couple browsed.

The elegant plucking of violins trickled through the hidden speakers in

the two-level, wood-paneled space, the opening movement of a symphony that she’d switched on as soon as the intercom had buzzed. Given the couple’s attire—a pleated tan skirt and white silk blouse for the female, a gray suit for the male—she’d doubted they’d appreciate the thumping bass of her morning workout mix.

But they’d been browsing the art for ten minutes now, which was

enough time for her to politely inquire, “Are you here for anything in particular, or just to browse?”

The blond Fae male, older-looking for one of his kind, waved a

dismissive hand, leading his companion toward the nearest display: a partial marble relief from the ruins of Morrah, salvaged from a wrecked temple.

The piece was about the size of a coffee table, with a rearing hippocamp filling most of it. The half-horse, half-fish creatures had once dwelled in the cerulean waters of the Rhagan Sea in Pangera, until ancient wars had destroyed them.

“Browsing,” the male replied coldly, his hand coming to rest on his

companion’s slender back as they studied the waves carved in strikingly precise detail.

Bryce summoned another smile. “Take your time. I’m at your disposal.”

The female nodded her thanks, but the male sneered his dismissal. His

companion frowned deeply at him.

The silence in the small gallery turned palpable.

Bryce had gleaned from the moment they’d walked through the door

that the male was here to impress the female, either by buying something outrageously expensive or pretending he could. Perhaps this was an arranged pairing, testing out the waters before committing to anything further.

Had Bryce been full-blooded Fae, had her father claimed her as his

offspring, she might have been subjected to such things. Ruhn, especially with his Starborn status, would one day have to submit to an arranged marriage, when a young female deemed suitable to continue the precious royal bloodline came along.

Ruhn might sire a few children before then, but they wouldn’t be

acknowledged as royalty unless their father chose that path. Unless they were worthy of it.

The Fae couple passed the mosaic from the courtyard of the once-great

palace in Altium, then studied the intricate jade puzzle box that had belonged to a princess in a forgotten northern land.

Jesiba did most of the art acquisitions, which was why she was away so

often, but Bryce herself had tracked down and purchased a good number of the pieces. And then resold them at a steep profit.

The couple had reached a set of fertility statues from Setmek when the

front door buzzed.

Bryce glanced toward the clock on her desk. The afternoon client

appointment wasn’t for another three hours. To have multiple browsers in the gallery was an oddity given the notoriously steep price tags of the art in here, but—maybe she’d get lucky and sell something today.

“Excuse me,” Bryce murmured, ducking around the massive desk and

pulling up the outside camera feed on the computer. She’d barely clicked the icon when the buzzer rang again.

Bryce beheld who was standing on the sidewalk and froze.

Tuesday was indeed fucked.

No windows lined the sandstone facade of the slender two-story building a block off the Istros River. Only a bronze plaque to the right of the heavy iron door revealed to Hunt Athalar that it was a business of any sort.

Griffin Antiquities had been etched there in archaic, bold lettering, the

words adorned with a set of glaring owl eyes beneath them, as if daring any shoppers to enter. An intercom with a matching bronze button lay beneath.

Isaiah, in his usual suit and tie, had been staring at the buzzer for long

enough that Hunt finally drawled, “There aren’t any enchantments on it, you know.” Despite the identity of its owner.

Isaiah shot him a look, straightening his tie. “I should have had a

second cup of coffee,” he muttered before stabbing a finger onto the metal button. A faint buzzing sounded through the door.

No one answered.

Hunt scanned the building exterior for a hidden camera. Not a gleam or

hint. The nearest one, in fact, was mounted on the chrome door of the bomb shelter halfway down the block.

Hunt scanned the sandstone facade again. There was no way Jesiba

Roga wouldn’t have cameras covering every inch, both outside and within.

Hunt unleashed a crackle of his power, small tongues of lightning

tasting for energy fields.

Nearly invisible in the sunny morning, the lightning bounced off a

skintight enchantment coating the stone, the mortar, the door. A cold, clever spell that seemed to laugh softly at any attempt to enter.

Hunt murmured, “Roga isn’t screwing around, is she?” Isaiah pushed the buzzer again, harder than necessary. They had their

orders—ones that were pressing enough that even Isaiah, regardless of the lack of coffee, was on a short fuse.

Though it could also have been due to the fact that Isaiah had been out

until four in the morning. Hunt hadn’t asked about it, though. Had only heard Naomi and Justinian gossiping in the common room, wondering if this new boyfriend meant Isaiah was finally moving on.

Hunt hadn’t bothered to tell them there was no fucking way. Not when

Isaiah obeyed Micah only because of the generous weekly salary that Micah gave them all, when the law declared that slaves weren’t owed a paycheck.

The money Isaiah amassed would buy someone else’s freedom. Just as the shit Hunt did for Micah went toward earning his own.

Isaiah rang the buzzer a third time. “Maybe she’s not in.” “She’s here,” Hunt said. The scent of her still lingered on the sidewalk,

lilac and nutmeg and something he couldn’t quite place—like the gleam of the first stars at nightfall.

And indeed, a moment later, a silky female voice that definitely did not

belong to the gallery’s owner crackled through the intercom. “I didn’t order a pizza.”

Despite himself, despite the mental clock ticking away, Hunt choked on

a laugh.

Isaiah rustled his white wings, plastering on a charming smile, and said

into the intercom, “We’re from the 33rd Legion. We’re here to see Bryce Quinlan.”

The voice sharpened. “I’m with clients. Come back later.” Hunt was pretty sure that “come back later” meant “go fuck

yourselves.”

Isaiah’s charming smile strained. “This is a matter of some urgency,

Miss Quinlan.”

A low hum. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to make an appointment. How

about … three weeks? I’ve got the twenty-eighth of April free. I’ll pencil you in for noon.”

Well, she had balls, Hunt would give her that much.

Isaiah widened his stance. Typical legion fighting position, beaten into

them from their earliest days as grunts. “We need to talk right now, I’m afraid.”

No answer came. Like she’d just walked away from the intercom.

Hunt’s snarl sent the poor faun walking behind them bolting down the

street, his delicate hooves clopping on the cobblestones. “She’s a spoiled party girl. What did you expect?”

“She’s not stupid, Hunt,” Isaiah countered. “Everything I’ve seen and heard suggests otherwise.” What he’d seen

when he skimmed her file two years ago, combined with what he’d read this morning and the pictures he’d gone through, all painted a portrait that told him precisely how this meeting would go. Too bad for her it was about to get a Hel of a lot more serious.

Hunt jerked his chin toward the door. “Let’s see if a client’s even in

there.” He stalked back across the street, where he leaned against a parked

blue car. Some drunken reveler had used its hood as a canvas to spray-paint an unnecessarily detailed, massive cock—with wings. A mockery of the 33rd’s logo of a winged sword, he realized. Or merely the logo stripped down to its true meaning.

Isaiah noted it as well and chuckled, following Hunt’s lead and leaning

against the car.

A minute passed. Hunt didn’t move an inch. Didn’t take his gaze away

from the iron door. He had better things to do with this day than play games with a brat, but orders were orders. After five minutes, a sleek black sedan rolled up and the iron door opened.

The Fae driver of the car, which was worth more than most human

families saw in a lifetime, got out. He was around the other side of the vehicle in a heartbeat, opening the back passenger door. Two Fae paraded out of the gallery, a male and a female. The pretty female’s every breath radiated the easy confidence gained from a lifetime of wealth and privilege.

Around her slim neck lay a strand of diamonds, each as large as Hunt’s

fingernail. Worth as much as the car—more. The male climbed into the sedan, face tight as he slammed the door before his driver could do it for him. The well-heeled female just rushed down the street, phone already to her ear, grousing to whoever was on the line about No more blind dates, for Urd’s sake.

Hunt’s attention returned to the gallery door, where a curvy, red-haired

woman stood.

Only when the car rounded the corner did Bryce slide her eyes toward

them.

She angled her head, her silken sheet of hair sliding over the shoulder of

her white skintight dress, and smiled brightly. Waved. The delicate gold amulet around her tan neck glinted.

Hunt pushed off the parked car and stalked toward her, his gray wings

flaring wide.

A flick of Bryce’s amber eyes took in Hunt from his tattoo to his ass-

kicking boot tips. Her smile grew. “See you in three weeks,” she said cheerfully, and slammed the door shut.

Hunt cleared the street in a matter of steps. A car screeched to a stop,

but the driver wasn’t stupid enough to blast the horn. Not when lightning

wreathed Hunt’s fist as he pounded it into the intercom button. “Don’t waste my fucking time, Quinlan.”

Isaiah let the near-frantic driver pass before coming up behind Hunt, his

brown eyes narrowing. But Bryce replied sweetly, “My boss doesn’t like legionaries in her place. Sorry.”

Hunt slammed his fist into the iron door. That same blow had smashed

cars, shattered walls, and splintered bones. And that was without the aid of the storm in his veins. The iron didn’t so much as shudder; his lightning skittered off it.

To Hel with threats, then. He’d go for the jugular, as deep and sure as

any of his physical kills. So Hunt said into the intercom, “We’re here about a murder.”

Isaiah winced, scanning the street and skies for anyone who might have

heard.

Hunt crossed his arms as the silence spread.

Then the iron door hissed and clicked, and inched open.

Bull’s-fucking-eye.

It took Hunt a heartbeat to adjust from the sunlight to the dimmer

interior, and he used that first step into the gallery to note every angle and exit and detail.

Plush pine-green carpets went wall to wood-paneled wall in the two-

story showroom. Alcoves with soft-lit art displays dotted the edges of the room: chunks of ancient frescoes, paintings, and statues of Vanir so strange and rare even Hunt didn’t know their names.

Bryce Quinlan leaned against the large ironwood desk in the center of

the space, her snow-white dress clinging to every generous curve and dip.

Hunt smiled slowly, showing all his teeth.

He waited for it: the realization of who he was. Waited for her to shrink

back, to fumble for the panic button or gun or whatever the fuck she thought might save her from the likes of him.

But maybe she was stupid, after all, because her answering smile was

saccharine in the extreme. Her red-tinted nails idly tapped on the pristine wood surface. “You have fifteen minutes.”

Hunt didn’t tell her that this meeting would likely take a good deal

longer than that.

Isaiah turned to shut the door, but Hunt knew it was already locked. Just

as he knew, thanks to legion intel gathered over the years, that the small wood door behind the desk led upstairs to Jesiba Roga’s office—where a floor-to-ceiling internal window overlooked the showroom they stood in— and the simple iron door to their right led down into another full level, stocked with things that legionaries weren’t supposed to find. The enchantments on those two doors were probably even more intense than those outside.

Isaiah loosed one of his long-suffering sighs. “A murder occurred on the

outskirts of the Meat Market last night. We believe you knew the victim.”

Hunt marked every reaction that flitted across her face as she

maintained her perch on the edge of the desk: the slight widening of her eyes, the pause in those tapping nails, the sole blink that suggested she had a short list of possible victims and none of the options were good.

“Who?” was all she said, her voice steady. Wisps of smoke from the

conical diffuser beside the computer drifted past her, carrying the bright, clean scent of peppermint. Of course she was one of those aromatherapy zealots, conned into handing over her marks for the promise of feeling happier, or being better in bed, or growing another half a brain to match the half she already had.

“Maximus Tertian,” Isaiah told her. “We have reports that you had a

meeting with him in the VIP mezzanine of the White Raven two hours before his death.”

Hunt could have sworn Bryce’s shoulders sagged slightly. She said,

“Maximus Tertian is dead.” They nodded. She angled her head. “Who did it?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Isaiah said neutrally.

Hunt had heard of Tertian—a creep of a vamp who couldn’t take no for

an answer, and whose rich, sadistic father had taught him well. And shielded him from any fallout from his hideous behavior. If Hunt was being honest, Midgard was better off without him. Except for the headache they’d now have to endure when Tertian’s father got word that his favored son had been killed … Today’s meeting would be just the start.

Isaiah went on, “You might have been one of the last people to see him

alive. Can you walk us through your encounter with him? No detail is too small.”

Bryce glanced between them. “Is this your way of feeling out whether I

killed him?”

Hunt smiled slightly. “You don’t seem too cut up that Tertian’s dead.” Those amber eyes slid to him, annoyance lighting them.

He’d admit it: males would do a lot of fucked-up things for someone

who looked like that.

He’d done precisely those sort of things for Shahar once. Now he bore

the halo tattooed across his brow and the slave tattoo on his wrist because of it. His chest tightened.

Bryce said, “I’m sure someone’s already said that Maximus and I parted

on unfriendly terms. We met to finish up a deal for the gallery, and when it was done, he thought he was entitled to some … personal time with me.”

Hunt understood her perfectly. It lined up with everything he’d heard

regarding Tertian and his father. It also offered a good amount of motive.

Bryce went on, “I don’t know where he went after the Raven. If he was

killed on the outskirts of the Meat Market, I’d assume he was heading there to purchase what he wanted to take from me.” Cold, sharp words.

Isaiah’s expression grew stony. “Was his behavior last night different

from how he acted during previous meetings?”

“We only interacted over emails and the phone, but I’d say no. Last

night was our first face-to-face, and he acted exactly as his past behavior would indicate.”

Hunt asked, “Why not meet here? Why the Raven?” “He got off on the thrill of acting like our deal was secretive. He

claimed he didn’t trust that my boss wasn’t recording the meeting, but he really just wanted people to notice him—to see him doing deals. I had to slide him the paperwork in a bill folio, and he swapped it with one of his own, that sort of thing.” She met Hunt’s stare. “How did he die?”

The question was blunt, and she didn’t smile or blink. A girl used to

being answered, obeyed, heeded. Her parents weren’t wealthy—or so her file said—yet her apartment fifteen blocks away suggested outrageous wealth. Either from this job or some shady shit that had escaped even the legion’s watchful eyes.

Isaiah sighed. “Those details are classified.” She shook her head. “I can’t help you. Tertian and I did the deal, he got

handsy, and he left.”

Every bit of the camera footage and eyewitness reports from the Raven

confirmed that. But that wasn’t why they were here. What they’d been sent over to do.

Isaiah said, “And when did Prince Ruhn Danaan show up?” “If you know everything, why bother asking me?” She didn’t wait for

them to answer before she said, “You know, you two never told me your names.”

Hunt couldn’t read her expression, her relaxed body language. They

hadn’t initiated contact since that night in the legion’s holding center—and neither of them had introduced themselves then. Had she even registered their faces in that drug-induced haze?

Isaiah adjusted his pristine white wings. “I’m Isaiah Tiberian,

Commander of the 33rd Imperial Legion. This is Hunt Athalar, my—”

Isaiah tripped up, as if realizing that it had been a damn long time since

they’d had to introduce themselves with any sort of rank attached. So Hunt did Isaiah a favor and finished with, “His Second.”

If Isaiah was surprised to hear it, that calm, pretty-boy face didn’t let

on. Isaiah was, technically, his superior in the triarii and in the 33rd as a whole, even if the shit Hunt did for Micah made him directly answerable to the Governor.

Isaiah had never pulled rank, though. As if he remembered those days

before the Fall, and who’d been in charge then.

As if it fucking mattered now.

No, all that mattered about that shit was that Isaiah had killed at least

three dozen Imperial Legionaries that day on Mount Hermon. And Hunt now bore the burden of paying back each one of those lives to the Republic.

To fulfill Micah’s bargain.

Bryce’s eyes flicked to their brows—the tattoos there. Hunt braced for

the sneering remark, for any of the bullshit comments people still liked to make about the Fallen Legion and their failed rebellion. But she only said, “So, what—you two investigate crimes on the side? I thought that was Auxiliary territory. Don’t you have better things to do in the 33rd than play buddy cop?”

Isaiah, apparently not amused that there was one person in this city who

didn’t fall at his feet, said a tad stiffly, “Do you have people who can verify your whereabouts after you left the White Raven?”

Bryce held Isaiah’s gaze. Then flicked her eyes to Hunt. And he still

couldn’t read her mask of boredom as she pushed off the desk and took a few deliberate steps toward them before crossing her arms.

“Just my doorman … and Ruhn Danaan, but you already knew that.” How anyone could walk in heels that high was beyond him. How

anyone could breathe in a dress that tight was also a mystery. It was long enough that it covered the area on her thigh where the scar from that night two years ago would be—that is, if she hadn’t paid some medwitch to erase it. For someone who clearly took pains to dress nicely, he had little doubt she’d gotten it removed immediately.

Party girls didn’t like scars messing with how they looked in a

swimsuit.

Isaiah’s white wings shifted. “Would you call Ruhn Danaan a friend?” Bryce shrugged. “He’s a distant cousin.” But apparently invested enough to have charged into the interrogation

room two years ago. And shown up at the VIP bar last night. If he was that protective of Quinlan, that might be one Hel of a motive, too. Even if Ruhn and his father would make the interrogation a nightmare.

Bryce smiled sharply, as if she remembered that fact, too. “Have fun

talking to him.”

Hunt clenched his jaw, but she strode for the front door, hips swishing

like she knew precisely how spectacular her ass was.

“Just a moment, Miss Quinlan,” Isaiah said. The commander’s voice

was calm, but take-no-shit.

Hunt hid his smile. Seeing Isaiah angry was always a good show. So

long as you weren’t on the receiving end.

Quinlan hadn’t realized that yet as she glanced over a shoulder. “Yes?” Hunt eyed her as Isaiah at last voiced their true reason for this little

visit. “We weren’t just sent here to ask you about your whereabouts.”

She gestured to the gallery. “You want to buy something pretty for the

Governor?”

Hunt’s mouth twitched upward. “Funny you should mention him. He’s

on his way here right now.”

A slow blink. Again, no sign or scent of fear. “Why?” “Micah just told us to get information from you about last night, and

then make sure you were available and have you get your boss on the line.”

Given how infrequently Hunt was asked to help out on investigations, he’d been shocked as Hel to get the order. But considering that he and Isaiah had been there that night in the alley, he supposed that made them the top choices to head this sort of thing up.

“Micah is coming here.” Her throat bobbed once. “He’ll be here in ten minutes,” Isaiah said. He nodded toward her

phone. “I suggest you call your boss, Miss Quinlan.”

Her breathing turned slightly shallow. “Why?” Hunt dropped the bomb at last. “Because Maximus Tertian’s injuries

were identical to the ones inflicted upon Danika Fendyr and the Pack of Devils.” Pulped and dismembered.

Her eyes shuttered. “But—Philip Briggs killed them. He summoned

that demon to kill them. And he’s in prison.” Her voice sharpened. “He’s been in prison for two years.”

In a place worse than prison, but that was beside the point. “We know,” Hunt said, keeping his face devoid of any reaction. “He can’t have killed Tertian. How could he possibly summon the

demon from jail?” Bryce said. “He …” She swallowed, catching herself.

Realizing, perhaps, why Micah was coming. Several people she’d known had been killed, all within hours of interacting with her. “You think Briggs didn’t do it. Didn’t kill Danika and her pack.”

“We don’t know that for sure,” Isaiah cut in. “But the specific details of

how they all died never leaked, so we have good reason to believe this wasn’t a copycat murder.”

Bryce asked flatly, “Have you met with Sabine?” Hunt said, “Have you?” “We do our best to stay out of each other’s way.” It was perhaps the only smart thing Bryce Quinlan had ever decided to

do. Hunt remembered Sabine’s venom as she’d glared through the window at Bryce in the observation room two years ago, and he had no doubt Sabine was just waiting for enough time to pass for Quinlan’s unfortunate and untimely death to be considered nothing more than a fluke.

Bryce walked back to her desk, giving them a wide berth. To her credit,

her gait remained unhurried and solid. She picked up the phone without so much as looking at them.

“We’ll wait outside,” Isaiah offered. Hunt opened his mouth to object,

but Isaiah shot him a warning look.

Fine. He and Quinlan could spar later.

Phone held in a white-knuckled grip, Bryce listened to the other end ring.

Twice. Then—

“Morning, Bryce.” Bryce’s heartbeat pounded in her arms, her legs, her stomach. “Two

legionaries are here.” She swallowed. “The Commander of the 33rd and …” She blew out a breath. “The Umbra Mortis.”

She’d recognized Isaiah Tiberian—he graced the nightly news and

gossip columns often enough that there would never be any mistaking the 33rd’s beautiful Commander.

And she’d recognized Hunt Athalar, too, though he was never on

television. Everyone knew who Hunt Athalar was. She’d heard of him even while growing up in Nidaros, when Randall would talk about his battles in Pangera and whispered when he mentioned Hunt. The Umbra Mortis. The Shadow of Death.

Then, the angel hadn’t worked for Micah Domitus and his legion, but

for the Archangel Sandriel—he’d flown in her 45th Legion. Demon-hunting, rumor claimed his job was. And worse.

Jesiba hissed, “Why?” Bryce clutched the phone. “Maximus Tertian was murdered last night.” “Burning Solas—” “The same way as Danika and the pack.” Bryce shut out every hazy image, breathing in the bright, calming scent

of the peppermint vapors rippling from the diffuser on her desk. She’d bought the stupid plastic cone two months after Danika had been killed, figuring it couldn’t hurt to try some aromatherapy during the long, quiet hours of the day, when her thoughts swarmed and descended, eating her up from the inside out. By the end of the week, she’d bought three more and placed them throughout her house.

Bryce breathed, “It seems like Philip Briggs might not have killed

Danika.”

For two years, part of her had clung to it—that in the days following the

murder, they’d found enough evidence to convict Briggs, who’d wanted Danika dead for busting his rebel bomb ring. Briggs had denied it, but it had added up: He’d been caught purchasing black summoning salts in the weeks before his initial arrest, apparently to fuel some sort of new, horrible weapon.

That Danika had then been murdered by a Pit-level demon—which

would have required the deadly black salt to summon it into this world— couldn’t have been a coincidence. It seemed quite clear that Briggs had been released, gotten his hands on the black salt, summoned the demon, and set it loose upon Danika and the Pack of Devils. It had attacked the 33rd soldier who’d been patrolling the alleyway, and when its work was done, it had been sent back to Hel by Briggs. Though he’d never confessed to it, or what the breed even was, the fact remained that the demon hadn’t been seen again in two years. Since Briggs had been locked up. Case closed.

For two years, Bryce had clung to those facts. That even though her

world had fallen apart, the person responsible was behind bars. Forever.

Deserving of every horror his jailors inflicted on him.

Jesiba let out a long, long breath. “Did the angels accuse you of

anything?”

“No.” Not quite. “The Governor is coming here.” Another pause. “To interrogate you?” “I hope not.” She liked her body parts where they were. “He wants to

talk to you, too.”

“Does Tertian’s father know he’s dead?” “I don’t know.” “I need to make some phone calls,” Jesiba said, more to herself.

“Before the Governor comes.” Bryce understood her meaning well enough: So Maximus’s father didn’t show up at the gallery, demanding answers.

Blaming Bryce for his death. It’d be a mess.

Bryce wiped her sweaty palms on her thighs. “The Governor will be

here soon.”

Faint tapping sounded on the iron archives door before Lehabah

whispered, “BB? Are you all right?”

Bryce put a hand over the mouthpiece of her phone. “Go back to your

post, Lele.”

“Were those two angels?” Bryce ground her teeth. “Yes. Go downstairs. Keep Syrinx quiet.” Lehabah let out a sigh, audible through six inches of iron. But the fire

sprite didn’t speak further, suggesting she’d either returned to the archives beneath the gallery or was still eavesdropping. Bryce didn’t care, as long as she and the chimera stayed quiet.

Jesiba was asking, “When does Micah get there?” “Eight minutes.” Jesiba considered. “All right.” Bryce tried not to gape at the fact that

she didn’t push for more time—especially with a client’s death in the balance.

But even Jesiba knew not to screw around with an Archangel. Or maybe

she’d finally found a scrap of empathy where Danika’s murder was concerned. She sure as Hel hadn’t demonstrated it when she’d ordered Bryce to get back to work or be turned into a pig two weeks after Danika’s death.

Jesiba said, “I don’t need to tell you to make sure everything is on

lockdown.”

“I’ll double-check.” But she’d made sure before the angels had even set

foot in the gallery.

“Then you know what to do, Quinlan,” Jesiba said, the sound of rustling

sheets or clothes filling the background. Two male voices grumbled in protest. Then the line went dead.

Blowing out a breath, Bryce launched into motion.

11

The Archangel rang the buzzer precisely seven minutes later.

Calming her panting, Bryce scanned the gallery for the tenth time,

confirming that all was in place, the art dust-free, any contraband stored below—

Her legs felt spindly, the old ache in her thigh clawing at the bone, but

her hands remained steady as she reached the front door and hauled it open.

The Archangel was gorgeous. Horrifically, indecently gorgeous.

Hunt Athalar and Isaiah Tiberian stood behind him—almost as good-

looking; the latter giving her another bland smile he obviously believed was charming. The former … Hunt’s dark eyes missed nothing.

Bryce lowered her head to the Governor, stepping back, her stupid heels

wobbling on the carpet. “Welcome, Your Grace. Please come in.”

Micah Domitus’s brown eyes devoured her. His power pressed against

her skin, ripped the air from the room, her lungs. Filled the space with midnight storms, sex and death entwined.

“I assume your employer will be joining us through the vidscreen,” the

Archangel said, stepping in from the glaringly bright street.

Fucking Hel, his voice—silk and steel and ancient stone. He could

probably make someone come by merely whispering filthy things in their ear.

Even without that voice, it would have been impossible to forget what

Micah was, what the Governor radiated with every breath, every blink.

There were currently ten Archangels who ruled the various territories of the

Republic, all bearing the title of Governor—all answering only to the Asteri. An ordinary angel’s magic might level a building if they were considered powerful. An Archangel’s power could level an entire metropolis. There was no predicting where the extra strength that separated Archangel from angel came from—sometimes, it was passed on, usually upon the careful breeding orders of the Asteri. Other times, it popped up in unremarkable bloodlines.

She didn’t know much about Micah’s history—had never paid attention

during history class, too busy drooling over the unfairly perfect face currently before her to listen to her teacher’s droning.

“Miss Roga is waiting for our call,” she managed to say, and tried not to

breathe too loudly as the Governor of Valbara swept past. One of his pristine white feathers brushed her bare collarbone. She might have shuddered—were it not for the two angels behind him.

Isaiah just gave her a nod as he trailed Micah toward the chairs before

the desk.

Hunt Athalar, however, lingered. Holding her gaze—before he glanced

at her collarbone. As if the feather had left a mark. The tattoo of thorns across his forehead seemed to turn darker.

And just like that, that scent of sex rippling off the Archangel turned to

rot.

The Asteri and the Archangels could have easily found another way to

hobble the power of the Fallen, yet they’d enslaved them with the witch spells woven into magical tattoos stamped onto their foreheads like fucked-up crowns. And the tattoos on their wrists: SPQM.

Senatus Populusque Midgard.

The Midgard Senate and People. Total fucking bullshit. As if the Senate

was anything but a puppet ruling body. As if the Asteri weren’t their emperors and empresses, ruling over everything and everyone for eternity, their rotted souls regenerating from one form to the next.

Bryce shoved the thought from her mind as she shut the iron door

behind Hunt, just barely missing his gray feathers. His black eyes flashed with warning.

She gave him a smile to convey everything she didn’t dare say aloud

regarding her feelings about this ambush. I’ve faced worse than you, Umbra Mortis. Glower and snarl all you like.

Hunt blinked, the only sign of his surprise, but Bryce was already

turning toward her desk, trying not to limp as pain speared through her leg.

She’d dragged up a third chair from the library, which had aggravated her leg further.

She didn’t dare rub at the thick, curving scar across her upper thigh,

hidden under her white dress. “Can I get you anything, Your Grace? Coffee?

Tea? Something stronger?” She’d already laid out bottled sparkling water on the small tables between the chairs.

The Archangel had claimed the middle seat, and as she smiled politely

at him, the weight of his gaze pressed on her like a silken blanket. “I’m fine.” Bryce looked to Hunt and Isaiah, who slid into their chairs. “They’re fine, too,” Micah said.

Very well, then. She strode around the desk, sliding her hand beneath its

ledge to push a brass button and sending up a prayer to merciful Cthona that her voice remained calm, even as her mind kept circling back to the same thought, over and over: Briggs didn’t kill Danika, Briggs didn’t kill Danika, Briggs didn’t kill Danika—

The wood panel in the wall behind her split open, revealing a large

screen. As it flickered to life, she picked up the desk phone and dialed.

Briggs had been a monster who had planned to hurt people, and he

deserved to be in jail, but—he’d been wrongly accused of the murder.

Danika’s killer was still out there.

Jesiba answered on the first ring. “Is the screen ready?” “Whenever you are.” Bryce typed the codes into her computer, trying to

ignore the Governor staring at her like she was a steak and he was … something that ate steak. Raw. And moaning. “I’m dialing you in,” she declared.

Jesiba Roga appeared on the screen an instant later—and they both

hung up their phones.

Behind the sorceress, the hotel suite was decorated in Pangeran

splendor: paneled white walls with gilded molding, plush cream carpets and pale pink silk drapes, a four-poster oak bed big enough for her and the two males Bryce had heard when she called before.

Jesiba played as hard as she worked while over on the massive territory,

seeking out more art for the gallery, either through visiting various

archaeological digs or courting high-powered clients who already possessed them.

Despite having less than ten minutes, and despite using most of that

time to make some very important calls, Jesiba’s flowing navy dress was immaculate, revealing tantalizing glimpses of a lush female body adorned with freshwater pearls at her ears and throat. Her cropped ash-blond hair glowed in the golden firstlight lamps—cut shorter on the sides, longer on the top. Effortlessly chic and casual. Her face …

Her face was both young and wise, bedroom-soft yet foreboding. Her

pale gray eyes gleamed with glittering magic, alluring and deadly.

Bryce had never dared ask why Jesiba had defected from the witches

centuries ago. Why she’d aligned herself with the House of Flame and Shadow and its leader, the Under-King—and what she did for him. She called herself a sorceress now. Never a witch.

“Morning, Micah,” Jesiba said mildly. A pleasant, disarming voice

compared to that of other members of Flame and Shadow—the hoarse rasp of Reapers, or the silken tones of vampyrs.

“Jesiba,” Micah purred.

Jesiba gave him a slight smile, as if she’d heard that purr a thousand

different times, from a thousand different males. “Pleased as I am to see your handsome face, I’d like to know why you called this meeting. Unless the Danika thing was an excuse to talk to sweet Bryce.”

The Danika thing. Bryce kept her face neutral, even as she felt Hunt

watching her carefully. As if he could hear her heart thundering, scent the sweat now coating her palms.

But Bryce gave him a bored look in return.

Micah leaned back in his chair, crossing his long legs, and said without

so much as glancing at Bryce, “Tempting as your assistant is, we have important matters to discuss.”

She ignored the outright entitlement, the timbre of that sensual voice.

Tempting—as if she were a piece of dessert on a platter. She was used to it, but … these gods-damned Vanir males.

Jesiba waved with ethereal grace to continue, silver nails sparkling in

the hotel’s lamplight.

Micah said smoothly, “I believe my triarii informed Miss Quinlan of the

murder last night. One that was an exact match for the deaths of Danika

Fendyr and the Pack of Devils two years ago.”

Bryce kept herself still, unfeeling. She took a subtle inhale of the

soothing peppermint wisps from the infuser a few inches away.

Micah went on, “What they did not mention was the other connection.” The two angels flanking the Governor stiffened almost imperceptibly.

This was clearly the first they were hearing of this as well.

“Oh?” Jesiba said. “And do I have to pay for this information?” Vast, cold power crackled in the gallery, but the Archangel’s face

remained unreadable. “I am sharing this information so we might combine resources.”

Jesiba arched a blond brow with preternatural smoothness. “To do

what?”

Micah said, “For Bryce Quinlan to find the true murderer behind this, of

course.”

12

Bryce had gone still as death—so unmoving that Hunt wondered if she knew it was a solid tell. Not about her own nerves, but about her heritage.

Only the Fae could go that still.

Her boss, the young-faced sorceress, sighed. “Is your 33rd so

incompetent these days that you truly need my assistant’s help?” Her lovely voice hardly softened her question. “Though I suppose I already have my answer, if you falsely convicted Philip Briggs.”

Hunt didn’t dare grin at her outright challenge. Few people could get

away with speaking to Micah Domitus, let alone any Archangel, like that.

He considered the four-hundred-year-old sorceress on the screen. He’d

heard the rumors: that Jesiba answered to the Under-King, that she could transform people into common animals if they provoked her, that she’d once been a witch who’d left her clan for reasons still unknown. Most likely bad ones, if she’d wound up a member of the House of Flame and Shadow.

Bryce breathed, “I don’t know anything about this. Or who wanted to

kill Tertian.”

Jesiba sharpened her gaze. “Regardless, you are my assistant. You don’t

work for the 33rd.”

Micah’s mouth tightened. Hunt braced himself. “I invited you to this

meeting, Jesiba, as a courtesy.” His brown eyes narrowed with distaste. “It does indeed appear that Philip Briggs was wrongly convicted. But the fact remains that Danika Fendyr and the Pack of Devils apprehended him in his laboratory, with undeniable evidence regarding his intention to bomb

innocents at the White Raven nightclub. And though he was initially released due to a loophole, in the past two years, enough evidence has been found for his earlier crimes that he has been convicted of them, too. As such, he will remain behind bars and serve out the sentence for those earlier crimes as leader of the now-inactive Keres sect, and his participation in the larger human rebellion.”

Quinlan seemed to sag with relief.

But then Micah went on, “However, this means a dangerous murderer

remains loose in this city, able to summon a lethal demon—for sport or revenge, we do not know. I will admit that my 33rd and the Auxiliary have exhausted their resources. But the Summit is in just over a month. There are individuals attending who will see these murders as proof that I am not in control of my city, let alone this territory, and seek to use it against me.”

Of course it wasn’t about catching a deadly killer. No, this was pure PR.

Even with the Summit so far off, Hunt and the other triarii had been

prepping for weeks now, getting the units in the 33rd ready for the pomp and bullshit that surrounded the gathering of Valbaran powers every ten years. Leaders from across the territory would attend, airing their grievances, with maybe a few guest appearances from the ruling assholes across the Haldren.

Hunt hadn’t yet attended one in Valbara, but he’d been through plenty

of other Summits in Pangera, with rulers who all pretended they had some semblance of free will. The Summit meetings usually amounted to a week of powerful Vanir arguing until the overseeing Archangel laid down the law.

He had little doubt Micah would be any different. Isaiah had experienced one already, and had warned him that the Archangel liked to flex his military might at the Summits—liked to have the 33rd in marching and flying formation, decked out in imperial regalia.

Hunt’s golden breastplate was already being cleaned. The thought of

donning the formal armor, the seven stars of the Asteri’s crest displayed across his heart, made him want to puke.

Jesiba examined her silver nails. “Anything exciting happening at the

Summit this time?”

Micah seemed to weigh Jesiba’s casual expression as he said, “The new

witch-queen will be formally recognized.”

Jesiba didn’t let one speck of emotion show. “I heard of Hecuba’s

passing,” the sorceress said. No tinge of grief or satisfaction. Just fact.

But Quinlan tensed, as if she’d shout at them to get back to the murder.

Micah added, “And the Asteri are sending Sandriel to deliver a report from the Senate regarding the rebel conflict.”

Every thought eddied out of Hunt’s head. Even the usually unflappable

Isaiah went rigid.

Sandriel was coming here.

Micah was saying, “Sandriel will arrive at the Comitium next week, and

at the Asteri’s request, she will be my guest until the Summit.”

A month. That fucking monster would be in this city for a month.

Jesiba angled her head with unnerving grace. She might not have been a

Reaper, but she sure as shit moved like one. “What does my assistant have to offer in finding the murderer?”

Hunt shoved it down—the roaring, the trembling, the stillness. Shoved

it down and down and down until it was just another wave in the black, roiling pit inside himself. Forced himself to concentrate on the conversation. And not on the psychopath on her way to this city.

Micah’s stare settled on Bryce, who had turned so pale her freckles

were like splattered blood across the bridge of her nose. “Miss Quinlan is, thus far, the only person alive to have witnessed the demon the murderer summoned.”

Bryce had the nerve to ask, “What about the angel in the alley?” Micah’s face remained unchanged. “He had no memories of the attack.

It was an ambush.” Before Bryce could push, he went on, “Considering the delicate nature of this investigation, I am now willing to look outside the box, as they say, for assistance in solving these murders before they become a true problem.”

Meaning, the Archangel needed to look good in front of the powers that

be. In front of Sandriel, who would report it all to the Asteri and their puppet Senate.

A murderer on the loose, capable of summoning a demon that could kill

Vanir as easily as humans? Oh, it’d be precisely the sort of shit Sandriel would delight in telling the Asteri. Especially if it cost Micah his position.

And if she gained it for herself. What was the northwestern quadrant of Pangera compared to all of Valbara? And Micah losing everything meant

his slaves—Hunt, Isaiah, Justinian, and so many others—went to whoever inherited his Governor’s title.

Sandriel would never honor Micah’s bargain with Hunt.

Micah turned to Hunt, a cruel tilt to his lips. “You can guess, Athalar,

who Sandriel will be bringing with her.” Hunt went rigid. “Pollux would be all too happy to report his findings as well.”

Hunt fought to master his breathing, to keep his face neutral.

Pollux Antonius, Sandriel’s triarii commander—the Malleus, they

called him. The Hammer. As cruel and merciless as Sandriel. And an absolute motherfucking asshole.

Jesiba cleared her throat. “And you still don’t know what kind of demon

it was?” She leaned back in her chair, a frown on her full mouth.

“No,” Micah said through his teeth.

It was true. Even Hunt hadn’t been able to identify it, and he’d had the

distinct pleasure of killing more demons than he could count. They came in endless breeds and levels of intelligence, ranging from the beasts that resembled feline-canine hybrids to the humanoid, shape-shifting princes who ruled over Hel’s seven territories, each one darker than the last: the Hollow, the Trench, the Canyon, the Ravine, the Chasm, the Abyss, and the worst of them all—the Pit.

Even without a specific identification, though, given its speed and what

it had done, the demon fit with something belonging to the Pit, perhaps a pet of the Star-Eater himself. Only in the depths of the Pit could something like that evolve—a creature who had never seen light, never needed it.

It didn’t matter, Hunt supposed. Whether the demon was accustomed to

light or not, his particular skills could still turn it into chunks of sizzling meat. A quick flash of light and a demon would either turn tail or writhe in pain.

Quinlan’s voice cut through the storm in Hunt’s head. “You said that

there was another connection between the murders then and the one now.

Beyond the … style.”

Micah looked at her. To her credit, Quinlan didn’t lower her eyes.

“Maximus Tertian and Danika Fendyr were friends.”

Bryce’s brows twitched toward each other. “Danika didn’t know

Tertian.”

Micah sighed toward the wood-paneled ceiling high above. “I suspect

there might have been a good deal about which she didn’t inform you.”

“I would have known if she was friends with Maximus Tertian,”

Quinlan ground out.

Micah’s power murmured through the room. “Careful, Miss Quinlan.” No one took that kind of tone with an Archangel, at least not anyone

with nearly zero power in their veins. It was enough to get Hunt to set aside Sandriel’s visit and focus on the conversation.

Micah went on, “There is also the fact that you knew both Danika and

Maximus Tertian. That you were at the White Raven nightclub on each of the nights the murders happened. The similarity is enough to be … of interest.”

Jesiba straightened. “Are you saying that Bryce is a suspect?” “Not yet,” Micah said coldly. “But anything is possible.” Quinlan’s fingers curled into fists, her knuckles going white as she no

doubt tried to restrain herself from spitting at the Archangel. She opted to change the subject instead. “What about investigating the others in the Pack of Devils? None of them might have been a target?”

“It has already been looked into and dismissed. Danika remains our

focus.”

Bryce asked tightly, “You honestly think I can find anything, when the

Aux and 33rd couldn’t? Why not get the Asteri to send over someone like the Hind?”

The question rippled through the room. Surely Quinlan wasn’t dumb

enough to wish for that. Jesiba threw a warning look at her assistant.

Micah, unfazed by the mention of Lidia Cervos, the Republic’s most

notorious spy-hunter—and breaker—replied, “As I said, I do not wish for knowledge of these … events to pass beyond the walls of my city.”

Hunt heard what Micah left unspoken: despite being part of Sandriel’s

triarii, the deer shifter known as the Hind reported directly to the Asteri and was known to be Pollux’s lover.

The Hammer and the Hind—the smasher of battlefields and the

destroyer of the Republic’s enemies. Hunt had seen the Hind a few times in Sandriel’s stronghold and always walked away unnerved by her unreadable golden eyes. Lidia was as beautiful as she was ruthless in her pursuit of rebel spies. A perfect match for Pollux. The only one who might have suited

Pollux more than the Hind was the Harpy, but Hunt tried not to think about the second in command of Sandriel’s triarii when he could avoid it.

Hunt smothered his rising dread. Micah was saying, “Crime statistics

suggest that it’s likely Danika knew her killer.” Another pointed silence that left Quinlan bristling. “And despite the things she might not have told you, you remain the person who knew Danika Fendyr better than anyone. I believe you can provide unparalleled insight.”

Jesiba leaned toward the screen in her plush hotel room, all grace and

restrained power. “All right, Governor. Let’s say you commandeer Bryce to look into this. I’d like compensation.”

Micah smiled, a sharp, thrilling thing that Hunt had witnessed only

before the Archangel blasted someone into wind-torn smithereens. “Regardless of your allegiance to the Under-King, and the protection you believe it affords you, you remain a citizen of the Republic.”

And you will answer to me, he didn’t need to add.

Jesiba said simply, “I’d think you’d be well versed in the bylaws,

Governor. Section Fifty-Seven: If a government official requires the services of an outside contractor, they are to pay—”

“Fine. You will send your invoice to me.” Micah’s wings rustled, the

only sign of his impatience. But his voice was kind, at least, as he turned to Quinlan. “I am out of options, and shall soon be out of time. If there is someone who might retrace Danika’s steps in her final days and discover who murdered her, it would be you. You are the only tie between the victims.” She just gaped. “I believe your position here at the gallery also grants you access to individuals who might not be willing to talk to the 33rd or Auxiliary. Isaiah Tiberian will report to me on any progress you make, and keep a keen eye on this investigation.” His brown eyes appraised Hunt, as if he could read every line of tension on his body, the panic seeping through his veins at the news of Sandriel’s arrival. “Hunt Athalar is experienced in hunting demons. He shall be on protection duty, guarding you during your search for the person behind this.”

Bryce’s eyes narrowed, but Hunt didn’t dare say a word. To blink his

displeasure—and relief.

At least he would have an excuse not to be at the Comitium while

Sandriel and Pollux were around. But to be a glorified babysitter, to not be able to work toward earning back his debts …

“Very well,” Jesiba said. Her gaze slid to her assistant. “Bryce?” Bryce said quietly, her amber eyes full of cold fire, “I’ll find them.” She

met the Archangel’s gaze. “And then I want you to wipe them off the fucking planet.”

Yeah, Quinlan had balls. She was stupid and brash, but at least she had

nerve. The combination, however, would likely see her dead before she completed the Drop.

Micah smiled, as if realizing that, too. “What is done with the murderer

will be up to our justice system.” Mild, bureaucratic nonsense, even as the Archangel’s power thundered through the room, as if promising Quinlan he’d do exactly as she wished.

Bryce muttered, “Fine.” Jesiba Roga frowned at her assistant, noting that her face still burned

with that cold fire. “Do try not to die, Bryce. I’d hate to endure the inconvenience of training someone new.” The feed cut off.

Bryce stood in those absurd shoes. Walking around the desk, she swept

the silky curtain of red hair over a shoulder, the slightly curled ends almost brushing the generous curve of her ass.

Micah stood, eyes sliding down Bryce as if he, too, noted that particular

detail, but said to none of them in particular, “We’re done here.”

Bryce’s dress was so tight that Hunt could see the muscles in her thighs

strain as she hauled open the iron door for the Archangel. A faint wince passed over her face—then vanished.

Hunt reached her as the Archangel and his Commander paused outside.

She only gave Hunt a winning, bland smile and began closing the door on him before he could step onto the dusty street. He wedged a foot between the door and jamb, and the enchantments zinged and snapped against his skin as they tried to align around him. Her amber eyes flared. “What.”

Hunt gave her a sharp grin. “Make a list of suspects today. Anyone who

might have wanted Danika and her pack dead.” If Danika knew her murderer, odds were that Bryce probably did, too. “And make a list of Danika’s locations and activities during the last few days of her life.”

Bryce only smiled again, as if she hadn’t heard a damn word he said.

But then she hit some button beside the door that had the enchantments burning like acid—

Hunt jumped back, his lightning flaring, defending against an enemy

that was not there.

The door shut. She purred through the intercom, “I’ll call you. Don’t

bother me until then.”

Urd fucking spare him.

13

Atop the roof of the gallery a moment later, Isaiah silent at his side, Hunt watched the late morning sunlight gild Micah’s pristine white wings and set the strands of gold in his hair to near-glowing as the Archangel inspected the walled city sprawled around them.

Hunt instead surveyed the flat roof, broken up only by equipment and

the doorway to the gallery below.

Micah’s wings shifted, his only warning that he was about to speak.

“Time is not our ally.”

Hunt just said, “Do you really think Quinlan can find whoever is behind

this?” He let the question convey the extent of his own faith in her.

Micah angled his head. An ancient, lethal predator sizing up prey. “I

think this is a matter that requires us to use every weapon in our arsenal, no matter how unorthodox.” He sighed as he looked out at the city again.

Lunathion had been built as a model of the ancient coastal cities around

the Rhagan Sea, a near-exact replica that included its sandstone walls, the arid climate, the olive groves and little farms that lined distant hills beyond the city borders to the north, even the great temple to a patron goddess in the very center. But unlike those cities, this one had been allowed to adapt: streets lay in an orderly grid, not a tangle; and modern buildings jutted up like lances in the heart of the CBD, far surpassing the strict height codes of Pangera.

Micah had been responsible for it—for seeing this city as a tribute to

the old model, but also a place for the future to thrive. He’d even embraced

using the name Crescent City over Lunathion.

A male of progress. Of tolerance, they said.

Hunt often wondered what it would feel like to rip out his throat.

He’d contemplated it so many times he’d lost count. Had contemplated

blasting a bolt of his lightning into that beautiful face, that perfect mask for the brutal, demanding bastard inside.

Maybe it was unfair. Micah had been born into his power, had never

known a life as anything but one of the major forces on this planet. A near-god who was unused to having his authority questioned and would put down any threats to it.

A rebellion led by a fellow Archangel and three thousand warriors had

been just that. Even though nearly all of his triarii was now made up of the Fallen. Offering them a second chance, apparently. Hunt couldn’t fathom why he’d bother being that merciful.

Micah said, “Sabine is certainly already putting her people on this case

and will be visiting my office to tell me precisely what she thinks of the fuckup with Briggs.” An icy glance between them. “I want us to find the murderer, not the wolves.”

Hunt said coolly, “Dead or alive?” “Alive, preferably. But dead is better than letting the person run free.” Hunt dared ask, “And will this investigation count toward my quota? It

could take months.”

Isaiah tensed. But Micah’s mouth curled upward. For a long moment,

he said nothing. Hunt didn’t so much as blink.

Then Micah said, “How about this incentive, Athalar: you solve this

case quickly—you solve it before the Summit, and I’ll lower your debts to ten.”

The very wind seemed to halt. “Ten,” Hunt managed to say, “more assignments?” It was outrageous. Micah had no reason to offer him anything. Not

when his word was all that was needed for Hunt to obey.

“Ten more assignments,” Micah said, as if he hadn’t dropped a fucking

bomb into the middle of Hunt’s life.

It could be a fool’s bargain. Micah might draw out those ten

assignments over decades, but … Burning fucking Solas.

The Archangel added, “You tell no one about this, Athalar.” That he

didn’t bother to also warn Isaiah suggested enough about how much he trusted his commander.

Hunt said, as calmly as he could, “All right.” Micah’s stare turned merciless, though. He scanned Hunt from head to

toe. Then the gallery beneath their booted feet. The assistant within it.

Micah growled, “Keep your dick in your pants and your hands to yourself.

Or you’ll find yourself without either for a long while.”

Hunt would regrow both, of course. Any immortal who made the Drop

could regrow just about anything if they weren’t beheaded or severely mutilated, with arteries bleeding out, but … the recovery would be painful.

Slow. And being dickless, even for a few months, wasn’t high up on Hunt’s to-do list.

Fucking around with a half-human assistant was the least of his

priorities, anyway, with freedom potentially ten kills away.

Isaiah nodded for both of them. “We’ll keep it professional.” Micah twisted toward the CBD, assessing the river breeze, his pristine

wings twitching. He said to Isaiah, “Be in my office in an hour.”

Isaiah bowed at the waist to the Archangel, a Pangeran gesture that

made Hunt’s hackles rise. He’d been forced to do that, at the risk of having his feathers pulled out, burned off, sliced apart. Those initial decades after the Fall had not been kind.

The wings he knew were mounted to the wall in the Asteri throne room

were proof.

But Isaiah had always known how to play the game, how to stomach

their protocols and hierarchies. How to dress like them, dine and fuck like them. He’d Fallen and risen back to the rank of commander because of it. It wouldn’t surprise anyone if Micah recommended that Isaiah’s halo be removed at the next Governors’ Council with the Asteri after the Winter Solstice.

No assassinating, butchering, or torturing required.

Micah didn’t so much as glance at them before he shot into the skies.

Within seconds he’d become a white speck in the sea of blue.

Isaiah blew out a breath, frowning toward the spires atop the five

towers of the Comitium, a glass-and-steel crown rising from the heart of the

CBD.

“You think there’s a catch?” Hunt asked his friend. “He doesn’t scheme like that.” Like Sandriel and most of the other

Archangels. “He means what he says. He’s got to be desperate, if he wants to give you that kind of motivation.”

“He owns me. His word is my command.” “With Sandriel coming, maybe he realized it’d be advantageous if you

were inclined to be … loyal.”

“Again: slave.” “Then I don’t fucking know, Hunt. Maybe he was just feeling

generous.” Isaiah shook his head again. “Don’t question the hand Urd dealt you.”

Hunt blew out a breath. “I know.” Odds were, the truth was a

combination of those things.

Isaiah arched a brow. “You think you can find whoever is behind this?” “I don’t have a choice.” Not with this new bargain on the table. He

tasted the dry wind, half listening to its rasping song through the sacred cypresses lining the street below—the thousands of them in this city planted in honor of its patron goddess.

“You’ll find them,” Isaiah said. “I know you will.” “If I can stop thinking about Sandriel’s visit.” Hunt blew out a breath,

dragging his hands through his hair. “I can’t believe she’s coming here.

With that piece of shit Pollux.”

Isaiah said carefully, “Tell me you realize that Micah threw you another

big fucking bone just now in stationing you to protect Quinlan instead of keeping you around the Comitium with Sandriel there.”

Hunt knew that, knew Micah was well aware of how Hunt felt about

Sandriel and Pollux, but rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Trumpet all you want about how fantastic Micah is, but remember that the bastard is welcoming her with open arms.”

“The Asteri ordered her to come for the Summit,” Isaiah countered.

“It’s standard for them to send one of the Archangels as their emissary to these meetings. Governor Ephraim came to the last one here. Micah welcomed him, too.”

Hunt said, “The fact remains that she’ll be here for a whole month. In

that fucking complex.” He pointed to the five buildings of the Comitium. “Lunathion isn’t her scene. There’s nothing to amuse her here.”

With most of the Fallen either scattered to the four winds or dead,

Sandriel enjoyed nothing better than strolling through her castle dungeons, crammed full of human rebels, and selecting one, two, or three at a time.

The arena at the heart of her city was just for the pleasure of destroying these prisoners in various ways. Battles to the death, public torture, unleashing Lowers and basic animals against them … There was no end to her creativity. Hunt had seen and endured it all.

With the conflict currently surging, those dungeons were sure to be

packed. Sandriel and Pollux must have been enjoying the Hel out of the pain that flowed from that arena.

The thought made Hunt stiffen. “Pollux will be a fucking menace in this

city.” The Hammer was well known for his favorite activities: slaughter and torture.

“Pollux will be dealt with. Micah knows what he’s like—what he does.

The Asteri might have ordered him to welcome Sandriel, but he isn’t going to let her give Pollux free rein.” Isaiah paused, eyes going distant as he seemed to weigh something internally. “But I can make you unavailable while Sandriel visits—permanently.”

Hunt lifted an eyebrow. “If you’re referring to Micah’s promise to make

me dickless, I’ll pass.”

Isaiah laughed quietly. “Micah gave you an order to investigate with

Quinlan. Orders that will make you very, very busy. Especially if he wants Bryce protected.”

Hunt threw him a half grin. “So busy that I won’t have time to be

around the Comitium.”

“So busy that you’ll be staying on the roof across from Quinlan’s

building to monitor her.”

“I’ve slept in worse conditions.” So had Isaiah. “And it’d be an easy

cover for keeping an eye on Quinlan for more than protection.”

Isaiah frowned. “You honestly mark her as a suspect?” “I’m not ruling it out,” Hunt said, shrugging. “Micah didn’t clear her,

either. So until she proves otherwise, she’s not off my list.” He wondered who the Hel might make it onto Quinlan’s list of suspects. When Isaiah only nodded, Hunt asked, “You’re not going to tell Micah I’m watching her around the clock?”

“If he notices that you’re not sleeping at the barracks, I’ll tell him. But

until then, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

“Thanks.” It wasn’t a word in Hunt’s normal vocabulary, not to anyone

with wings, but he meant it. Isaiah had always been the best of them—the best of the Fallen, and all the legionaries Hunt had ever served with. Isaiah should have been in the Asterian Guard, with those skills and those pristine white wings, but like Hunt, Isaiah had come from the gutter. Only the highborn would do for the Asteri’s elite private legion. Even if it meant passing over good soldiers like Isaiah.

Hunt, with his gray wings and common blood, despite his lightning, had

never even been in the running. Being asked to join Shahar’s elite 18th had been privilege enough. He’d loved her almost instantly for seeing his worth —and Isaiah’s. All of the 18th had been like that: soldiers she’d selected not for their status, but their skills. Their true value.

Isaiah gestured toward the CBD and the Comitium within it. “Grab your

gear from the barracks. I need to make a stop before I meet with Micah.” At Hunt’s blink, Isaiah winced. “I owe Prince Ruhn a visit to confirm Quinlan’s alibi.”

It was the last fucking thing Hunt wanted to do, and the last fucking

thing he knew Isaiah wanted to do, but protocols were protocols. “You want me to go with you?” Hunt offered. It was the least he could offer.

The corner of Isaiah’s mouth lifted. “Considering that you broke

Danaan’s nose the last time you were in a room together, I’m going to say no.”

Wise move. Hunt drawled, “He deserved it.” Micah, mercifully, had found the entire event—the Incident, as Naomi

called it—amusing. It wasn’t every day that the Fae had their asses handed to them, so even the Governor had discreetly gloated over the altercation at the Spring Equinox celebrations the previous year. He’d given Hunt a whole week off for it. A suspension, Micah had claimed—but that suspension had come with an especially padded paycheck. And three less deaths to atone for.

Isaiah said, “I’ll call you later to check in.” “Good luck.” Isaiah threw him a weary, worn smile—the only hint of the grind of all

these years with those two tattoos—and went to track down Ruhn Danaan,

the Crown Prince of the Fae.

Bryce paced the showroom once, hissed at the pain in her leg, and kicked off her heels hard enough that one slammed into the wall, setting an ancient vase shuddering.

A cool voice asked behind her, “When you nail Hunt Athalar’s balls to

the wall, will you do me a favor and take a picture?”

She glared at the vidscreen that had come on again—and the sorceress

still sitting there. “You really want to get mixed up in this, boss?”

Jesiba leaned back in her gilded chair, a queen at ease. “Good old-

fashioned revenge doesn’t hold any appeal?”

“I have no idea who wanted Danika and the pack dead. None.” It had

made sense when it seemed like Briggs had summoned the demon to do it: he’d been released that day, Danika was on edge and upset about it, and then she had died. But if it wasn’t Briggs, and with Maximus Tertian killed … She didn’t know where to start.

But she’d do it. Find whoever had done this. A small part of it was just

to make Micah Domitus eat his words hinting that she might be of interest in this case, but … She ground her teeth. She’d find whoever had done this and make them regret ever being born.

Bryce walked over to the desk, stifling the limp. She perched on the

edge. “The Governor must be desperate.” And insane, if he was asking for her help.

“I don’t care about the Governor’s agenda,” Jesiba said. “Play vengeful

detective all you want, Bryce, but do remember that you have a job. Client meetings will not take a back seat.”

“I know.” Bryce chewed on the inside of her cheek. “If whoever is

behind this is strong enough to summon a demon like that to do their dirty work, I’ll likely wind up dead, too.” Very likely, given that she hadn’t decided if or when to make the Drop yet.

Those gray glittering eyes roved over her face. “Then keep Athalar

close.”

Bryce bristled. As if she were some little female in need of a big, strong

warrior to guard her.

Even if it was partially true. Mostly true.

Totally and definitely true, if that demon was being summoned again.

But—make a list of suspects, indeed. And the other task he’d given her,

to make a list of Danika’s last locations … Her body tightened at the thought.

She might accept Athalar’s protection, but she didn’t need to make it

easy for the swaggering asshole.

Jesiba’s phone rang. The female glanced at the screen. “It’s Tertian’s

father.” She threw Bryce a warning glare. “If I start losing money because you’re off playing detective with the Umbra Mortis, I’ll turn you into a turtle.” She lifted the phone to her ear and the feed ended.

Bryce blew out a long breath before she hit the button to close the

screen into the wall.

The silence of the gallery twined around her, gnawing at her bones.

Lehabah for once, seemed to not be eavesdropping. No tapping on the

iron door filled the thrumming silence. Not a whisper of the tiny, incurably nosy fire sprite.

Bryce braced her arm on the cool surface of the desk, cupping her

forehead in her hand.

Danika had never mentioned knowing Tertian. They’d never even

spoken of him—not once. And that was all she had to go on?

Without Briggs as the summoner-killer, the murder didn’t make sense.

Why had the demon chosen their apartment, when it was three stories up and located in a supposedly monitored building? It had to be intentional.

Danika and the others, Tertian included, must have been targeted, with Bryce’s connection to the latter a sick coincidence.

Bryce toyed with the amulet on the end of her golden chain, zipping it

back and forth.

Later. She’d think it over tonight, because—she glanced at the clock.

Shit.

She had another client coming in forty-five minutes, which meant she

should get through the tsunami of paperwork for the Svadgard wood carving purchased yesterday.

Or maybe she should work on that job application she’d kept in a secret,

deceptively named file on her computer: Paper Vendor Spreadsheets.

Jesiba, who left her in charge of everything from restocking toilet paper

to ordering printer paper, would never open the file. She’d never see that

among the actual documents Bryce had thrown in there, there was one folder—March Office Supply Invoices—that didn’t contain a spreadsheet. It held a cover letter, a résumé, and half-completed applications for positions at about ten different places.

Some were long shots. Crescent City Art Museum Associate Curator.

As if she’d ever get that job, when she had neither an art nor a history degree. And when most museums believed places like Griffin Antiquities should be illegal.

Other positions—Personal Assistant to Miss Fancypants Lawyer—

would be more of the same. Different setting and boss, but same old bullshit.

But they were a way out. Yeah, she’d have to find some kind of

arrangement with Jesiba regarding her debts, and avoid finding out if just mentioning she wanted to leave would get her turned into some slithering animal, but dicking around with the applications, endlessly tweaking her résumé—it made her feel better, at least. Some days.

But if Danika’s murderer had resurfaced, if being in this dead-end job

could help … Those résumés were a waste of time.

Her phone’s dark screen barely reflected the lights high, high above.

Sighing again, Bryce punched in her security code, and opened the

message thread.

You won’t regret this. I’ve had a long while to figure out all the ways

I’m going to spoil you. All the fun we’re going to have.

She could have recited Connor’s messages from memory, but it hurt

more to see them. Hurt enough to feel through every part of her body, the dark remnants of her soul. So she always looked.

Go enjoy yourself. I’ll see you in a few days.

The white screen burned her eyes. Message me when you’re home safe.

She shut that window. And didn’t dare open up her audiomail. She

usually had to be in one of her monthly emotional death-spirals to do that.

To hear Danika’s laughing voice again.

Bryce loosed a long breath, then another, then another.

She’d find the person behind this. For Danika, for the Pack of Devils,

she’d do it. Do anything.

She opened up her phone again and began typing out a group message

to Juniper and Fury. Not that Fury ever replied—no, the thread was a two-

way conversation between Bryce and June. She’d written out half of her message: Philip Briggs didn’t kill Danika. The murders are starting again and I’m— when she deleted it. Micah had given an order to keep this quiet, and if her phone was hacked … She wouldn’t jeopardize being taken off the case.

Fury had to know about it already. That her so-called friend hadn’t

contacted her … Bryce shoved the thought away. She’d tell Juniper face-to-face. If Micah was right and there was somehow a connection between Bryce and how the victims were chosen, she couldn’t risk leaving Juniper unaware. Wouldn’t lose anyone else.

Bryce glanced at the sealed iron door. Rubbed the deep ache in her leg

once before standing.

Silence walked beside her during the entire trip downstairs.

14

Ruhn Danaan stood before the towering oak doors to his father’s study and took a bracing, cooling breath.

It had nothing to do with the thirty-block run he’d made from his

unofficial office above a dive bar in the Old Square over to his father’s sprawling marble villa in the heart of FiRo. Ruhn let out a breath and knocked.

He knew better than to barge in. “Enter.” The cold male voice leached through the doors, through Ruhn.

But he shoved aside any indication of his thundering heart and slid into the room, shutting the door behind him.

The Autumn King’s personal study was larger than most single-family

houses. Bookshelves rose two stories on every wall, crammed with tomes and artifacts both old and new, magic and ordinary. A golden balcony bisected the rectangular space, accessible by either of the spiral staircases at the front and back, and heavy black velvet curtains currently blocked the morning light from the tall windows overlooking the interior courtyard of the villa.

The orrery in the far back of the space drew Ruhn’s eye: a working

model of their seven planets, moons, and sun. Made from solid gold. Ruhn had been mesmerized by it as a boy, back when he’d been stupid enough to believe his father actually gave a shit about him, spending hours in here watching the male make whatever observations and calculations he jotted

down in his black leather notebooks. He’d asked only once about what his father was looking for, exactly.

Patterns was all his father said.

The Autumn King sat at one of the four massive worktables, each

littered with books and an array of glass and metal devices. Experiments for whatever the fuck his father did with those patterns. Ruhn passed one of the tables, where iridescent liquid bubbled within a glass orb set over a burner —the flame likely of his father’s making—puffs of violet smoke curling from it.

“Should I be wearing a hazmat suit?” Ruhn asked, aiming for the

worktable where his father peered through a foot-long prism ensconced in some delicate silver contraption.

“State your business, Prince,” his father said shortly, an amber eye fixed

to the viewing apparatus atop the prism.

Ruhn refrained from commenting about how the taxpaying people of

this city would feel if they knew how one of their seven Heads spent his days. The six lower Heads were all appointed by Micah, not elected by any democratic process. There were councils within councils, designed to give people the illusion of control, but the main order of things was simple: The Governor ruled, and the City Heads led their own districts under him.

Beyond that, the 33rd Legion answered only to the Governor, while the Aux obeyed the City Heads, divided into units based upon districts and species.

It grew murkier from there. The wolves claimed the shifter packs were the commanders of the Aux—but the Fae insisted that this distinction belonged to them, instead. It made dividing—claiming—responsibilities difficult.

Ruhn had been heading up the Fae division of the Aux for fifteen years

now. His father had given the command, and he had obeyed. He had little choice. Good thing he’d trained his entire life to be a lethal, efficient killer.

Not that it brought him any particular joy. “Some major shit is going down,” Ruhn said, halting on the other side

of the table. “I just got a visit from Isaiah Tiberian. Maximus Tertian was murdered last night—in exactly the same way that Danika and her pack were killed.”

His father adjusted some dial on the prism device. “I received the report

earlier this morning. It appears Philip Briggs wasn’t the murderer.”

Ruhn stiffened. “You were going to tell me when?”

His father glanced up from the prism device. “Am I beholden to you,

Prince?”

The bastard certainly wasn’t, his title aside. Though they were close in

depth of power, the fact remained that Ruhn, despite his Starborn status and possession of the Starsword, would always have just a little less than his father. He’d never decided, after he’d gone through his Ordeal and made the Drop fifty years ago, whether it was a relief or a curse to have come up short on the power ranking. On the one hand, had he surpassed his father, the playing field would have tipped in his favor. On the other, it would have established him firmly as a rival.

Having seen what his father did to rivals, it was better to not be on that

list.

“This information is vital. I already put out a call to Flynn and Declan

to amp up patrols in FiRo. We’ll have every street watched.”

“Then it does not appear that I needed to tell you, does it?” His father was nearing five hundred years old, had worn the golden

crown of the Autumn King for most of that time, and had been an asshole for all of it. And he still showed no signs of aging—not as the Fae did, with their gradual fading into death, like a shirt washed too many times.

So it’d be another few centuries of this. Playing prince. Having to

knock on a door and wait for permission to enter. Having to kneel and obey.

Ruhn was one of about a dozen Fae Princes across the whole planet

Midgard—and had met most of the others over the decades. But he stood apart as the only Starborn among them. Among all the Fae.

Like Ruhn, the other princes served under preening, vain kings

stationed in the various territories as Heads of city districts or swaths of wilderness. Some of them had been waiting for their thrones for centuries, counting down each decade as if it were mere months.

It disgusted him. Always had. Along with the fact that everything he

had was bankrolled by the bastard before him: the office above the dive bar, the villa in FiRo adorned with priceless antiques that his father had gifted him upon winning the Starsword during his Ordeal. Ruhn never stayed at the villa, instead choosing to live in a house he shared with his two best friends near the Old Square.

Also purchased with his father’s money.

Officially, the money came from the “salary” Ruhn received for heading

up the Fae Auxiliary patrols. But his father’s signature authorized that weekly check.

The Autumn King lifted the prism device. “Did the Commander of the

33rd say anything of note?”

The meeting had been one step short of a disaster.

First, Tiberian had grilled him about Bryce’s whereabouts last night,

until Ruhn was about one breath away from beating the shit out of the angel, Commander of the 33rd or no. Then Tiberian had the balls to ask about Ruhn’s whereabouts.

Ruhn had refrained from informing the commander that pummeling

Maximus Tertian for grabbing Bryce’s hand had been tempting.

She’d have bitten his head off for it. And she’d been able to handle

herself, sparing Ruhn the political nightmare of setting off a blood feud between their two Houses. Not just between Sky and Breath and Flame and Shadow, but between the Danaans and the Tertians. And thus every Fae and vampyr living in Valbara and Pangera. The Fae didn’t fuck around with their blood feuds. Neither did the vamps.

“No,” Ruhn said. “Though Maximus Tertian died a few hours after

having a business meeting with Bryce.”

His father set down the prism, his lip curling. “I told you to warn that

girl to stay quiet.”

That girl. Bryce was always that girl, or the girl, to their father. Ruhn

hadn’t heard the male speak her name in twelve years. Not since her first and last visit to this villa.

Everything had changed after that visit. Bryce had come here for the

first time, a coltish thirteen-year-old ready to finally meet her father and his people. To meet Ruhn, who had been intrigued at the prospect of finding he had a half sister after more than sixty years of being an only child.

The Autumn King had insisted that the visit be discreet—not saying the

obvious: until the Oracle whispers of your future. What had gone down had been an unmitigated disaster not only for Bryce, but for Ruhn as well. His chest still ached when he remembered her leaving the villa in tears of rage, refusing to look back over her shoulder even once. His father’s treatment of Bryce had opened Ruhn’s eyes to the Autumn King’s true nature … and the cold Fae male before him had never forgotten this fact.

Ruhn had visited Bryce frequently at her parents’ place over the next

three years. She’d been a bright spot—the brightest spot, if he felt like being honest. Until that stupid, shameful fight between them that had left things in such shambles that Bryce still hated his guts. He didn’t blame her —not with the words he’d said, that he’d immediately regretted as soon as they’d burst from him.

Now Ruhn said, “Bryce’s meeting with Maximus preceded my warning

to behave. I arrived right as she was wrapping up.” When he’d gotten that call from Riso Sergatto, the butterfly shifter’s laughing voice unusually grave, he’d sprinted over to the White Raven, not giving himself time to second-guess the wisdom of it. “I’m her alibi, according to Tiberian—I told him that I walked her home, and stayed there until well after Tertian’s time of death.”

His father’s face revealed nothing. “And yet it still does not seem very

flattering that the girl was at the club on both nights, and interacted with the victims hours before.”

Ruhn said tightly, “Bryce had nothing to do with the murders. Despite

the alibi shit, the Governor must believe it, too, because Tiberian swore Bryce is being guarded by the 33rd.”

It might have been admirable that they bothered to do so, had all the

angels not been arrogant assholes. Luckily, the most arrogant of those assholes hadn’t been the one to pay Ruhn this particular visit.

“That girl has always possessed a spectacular talent for being where she

shouldn’t.”

Ruhn controlled the anger thrumming through him, his shadow magic

seeking to veil him, shield him from sight. Another reason his father resented him: beyond his Starborn gifts, the bulk of his magic skewed toward his mother’s kin—the Fae who ruled Avallen, the mist-shrouded isle in the north. The sacred heart of Faedom. His father would have burned Avallen into ashes if he could. That Ruhn did not possess his father’s flames, the flames of most of the Valbaran Fae, that he instead possessed Avallen abilities—more than Ruhn ever let on—to summon and walk through shadows, had been an unforgivable insult.

Silence rippled between father and son, interrupted only by the ticking

metal of the orrery at the other end of the room as the planets inched around their orbit.

His father picked up the prism, holding it up to the firstlights twinkling

in one of the three crystal chandeliers.

Ruhn said tightly, “Tiberian said the Governor wants these murders kept

quiet, but I’d like your permission to warn my mother.” Every word grated.

I’d like your permission.

His father waved a hand. “Permission granted. She’ll heed the

warning.”

Just as Ruhn’s mother had obeyed everyone her entire life.

She’d listen and lie low, and no doubt gladly accept the extra guards

sent to her villa, down the block from his own, until this shit was sorted out.

Maybe he’d even stay with her tonight.

She wasn’t queen—wasn’t even a consort or mate. No, his sweet, kind

mother had been selected for one purpose: breeding. The Autumn King had decided, after a few centuries of ruling, that he wanted an heir. As the daughter of a prominent noble house that had defected from Avallen’s court, she’d done her duty gladly, grateful for the eternal privilege it offered. In all of Ruhn’s seventy-five years of life, he’d never heard her speak one ill word about his father. About the life she’d been conscripted to.

Even when Ember and his father had their secret, disastrous

relationship, his mother had not been jealous. There had been so many other females before her, and after her. Yet none had been formally chosen, not as she was, to continue the royal bloodline. And when Bryce had come along, the few times his mother had met her, she’d been kind. Doting, even.

Ruhn couldn’t tell if he admired his mother for never questioning the

gilded cage she lived in. If something was wrong with him for resenting it.

He might never understand his mother, yet it didn’t stop his fierce pride

that he took after her bloodline, that his shadow-walking set him apart from the asshole in front of him, a constant, welcome reminder that he didn’t have to turn into a domineering prick. Even if most of his mother’s kin in Avallen were little better. His cousins especially.

“Perhaps you should call her,” Ruhn said, “give the warning yourself.

She’d appreciate your concern.”

“I’m otherwise engaged,” his father said calmly. It had always

astonished Ruhn: how cold his father was, when those flames burned in his veins. “You may inform her yourself. And you will refrain from telling me how to manage my relationship with your mother.”

“You don’t have a relationship. You bred her like a mare and sent her

out to pasture.”

Cinders sparked through the room. “You benefited quite well from that

breeding, Starborn.”

Ruhn didn’t dare voice the words that tried to spring from his mouth.

Even as my stupid fucking title brought you further influence in the empire and among your fellow kings, it still chafed, didn’t it? That your son, not you, retrieved the Starsword from the Cave of Princes in Avallen’s dark heart. That your son, not you, stood among the long-dead Starborn Princes asleep in their sarcophagi and was deemed worthy to pull the sword from its sheath. How many times did you try to draw the sword when you were young? How much research did you do in this very study to find ways to wield it without being chosen?

His father curled a finger toward him. “I have need of your gift.” “Why?” His Starborn abilities were little more than a sparkle of

starlight in his palm. His shadow talents were the more interesting gift.

Even the temperature monitors on the high-tech cameras in this city couldn’t detect him when he shadow-walked.

His father held up the prism. “Direct a beam of your starlight through

this.” Not waiting for an answer, his father again put an eye to the metal viewing contraption atop the prism.

It ordinarily took Ruhn a good amount of concentration to summon his

starlight, and it usually left him with a headache for hours afterward, but … He was intrigued enough to try.

Setting his index finger onto the crystal of the prism, Ruhn closed his

eyes and focused upon his breathing. Let the clicking metal of the orrery guide him down, down, down into the black pit within himself, past the churning well of his shadows, to the little hollow beneath them. There, curled upon itself like some hibernating creature, lay the single seed of iridescent light.

He gently cupped it with a mental palm, stirring it awake as he carefully

brought it upward, as if he were carrying water in his hands. Up through himself, the power shimmering with anticipation, warm and lovely and just about the only part of himself he liked.

Ruhn opened his eyes to find the starlight dancing at his fingertip,

refracting through the prism.

His father adjusted a few dials on the device, jotting down notes with

his other hand.

The starlight seed became slippery, disintegrating into the air around

them.

“Just another moment,” the king ordered.

Ruhn gritted his teeth, as if it’d somehow keep the starlight from

dissolving.

Another click of the device, and another jotted note in an ancient, rigid

hand. The Old Language of the Fae—his father recorded everything in the half-forgotten language their people had used when they had first come to Midgard through the Northern Rift.

The starlight shivered, flared, and faded into nothing. The Autumn King

grunted in annoyance, but Ruhn barely heard it over his pounding head.

He’d mastered himself enough to pay attention as his father finished his

notes. “What are you even doing with that thing?”

“Studying how light moves through the world. How it can be shaped.” “Don’t we have scientists over at CCU doing this shit?” “Their interests are not the same as mine.” His father surveyed him.

And then said, without a hint of warning, “It is time to consider females for an appropriate marriage.”

Ruhn blinked. “For you?” “Don’t play stupid.” His father shut his notebook and leaned back in his

chair. “You owe it to our bloodline to produce an heir—and to expand our alliances. The Oracle decreed you would be a fair and just king. This is the first step in that direction.”

All Fae, male and female, made a visit to the city’s Oracle at age

thirteen as one of the two Great Rites to enter adulthood: first the Oracle, and then the Ordeal—a few years or decades later.

Ruhn’s stomach churned at the memory of that first Rite, far worse than

his harrowing Ordeal in so many ways. “I’m not getting married.”

“Marriage is a political contract. Sire an heir, then go back to fucking

whomever you please.”

Ruhn snarled. “I am not getting married. Certainly not in an arranged

marriage.”

“You will do as you are told.” “You’re not fucking married.”

“I did not need the alliance.” “But now we do?” “There is a war raging overseas, in case you weren’t aware. It worsens

by the day, and it may very well spread here. I do not plan to enter it without insurance.”

Pulse hammering, Ruhn stared at his father. He was completely serious.

Ruhn managed to say, “You plan to make me marry so we have solid

allies in the war? Aren’t we the Asteri’s allies?”

“We are. But war is a liminal time. Power rankings can easily be

reshuffled. We must demonstrate how vital and influential we are.”

Ruhn considered the words. “You’re talking about a marriage to

someone not of the Fae.” His father had to be worried, to even consider something so rare.

“Queen Hecuba died last month. Her daughter, Hypaxia, has been

crowned the new witch-queen of Valbara.”

Ruhn had seen the news reports. Hypaxia Enador was young, no more

than twenty-six. No photos of her existed, as her mother had kept her cloistered in her mountain fortress.

His father went on, “Her reign will be officially recognized by the

Asteri at the Summit next month. I will tie her to the Fae soon after that.”

“You’re forgetting that Hypaxia will have a say in this. She might very

well laugh you off.”

“My spies tell me she will heed her mother’s old friendship with us—

and will be skittish enough as a new ruler to accept the friendly hand we offer.”

Ruhn had the distinct feeling of being led into a web, the Autumn King

drawing him ever closer to its heart. “I’m not marrying her.”

“You are the Crown Prince of the Valbaran Fae. You do not have a

choice.” His father’s cold face became so like Bryce’s that Ruhn turned away, unable to stomach it. It was a miracle no one had figured out their secret yet. “Luna’s Horn remains at large.”

Ruhn twisted back to his father. “So? What does one have to do with the

other?”

“I want you to find it.” Ruhn glanced to the notebooks, the prism. “It went missing two years

ago.”

“And I now have an interest in locating it. The Horn belonged to the

Fae first. Public interest in retrieving it has waned; now is the right time to attain it.”

His father tapped a finger on the table. Something had riled him. Ruhn

considered what he’d seen on his father’s schedule this morning when he’d done his cursory scan of it as commander of the Fae Auxiliary. Meetings with preening Fae nobility, a workout with his private guard, and— “The meeting with Micah went well this morning, I take it.”

His father’s silence confirmed his suspicions. The Autumn King pinned

him with his amber eyes, weighing Ruhn’s stance, his expression, all of it.

Ruhn knew he’d always come up short, but his father said, “Micah wished to discuss shoring up our city’s defenses should the conflict overseas spread here. He made it clear the Fae are … not as they once were.”

Ruhn stiffened. “The Fae Aux units are in just as good shape as the

wolves are.”

“It is not about our strength of arms, but rather our strength as a

people.” His father’s voice dripped with disgust. “The Fae have long been fading—our magic wanes with each generation, like watered-down wine.” He frowned at Ruhn. “The first Starborn Prince could blind an enemy with a flash of his starlight. You can barely summon a sparkle for an instant.”

Ruhn clenched his jaw. “The Governor pushed your buttons. So what?” “He insulted our strength.” His father’s hair simmered with fire, as if

the strands had gone molten. “He said we gave up the Horn in the first place, then let it be lost two years ago.”

“It was stolen from Luna’s Temple. We didn’t fucking lose it.” Ruhn

barely knew anything about the object, hadn’t even cared when it went missing two years ago.

“We let a sacred artifact of our people be used as a cheap tourist

attraction,” his father snapped. “And I want you to find it again.” So his father could rub it in Micah’s face.

Petty, brittle male. That’s all his father was. “The Horn has no power,” Ruhn reminded him. “It is a symbol—and symbols will always wield power of their own.”

His father’s hair burned brighter.

Ruhn suppressed his urge to cringe, his body tensing with the memory

of how the king’s burning hand had felt wrapped around his arm, sizzling

through his flesh. No shadows had ever been able to hide him from it. “Find the Horn, Ruhn. If war comes to these shores, our people will need it in more ways than one.”

His father’s amber eyes blazed. There was more the male wasn’t telling

him.

Ruhn could think of only one other thing to cause this much

aggravation: Micah again suggesting that Ruhn replace his father as City Head of FiRo. Whispers had swirled for years, and Ruhn had no doubt the Archangel was smart enough to know how much it’d anger the Autumn King. With the Summit nearing, Micah knew pissing off the Fae King with a reference to his fading power was a good way to ensure the Fae Aux was up to snuff before it, regardless of any war.

Ruhn tucked that information aside. “Why don’t you look for the

Horn?”

His father loosed a breath through his long, thin nose, and the fire in

him banked to embers. The king nodded toward Ruhn’s hand, where the starlight had been. “I have been looking. For two years.” Ruhn blinked, but his father went on, “The Horn was originally the possession of Pelias, the first Starborn Prince. You may find that like calls to like—merely researching it could reveal things to you that were hidden from others.”

Ruhn hardly bothered to read anything these days beyond the news and

the Aux reports. The prospect of poring over ancient tomes just in case something jumped out at him while a murderer ran loose … “We’ll get into a lot of trouble with the Governor if we take the Horn for ourselves.”

“Then keep it quiet, Prince.” His father opened his notebook again.

Conversation over.

Yeah, this was nothing more than political ego-stroking. Micah had

taunted his father, insulted his strength—and now his father would show him precisely where the Fae stood.

Ruhn ground his teeth. He needed a drink. A strong fucking drink.

His head roiled as he headed for the door, the pain from summoning the

starlight eddying with every word thrown at him.

I told you to warn that girl to stay quiet.

Find the Horn.

Like calls to like.

An appropriate marriage.

Produce an heir.

You owe it to our bloodline.

Ruhn slammed the door behind him. Only when he’d gotten halfway

down the hall did he laugh, a harsh, rasping sound. At least the asshole still didn’t know that he’d lied about what the Oracle had told him all those decades ago.

With every step out of his father’s villa, Ruhn could once more hear the

Oracle’s unearthly whispering, reading the smoke while he’d trembled in her dim marble chamber:

The royal bloodline shall end with you, Prince.

15

Syrinx pawed at the window, his scrunched-up face smooshed against the glass. He’d been hissing incessantly for the past ten minutes, and Bryce, more than ready to settle into the plush cushions of the L-shaped couch and watch her favorite Tuesday night reality show, finally twisted to see what all the fuss was about.

Slightly bigger than a terrier, the chimera huffed and pawed at the floor-

to-ceiling glass, the setting sun gilding his wiry golden coat. The long tail, tufted with dark fur at the end like a lion’s, waved back and forth. His folded little ears were flat to his round, fuzzy head, his wrinkles of fat and the longer hair at his neck—not quite a mane—were vibrating with his growling, and his too-big paws, which ended in birdlike talons, were now—

“Stop that! You’re scratching the glass!” Syrinx looked over a rounded, muscled shoulder, his squished face

more dog than anything, and narrowed his dark eyes. Bryce glared right back.

The rest of her day had been long and weird and exhausting, especially

after she’d gotten a message from Juniper, saying Fury had alerted her about Briggs’s innocence and the new murder, and warning Bryce to be careful. She doubted either friend knew of her involvement in finding the murderer, or of the angel who’d been assigned to work with her, but it had stung—just a bit. That Fury hadn’t bothered to contact her personally. That even June had done it over messaging and not face-to-face.

Bryce had a feeling tomorrow would be just as draining—if not worse.

So throwing in a battle of wills with a thirty-pound chimera wasn’t her definition of a much-needed unwinding.

“You just got a walk,” she reminded Syrinx. “And an extra helping of

dinner.”

Syrinx gave a hmmph and scratched the window again. “Bad!” she hissed. Half-heartedly, sure, but she tried to sound

authoritative.

Where the little beast was concerned, dominance was a quality they

both pretended she had.

Groaning, Bryce hauled herself from the nest of cushions and padded

across wood and carpet to the window. On the street below, cars inched past, a few late commuters trudged home, and some dinner patrons strolled arm-in-arm to one of the fine restaurants along the river at the end of the block. Above them, the setting sun smeared the sky red and gold and pink, the palm trees and cypresses swayed in the balmy spring breeze, and … And that was a winged male sitting on the opposite roof. Staring right at her.

She knew those gray wings, and the dark, shoulder-length hair, and the

cut of those broad shoulders.

Protection duty, Micah had said.

Bullshit. She had a strong feeling the Governor still didn’t trust her,

alibi or no.

Bryce gave Hunt Athalar a dazzling smile and slashed the heavy

curtains shut.

Syrinx yowled as he was caught in them, reversing his stout little body

out of the folds. His tail lashed from side to side, and she braced her hands on her hips. “You were enjoying the sight?”

Syrinx showed all his pointy teeth as he let out another yowl, trotted to

the couch, and threw himself onto the warmed cushions where she’d been sitting. The portrait of despair.

A moment later, her phone buzzed on the coffee table. Right as her

show began.

She didn’t know the number, but she wasn’t at all surprised when she

picked up, plopping down onto the cushions, and Hunt growled, “Open the curtains. I want to watch the show.”

She propped both bare feet on the table. “I didn’t know angels deigned

to watch trash TV.”

“I’d rather watch the sunball game that’s on right now, but I’ll take what

I can get.”

The idea of the Umbra Mortis watching a dating competition was

laughable enough that Bryce hit pause on the live show. At least she could now speed through commercials. “What are you doing on that roof, Athalar?”

“What I was ordered to do.” Gods spare her. “Protecting me doesn’t entitle you to invade my

privacy.” She could admit to the wisdom in letting him guard her, but she didn’t have to yield all sense of boundaries.

“Other people would disagree.” She opened her mouth, but he cut her

off. “I’ve got my orders. I can’t disobey them.”

Her stomach tightened. No, Hunt Athalar certainly could not disobey

his orders.

No slave could, whether Vanir or human. So she instead asked, “And

how, exactly, did you get this number?”

“It’s in your file.” She tapped her foot on the table. “Did you pay Prince Ruhn a visit?”

She would have handed over a gold mark to watch her brother go head-to-head with Micah’s personal assassin.

Hunt grunted, “Isaiah did.” She smiled. “It was standard protocol.” “So even after your boss tasked me with finding this murderer, you felt

the need to look into whether my alibi checked out?”

“I didn’t write the fucking rules, Quinlan.” “Hmm.” “Open the curtains.” “No, thank you.” “Or you could invite me in and make my job easier.” “Definitely no.” “Why?” “Because you can do your job just as well from that roof.” Hunt’s chuckle skittered along her bones. “We’ve been ordered to get to

the bottom of these murders. So I hate to tell you this, sweetheart, but we’re about to get real up close and personal.”

The way he said sweetheart—full of demeaning, condescending

swagger—made her grind her teeth.

Bryce rose, padding to the floor-to-ceiling window under Syrinx’s

careful watch, and tugged the curtains back enough to see the angel standing on the opposite roof, phone to his ear, gray wings slightly flared, as if balancing against the wind. “I’m sure you get off on the whole protector-of-damsels thing, but I was asked to head this case. You’re the backup.”

Even from across the street, she could see him roll his eyes. “Can we

skip this pecking-order bullshit?”

Syrinx nudged at her calves, then shoved his face past her legs to peer

at the angel.

“What is that pet of yours?” “He’s a chimera.” “Looks expensive.” “He was.” “Your apartment looks pretty damn expensive, too. That sorceress must

pay you well.”

“She does.” Truth and lie.

His wings flared. “You have my number now. Call it if something goes

wrong, or feels wrong, or if you need anything.”

“Like a pizza?” She clearly saw the middle finger Hunt lifted above his head. Shadow

of Death, indeed.

Bryce purred, “You would make a good delivery boy with those wings.”

Angels in Lunathion never stooped to such work, though. Ever.

“Keep the damn curtains open, Quinlan.” He hung up.

She just gave him a mocking wave. And shut the curtains entirely.

Her phone buzzed with a message just as she plopped down again.

Do you have enchantments guarding your apartment?

She rolled her eyes, typing back, Do I look stupid?

Hunt fired back, Some shit is going down in this city and you’ve been

gifted with grade A protection against it—yet you’re busting my balls about boundaries. I think that’s answer enough regarding your intelligence.

Her thumbs flew over the screen as she scowled and wrote, Kindly fly

the fuck off.

She hit send before she could debate the wisdom of saying that to the

Umbra Mortis.

He didn’t reply. With a smug smile, she picked up her remote.

A thud against the window had her leaping out of her skin, sending

Syrinx scrambling in a mad dash toward the curtains, yowling his fuzzy head off.

She stormed around the couch, whipping the curtains back, wondering

what the fuck he’d thrown at her window—

The Fallen angel hovered right there. Glaring at her.

She refused to back away, even as her heart thundered. Refused to do

anything but shove open the window, the wind off his mighty wings stirring her hair. “What?”

His dark eyes didn’t so much as blink. Striking—that was the only word

Bryce could think of to describe his handsome face, full of powerful lines and sharp cheekbones. “You can make this investigation easy, or you can make it hard.”

“I don’t—” “Spare me.” Hunt’s dark hair shifted in the wind. The rustle and beat of

his wings overpowered the traffic below—and the humans and Vanir now gawking up at him. “You don’t appreciate being watched, or coddled, or whatever.” He crossed his muscled arms. “Neither of us gets a say in this arrangement. So rather than waste your breath arguing about boundaries, why don’t you make that list of suspects and Danika’s movements?”

“Why don’t you stop telling me what I should be doing with my time?” She could have sworn she tasted ether as he growled, “I’m going to be

straight with you.”

“Goody.” His nostrils flared. “I will do whatever the Hel it takes to solve this

case. Even if it means tying you to a fucking chair until you write those lists.”

She smirked. “Bondage. Nice.” Hunt’s eyes darkened. “Do. Not. Fuck. With. Me.” “Yeah, yeah, you’re the Umbra Mortis.” His teeth flashed. “I don’t care what you call me, Quinlan, so long as

you do what you’re told.”

Fucking alphahole.

“Immortality is a long time to have a giant stick up your ass.” Bryce put

her hands on her hips. Never mind that she was completely undermined by Syrinx dancing at her feet, prancing in place.

Dragging his stare away from her, the angel surveyed her pet with

raised brows. Syrinx’s tail waved and bobbed. Hunt snorted, as if despite himself. “You’re a smart beastie, aren’t you?” He threw a scornful glance to Bryce. “Smarter than your owner, it seems.”

Make that the King of Alphaholes.

But Syrinx preened. And Bryce had the stupid, overwhelming urge to

hide Syrinx from Hunt, from anyone, from anything. He was hers, and no one else’s, and she didn’t particularly like the thought of anyone coming into their little bubble—

Hunt’s stare lifted to her own again. “Do you own any weapons?” The

purely male gleam in his eye told her that he assumed she didn’t.

“Bother me again,” she said sweetly, just before she shut the window in

his face, “and you’ll find out.”

Hunt wondered how much trouble he’d get in if he chucked Bryce Quinlan into the Istros.

After the morning he’d had, any punishment from Micah or being

turned into a pig by Jesiba Roga was starting to seem well worth it.

Leaning against a lamppost, his face coated with the misting rain that

drifted through the city, Hunt clenched his jaw hard enough to hurt. At this hour, commuters packed the narrow streets of the Old Square—some heading to jobs in the countless shops and galleries, others aiming for the spires of the CBD, half a mile westward. All of them, however, noted his wings, his face, and gave him a wide berth.

Hunt ignored them and glanced at the clock on his phone. Eight fifteen.

He’d waited long enough to make the call. He dialed the number and

held the phone to his ear, listening to it ring once, twice—

“Please tell me Bryce is alive,” said Isaiah, his voice breathless in a way

that told Hunt he was either at the barracks gym or enjoying his boyfriend’s company.

“For the moment.”

A machine beeped, like Isaiah was dialing down the speed of a

treadmill. “Do I want to know why I’m getting a call this soon?” A pause. “Why are you on Samson Street?”

Though Isaiah probably tracked his location through the beacon on

Hunt’s phone, Hunt still scowled toward the nearest visible camera. There were likely ones hidden in the cypresses and palm trees flanking the sidewalks, too, or disguised as sprinkler heads popping from the soggy grass of the flower beds, or built into the iron lampposts like the one he leaned against.

Someone was always watching. In this entire fucking city, territory, and

world, someone was always watching, the cameras so bespelled and warded that they were bombproof. Even if this city turned to rubble under the lethal magic of the Asterian Guard’s brimstone missiles, the cameras would keep recording.

“Are you aware,” Hunt said, his voice a low rasp as a bevy of quails

snaked across the street—some tiny shifter family, no doubt—“that chimeras are able to pick locks, open doors, and jump between two places as if they were walking from one room to another?”

“No …?” Isaiah said, panting.

Apparently, Quinlan wasn’t, either, if she bothered to have a crate for

her beast. Though maybe the damn thing was more to give the chimera a designated comfort space, like people did with their dogs. Since there was no way he would stay contained without a whole host of enchantments.

The Lowers, the class of Vanir to which the chimera belonged, had all

sorts of interesting, small powers like that. It was part of why they demanded such high prices on the market. And why, even millennia later, the Senate and Asteri had shot down any attempts to change the laws that branded them as property to be traded. The Lowers were too dangerous, they’d claimed—unable to understand the laws, with powers that could be disruptive if left unchecked by the various spells and magic-infused tattoos that held them.

And too lucrative, especially for the ruling powers whose families

profited from their trade.

So they remained Lowers.

Hunt tucked his wings in one at a time. Water beaded off the gray

feathers like clear jewels. “This is already a nightmare.”

Isaiah coughed. “You watched Quinlan for one night.” “Ten hours, to be exact. Right until her pet chimera just appeared next

to me at dawn, bit me in the ass for looking like I was dozing off, and then vanished again—right back into the apartment. Just as Quinlan came out of her bedroom and opened the curtains to see me grabbing my own ass like a fucking idiot. Do you know how sharp a chimera’s teeth are?”

“No.” Hunt could have sworn he heard a smile in Isaiah’s voice. “When I flew over to explain, she blasted her music and ignored me

like a fucking brat.” With enough enchantments around her apartment to keep out a host of angels, Hunt hadn’t even tried to get in through a window, since he’d tested them all overnight. So he’d been forced to glower through the glass—returning to the roof only after she’d emerged from her bedroom in nothing but a black sports bra and thong. Her smirk at his backtracking wings had been nothing short of feline. “I didn’t see her again until she went for a run. She flipped me off as she left.”

“So you went to Samson Street to brood? What’s the emergency?” “The emergency, asshole, is that I might kill her before we find the real

murderer.” He had too much riding on this case.

“You’re just pissed she’s not cowering or fawning.” “Like I fucking want anyone to fawn—” “Where’s Quinlan now?” “Getting her nails done.” Isaiah’s pause sounded a Hel of a lot like he was about to burst out

laughing. “Hence your presence on Samson Street before nine.”

“Gazing through the window of a nail salon like a gods-damned

stalker.”

The fact that Quinlan wasn’t gunning for the murderer grated as much

as her behavior. And Hunt couldn’t help being suspicious. He didn’t know how or why she might have killed Danika, her pack, and Tertian, but she’d been connected to all of them. Had gone to the same place on the nights they’d been murdered. She knew something—or had done something.

“I’m hanging up now.” The bastard was smiling. Hunt knew it. “You’ve

faced down enemy armies, survived Sandriel’s arena, gone toe-to-toe with Archangels.” Isaiah chuckled. “Surely a party girl isn’t as difficult as all that.” The line cut off.

Hunt ground his teeth. Through the glass window of the salon, he could

perfectly make out Bryce seated at one of the marble workstations, hands outstretched to a pretty reddish-gold-scaled draki female who was putting yet another coat of polish on her nails. How many did she need?

At this hour, only a few other patrons were seated inside, nails or talons

or claws in the process of being filed and painted and whatever the Hel they did to them in there. But all of them kept glancing through the window. To him.

He’d already earned a glare from the teal-haired falcon shifter at the

welcome counter, but she hadn’t dared come out to ask him to stop making her clients nervous and leave.

Bryce sat there, wholly ignoring him. Chatting and laughing with the

female doing her nails.

It had taken Hunt a matter of moments to launch into the skies when

Bryce had left her apartment. He’d trailed overhead, well aware of the morning commuters who would film him if he landed beside her in the middle of the street and wrapped his hands around her throat.

Her run took her fifteen blocks away, apparently. She had barely broken

a sweat by the time she jogged up to the nail salon, her skintight athletic clothes damp with the misting rain, and threw him a look that warned him to stay outside.

That had been an hour ago. A full hour of drills and files and scissors

being applied to her nails in a way that would make the Hind herself cringe.

Pure torture.

Five minutes. Quinlan had five more fucking minutes, then he’d drag

her out. Micah must have lost his mind—that was the only explanation for asking her to help, especially if she prioritized her nails over solving her friends’ murder.

He didn’t know why it came as a surprise. After all he’d seen, everyone

he’d met and endured, this sort of shit should have ceased to bother him long ago.

Someone with Quinlan’s looks would become accustomed to the doors

that face and body of hers opened without so much as a squeak of protest.

Being half-human had some disadvantages, yes—a lot of them, if he was being honest about the state of the world. But she’d done well. Really fucking well, if that apartment was any indication.

The draki female set aside the bottle and flicked her claw-tipped fingers

over Bryce’s nails. Magic sparked, Bryce’s ponytail shifting as if a dry wind had blown by.

Like that of the Valbaran Fae, draki magic skewed toward flame and

wind. In the northern climes of Pangera, though, he’d met draki and Fae whose power could summon water, rain, mist—element-based magic. But even among the reclusive draki and the Fae, no one bore lightning. He knew, because he’d looked—desperate in his youth for anyone who might teach him how to control it. He’d had to teach himself in the end.

Bryce examined her nails, and smiled. And then hugged the female.

Fucking hugged her. Like she was some sort of gods-damned war hero for the job she’d done.

Hunt was surprised his teeth weren’t ground to stumps by the time she

headed for the door, waving goodbye to the smiling falcon shifter at the front desk, who handed her a clear umbrella, presumably to borrow against the rain.

The glass door opened, and Bryce’s eyes at last met Hunt’s. “Are you fucking kidding me?” The words exploded out of him.

She popped open the umbrella, nearly taking out his eye. “Did you have

something better to do with your time?”

“You made me wait in the rain.” “You’re a big, tough male. I think you can handle a little water.” Hunt fell into step beside her. “I told you to make those two lists. Not

go to a motherfucking beauty salon.”

She paused at an intersection, waiting for the bumper-to-bumper cars to

crawl past, and straightened to her full height. Not anywhere close to his, but she somehow managed to look down her nose at him while still looking up at him. “If you’re so good at investigating, why don’t you look into it and spare me the effort?”

“You were given an order by the Governor.” The words sounded

ridiculous even to him. She crossed the street, and he followed. “And I’d think you’d be personally motivated to figure out who’s behind this.”

“Don’t assume anything about my motivations.” She dodged around a

puddle of either rain or piss. In the Old Square, it was impossible to tell.

He refrained from pushing her into that puddle. “Do you have a

problem with me?”

“I don’t really care about you enough to have a problem with you.” “Likewise.” Her eyes really did glow then, as if a distant fire simmered within. She

surveyed him, sizing up every inch and somehow—some-fucking-how— making him feel about three inches tall.

He said nothing until they turned down her street at last. He growled,

“You need to make the list of suspects and the list of Danika’s last week of

activities.”

She examined her nails, now painted in some sort of color gradient that

went from pink to periwinkle tips. Like the sky at twilight. “No one likes a nag, Athalar.”

They reached the arched glass entry of her apartment building—

structured like a fish’s fin, he’d realized last night—and the doors slid open.

Ponytail swishing, she said cheerfully, “Bye.”

Hunt drawled, “People might see you dicking around like this, Quinlan,

and think you were trying to hinder an official investigation.” If he couldn’t bully her into working on this case, maybe he could scare her into it.

Especially with the truth: She wasn’t off the hook. Not even close.

Her eyes flared again, and damn if it wasn’t satisfying. So Hunt just

added, mouth curving into a half smile, “Better hurry. You wouldn’t want to be late for work.”

Going to the nail salon had been worth it on so many levels, but perhaps the biggest benefit had been pissing off Athalar.

“I don’t see why you can’t let the angel in,” moped Lehabah, perched

atop an old pillar candle. “He’s so handsome.”

In the bowels of the gallery library, client paperwork spread on the table

before her, Bryce cast a sidelong glare at the female-shaped flame. “Do not drip wax on these documents, Lele.”

The fire sprite grumbled, and plopped her ass on the candle’s wick

anyway. Wax dribbled down the sides, her tangle of yellow hair floating above her head—as if she were indeed a flame given a plump female shape. “He’s just sitting on the roof in the dreary weather. Let him rest on the couch down here. Syrinx says the angel can brush his coat if he needs something to do.”

Bryce sighed at the painted ceiling—the night sky rendered in loving

care. The giant gold chandelier that hung down the center of the space was fashioned after an exploding sun, with all the other dangling lights in perfect alignment of the seven planets. “The angel,” she said, frowning toward Syrinx’s slumbering form on the green velvet couch, “is not allowed in here.”

Lehabah let out a sad little noise. “One day, the boss will trade my

services to some lecherous old creep, and you’ll regret ever denying me anything.”

“One day, that lecherous old creep will actually make you do your job

and guard his books, and you’ll regret spending all these hours of relative freedom moping.”

Wax sizzled on the table. Bryce whipped her head up.

Lehabah was sprawled belly-down on the candle, an idle hand hanging

off the side. Dangerously near the documents Bryce had spent the past three hours poring over.

“Do not.” Lehabah rotated her arm so that the tattoo inked amid the simmering

flesh was visible. It had been stamped on her arm within moments of her birth, Lehabah had said. SPQM. It was inked on the flesh of every sprite— fire or water or earth, it didn’t matter. Punishment for joining the angels’ rebellion two hundred years ago, when the sprites had dared protest their status as peregrini. As Lowers. The Asteri had gone even further than their enslavement and torture of the angels. They’d decreed after the rebellion that every sprite—not only the ones who’d joined Shahar and her legion— would be enslaved, and cast from the House of Sky and Breath. All of their descendants would be wanderers and slaves, too. Forever.

It was one of the more spectacularly fucked episodes of the Republic’s

history.

Lehabah sighed. “Buy my freedom from Jesiba. Then I can go live at

your apartment and keep your baths and all your food warm.”

She could do far more than that, Bryce knew. Technically, Lehabah’s

magic outranked Bryce’s own. But most non-humans could claim the same.

And even while it was greater than Bryce’s, Lehabah’s power was still an ember compared to the Fae’s flames. Her father’s flames.

Bryce set down the client’s purchase papers. “It’s not that easy, Lele.”

“Syrinx told me you’re lonely. I could cheer you up.” In answer, the chimera rolled onto his back, tongue dangling from his

mouth, and snored.

“One, my building doesn’t allow fire sprites. Or water sprites. It’s an

insurance nightmare. Two, it’s not as simple as asking Jesiba. She might very well get rid of you because I ask.”

Lehabah cupped her round chin in her hand and dripped another freckle

of wax dangerously close to the paperwork. “She gave you Syrie.”

Cthona give her patience. “She let me buy Syrinx because my life was

fucked up, and I lost it when she got bored with him and tried to sell him off.”

The fire sprite said quietly, “Because Danika died.” Bryce closed her eyes for a second, then said, “Yeah.” “You shouldn’t curse so much, BB.” “Then you really won’t like the angel.” “He led my people into battle—and he’s a member of my House. I

deserve to meet him.”

“Last I checked, that battle went rather poorly, and the fire sprites were

kicked out of Sky and Breath thanks to it.”

Lehabah sat up, legs crossed. “Membership in the Houses is not

something a government can decree. Our expulsion was in name only.”

It was true. But Bryce still said, “What the Asteri and their Senate say

goes.”

Lehabah had been guardian of the gallery’s library for decades. Logic

insisted that ordering a fire sprite to watch over a library was a poor idea, but when a third of the books in the place would like nothing more than to escape, kill someone, or eat them—in varying orders—having a living flame keeping them in line was worth any risk. Even the endless chatter, it seemed.

Something thumped on the mezzanine. As if a book had dived off the

shelf of its own accord.

Lehabah hissed toward it, turning a deep blue. Paper and leather

whispered as the errant book found its place once again.

Bryce smiled, and then the office phone rang. One glance at the screen

had her reaching for the phone and hissing at the sprite, “Back on your perch now.”

Lehabah had just reached the glass dome where she maintained her

fiery vigil over the library’s wandering books when Bryce answered. “Afternoon, boss.”

“Any progress?” “Still investigating. How’s Pangera?” Jesiba didn’t bother answering, instead saying, “I’ve got a client coming

in at two o’clock. Be ready. And stop letting Lehabah prattle. She has a job to do.” The line went dead.

Bryce rose from the desk where she’d been working all morning. The

oak panels of the library beneath the gallery looked old, but they were wired with the latest tech and best enchantments money could buy. Not to mention, there was a killer sound system that she often put to good use when Jesiba was on the other side of the Haldren.

Not that she danced down here—not anymore. Nowadays, the music

was mostly to keep the thrumming of the firstlights from driving her insane.

Or for drowning out Lehabah’s monologues.

Bookshelves lined every wall, interrupted only by a dozen or so small

tanks and terrariums, occupied by all manner of small common animals: lizards and snakes and turtles and various rodents. Bryce often wondered if they were all people who’d pissed off Jesiba. None showed any sign of awareness, which was even more horrifying if it was true. They’d not only been turned into animals, but had also forgotten they were something else entirely.

Naturally, Lehabah had named all of them, each one more ridiculous

than the last. Nutmeg and Ginger were the names of the geckos in the tank closest to Bryce. Sisters, Lehabah claimed. Miss Poppy was the name of the black-and-white snake on the mezzanine.

Lehabah never named anything in the biggest tank, though. The

massive one that occupied an entire wall of the library, and whose glass expanse revealed a watery gloom. Mercifully, the tank was currently empty.

Last year, Bryce lobbied on Lehabah’s behalf for a few iris eels to

brighten the murky blue with their shimmering rainbow light. Jesiba had said no, and instead bought a pet kelpie that had humped the glass with all the finesse of a wasted college guy.

Bryce had made sure that motherfucker was given to a client as a gift

really quickly.

Bryce braced herself for the work before her. Not the paperwork or the

client—but what she had to do tonight. Gods fucking help her when Athalar got wind of it.

But the thought of his face when he realized what she had planned …

Yeah, it’d be satisfying.

If she survived.

16

The mirthroot Ruhn had smoked ten minutes ago with Flynn might have been more potent than his friend had let on.

Lying on his bed, specially shaped Fae headphones over his arched ears,

Ruhn closed his eyes and let the thumping bass and sizzling, soaring synthesizer of the music send him drifting.

His booted foot tapped in time to the steady beat, the drumming fingers

he’d interlaced over his stomach echoing each flutter of notes high, high above. Every breath pulled him further back from consciousness, as if his very mind had been yanked a good few feet away from where it normally rested like a captain at the helm of a ship.

Heavy relaxation melted him, bone and blood morphing to liquid gold.

Each note sent it rippling through him. Every stressor and sharp word and aggravation leaked from him, slithered off the bed like a snake.

He flipped off those feelings as they slid away. He was well aware that

he’d taken the hits of Flynn’s mirthroot thanks to the hours he’d spent brooding over his father’s bullshit orders.

His father could go to Hel.

The mirthroot wrapped soft, sweet arms around his mind and dragged

him into its shimmering pool.

Ruhn let himself drown in it, too mellow to do anything but let the

music wash over him, his body sinking into the mattress, until he was falling through shadows and starlight. The strings of the song hovered

overhead, golden threads that glittered with sound. Was he still moving his body? His eyelids were too heavy to lift to check.

A scent like lilac and nutmeg filled the room. Female, Fae … If one of the females partying downstairs had shown herself into his

room, thinking she’d get a nice, sweaty ride with a Prince of the Fae, she’d be sorely disappointed. He was in no shape for fucking right now. At least not any fucking that would be worthwhile.

His eyelids were so incredibly heavy. He should open them. Where the

Hel were the controls to his body? Even his shadows had drifted away, too far to summon.

The scent grew stronger. He knew that scent. Knew it as well as— Ruhn jerked upward, eyes flying open to find his sister standing at the

foot of his bed.

Bryce’s mouth was moving, whiskey-colored eyes full of dry

amusement, but he couldn’t hear a word she said, not a word—

Oh. Right. The headphones. Blasting music.

Blinking furiously, gritting his teeth against the drug trying to haul him

back down, down, down, Ruhn removed the headphones and hit pause on his phone. “What?”

Bryce leaned against his chipped wood dresser. At least she was in

normal clothes for once. Even if the jeans were painted on and the cream-colored sweater left little to the imagination. “I said, you’ll blow out your eardrums listening to music that loud.”

Ruhn’s head spun as he narrowed his eyes at her, blinking at the halo of

starlight that danced around her head, at her feet. He blinked again, pushing past the auras clouding his vision, and it was gone. Another blink, and it was there.

Bryce snorted. “You’re not hallucinating. I’m standing here.” His mouth was a thousand miles away, but he managed to ask, “Who let

you in?” Declan and Flynn were downstairs, along with half a dozen of their top Fae warriors. A few of them people he didn’t want within a block of his sister.

Bryce ignored his question, frowning toward the corner of his room.

Toward the pile of unwashed laundry and the Starsword he’d chucked atop it. The sword glimmered with starlight, too. He could have sworn the damn

thing was singing. Ruhn shook his head, as if it’d clear out his ears, as Bryce said, “I need to talk to you.”

The last time Bryce had been in this room, she’d been sixteen and he’d

spent hours beforehand cleaning it—and the whole house. Every bong and bottle of liquor, every pair of female underwear that had never been returned to its owner, every trace and scent of sex and drugs and all the stupid shit they did here had been hidden.

And she’d stood right there, during that last visit. Stood there as they

screamed at each other.

Then and now blurred, Bryce’s form shrinking and expanding, her adult

face blending into teenage softness, the light in her amber eyes warming and cooling, his vision surrounding the scene glinting with starlight, starlight, starlight.

“Fucking Hel,” Bryce muttered, and aimed for the door. “You’re

pathetic.”

He managed to say, “Where are you going?” “To get you water.” She flung the door open. “I can’t talk to you like

this.”

It occurred to him then that this had to be important if she was not only

here, but eager to get him to focus. And that there might still be a chance he was hallucinating, but he wasn’t going to let her venture into the warren of sin unaccompanied.

On legs that felt ten miles long, feet that weighed a thousand pounds, he

staggered after her. The dim hallway hid most of the various stains on the white paint—all thanks to the various parties he and his friends had thrown in fifty years of being roommates. Well, they’d had this house for twenty years—and had only moved because their first one had literally started to fall apart. This house might not last another two years, if he was being honest.

Bryce was halfway down the curving grand staircase, the firstlights of

the crystal chandelier bouncing off her red hair in that shimmering halo.

How had he not noticed the chandelier was hanging askew? Must be from when Declan had leapt off the stair railing onto it, swinging around and swigging from his bottle of whiskey. He’d fallen off a moment later, too drunk to hold on.

If the Autumn King knew the shit they did in this house, there was no

way he or any other City Head would allow them to lead the Fae Aux division. No way Micah would ever tap him to take his father’s place on that council.

But getting wasted was for off-nights only. Never when on duty or on

call.

Bryce hit the worn oak floor of the first level, edging around the beer

pong table occupying most of the foyer. A few cups littered its stained plywood surface, painted by Flynn with what they’d all deemed was high-class art: an enormous Fae male head devouring an angel whole, only frayed wings visible through the snapped-shut teeth. It seemed to ripple with movement as Ruhn cleared the stairs. He could have sworn the painting winked at him.

Yeah, water. He needed water.

Bryce showed herself through the living room, where the music blasted

so loud it made Ruhn’s teeth rattle in his skull.

He entered in time to see Bryce striding past the pool table in the rear of

the long, cavernous space. A few Aux warriors stood around it, females with them, deep in a game.

Tristan Flynn, son of Lord Hawthorne, presided over it from a nearby

armchair, a pretty dryad on his lap. The glazed light in his brown eyes mirrored Ruhn’s own. Flynn gave Bryce a crooked grin as she approached.

All it usually took was one look and females crawled into Tristan Flynn’s lap just like the tree nymph, or—if the look was more of a glower—any enemies outright bolted.

Charming as all Hel and lethal as fuck. It should have been the Flynn

family motto.

Bryce didn’t stop as she passed him, unfazed by his classic Fae beauty

and considerable muscles, but demanded over her shoulder, “What the fuck did you give him?”

Flynn leaned forward, prying his short chestnut hair free from the

dryad’s long fingers. “How do you know it was me?”

Bryce walked toward the kitchen at the back of the room, accessible

through an archway. “Because you look high off your ass, too.”

Declan called from the sectional couch at the other end of the living

room, a laptop on his knee and a very interested draki male half-sprawled

over him, running clawed fingers through Dec’s dark red hair, “Hey, Bryce.

To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Bryce jerked her thumb back at Ruhn. “Checking on the Chosen One.

How’s your fancy tech crap going, Dec?”

Declan Emmet didn’t usually appreciate anyone belittling the lucrative

career he’d built on a foundation of hacking into Republic websites and then charging them ungodly amounts of money to reveal their critical weaknesses, but he grinned. “Still raking in the marks.”

“Nice,” Bryce said, continuing into the kitchen and out of sight.

Some of the Aux warriors were staring toward the kitchen now, blatant

interest in their eyes. Flynn growled softly, “She’s off-limits, assholes.”

That was all it took. Not even a snapping vine of Flynn’s earth magic,

rare among the fire-prone Valbaran Fae. The others immediately returned their attention to the pool game. Ruhn threw his friend a grateful look and followed Bryce—

But she was already back in the doorway, water bottle in hand. “Your

fridge is worse than mine,” she said, shoving the bottle toward him and entering the living room again. Ruhn sipped as the stereo system in the back thumped the opening notes of a song, guitars wailing, and she angled her head, listening, weighing.

Fae impulse—to be drawn to music, and to love it. Perhaps the one side

of her heritage she didn’t mind. He remembered her showing him her dance routines as a young teenager. She’d always looked so unbelievably happy.

He’d never had the chance to ask why she stopped.

Ruhn sighed, forcing himself to focus, and said to Bryce, “Why are you

here?”

She stopped near the sectional. “I told you: I need to talk to you.” Ruhn kept his face blank. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d

bothered finding him.

“Why would your cousin need an excuse to chat with us?” Flynn asked,

murmuring something in the dryad’s delicate ear that had her heading for the cluster of her three friends at the pool table, her narrow hips swishing in a reminder of what he’d miss if he waited too long. Flynn drawled, “She knows we’re the most charming males in town.”

Neither of his friends ever guessed the truth—or at least voiced any

suspicions. Bryce tossed her hair over a shoulder as Flynn rose from his

armchair. “I have better things to do—”

“Than hang out with Fae losers,” Flynn finished for her, heading to the

built-in bar against the far wall. “Yeah, yeah. You’ve said so a hundred times now. But look at that: here you are, hanging with us in our humble abode.”

Despite his carefree demeanor, Flynn would one day inherit his father’s

title: Lord Hawthorne. Which meant that for the past several decades, Flynn had done everything he could to forget that little fact—and the centuries of responsibilities it would entail. He poured himself a drink, then a second one that he handed to Bryce. “Drink up, honeycakes.”

Ruhn rolled his eyes. But—it was nearly midnight, and she was at their

house, on one of the rougher streets in the Old Square, with a murderer on the loose. Ruhn hissed, “You were given an order to lie low—”

She waved a hand, not touching the whiskey in her other. “My imperial

escort is outside. Scaring everyone away, don’t worry.”

Both his friends went still. The draki male took that as an invitation to

drift away, aiming for the billiards game behind them as Declan twisted to look at her. Ruhn just said, “Who.”

A little smile. Bryce asked, swirling the whiskey in its glass, “Is this

house really befitting of the Chosen One?”

Flynn’s mouth twitched. Ruhn shot him a warning glare, just daring him

to bring up the Starborn shit right now. Outside of his father’s villa and court, all that had gotten Ruhn was a lifetime of teasing from his friends.

Ruhn ground out, “Let’s hear it, Bryce.” Odds were, she’d come here

just to piss him off.

She didn’t respond immediately, though. No, Bryce traced a circle on a

cushion, utterly unfazed by the three Fae warriors watching her every breath. Tristan and Declan had been Ruhn’s best friends for as long as he could remember, and always had his back, no questions asked. That they were highly trained and efficient warriors was beside the point, though they’d saved each other’s asses more times than Ruhn could count. Going through their Ordeals together had only cemented that bond.

The Ordeal itself varied depending on the person: for some, it might be

as simple as overcoming an illness or a bit of personal strife. For others, it might be slaying a wyrm or a demon. The greater the Fae, the greater the Ordeal.

Ruhn had been learning to wield his shadows from his hateful cousins

in Avallen, his two friends with him, when they’d all gone through their Ordeal, nearly dying in the process. It had culminated in Ruhn entering the mist-shrouded Cave of Princes, and emerging with the Starsword—and saving them all.

And when he’d made the Drop weeks later, it had been Flynn, fresh

from his own Drop, who’d Anchored him.

Declan asked, his deep voice rumbling over the music and chatter,

“What’s going on?”

For a second, Bryce’s swagger faltered. She glanced at them: their

casual clothes, the places where she knew their guns were hidden even in their own home, their black boots and the knives tucked inside them.

Bryce’s eyes met Ruhn’s.

“I know what that look means,” Flynn groaned. “It means you don’t

want us to hear.”

Bryce didn’t take her eyes away from Ruhn as she said, “Yep.” Declan slammed his laptop shut. “You’re really gonna go all mysterious

and shit?”

She looked between Declan and Flynn, who had been inseparable since

birth. “You two dickbags have the biggest mouths in town.”

Flynn winked. “I thought you liked my mouth.” “Keep dreaming, lordling.” Bryce smirked.

Declan chuckled, earning a sharp elbow from Flynn and the glass of

whiskey from Bryce.

Ruhn swigged from his water, willing his head to clear further. “Enough

of this crap,” he bit out. All that mirthroot threatened to turn on him as he pulled Bryce toward his bedroom again.

When they arrived, he took up a spot by the bed. “Well?” Bryce leaned against the door, the wood peppered with holes from all

the knives he’d chucked at it for idle target practice. “I need you to tell me if you’ve heard anything about what the Viper Queen’s been up to.”

This could not be good. “Why?” “Because I need to talk to her.” “Are you fucking nuts?” Again, that annoying-ass smile. “Maximus Tertian was killed on her

turf. Did the Aux get any intel about her movements that night?”

“Your boss put you up to this?” It reeked of Roga. “Maybe. Do you know anything?” She angled her head again, that silky

sheet of hair—the same as their father’s—shifting with the movement.

“Yes. Tertian’s murder was … the same as Danika’s and the pack’s.” Any trace of a smile faded from her face. “Philip Briggs didn’t do it. I

want to know what the Viper Queen was up to that night. If the Aux has any knowledge of her movements.”

Ruhn shook his head. “Why are you involved in this?” “Because I was asked to look into it.” “Don’t fuck with this case. Tell your boss to lay off. This is a matter for

the Governor.”

“And the Governor commandeered me to look for the murderer. He

thinks I’m the link between them.”

Great. Absolutely fantastic. Isaiah Tiberian had failed to mention that

little fact. “You spoke to the Governor.”

“Just answer my question. Does the Aux know anything about the Viper

Queen’s whereabouts on the night of Tertian’s death?”

Ruhn blew out a breath. “No. I’ve heard that she pulled her people from

the streets. Something spooked her. But that’s all I know. And even if I knew the Viper Queen’s alibis, I wouldn’t tell you. Stay the fuck out of this.

I’ll call the Governor to tell him you’re done being his personal investigator.”

That icy look—their father’s look—passed over her face. The sort of

look that told him there was a wild, wicked storm raging beneath that cold exterior. And the power and thrill for both father and daughter lay not in sheer force, but in the control over the self, over those impulses.

The outside world saw his sister as reckless, unchecked—but he knew

she’d been the master of her fate since before he’d met her. Bryce was just one of those people who, once she’d set her sights on what she wanted, didn’t let anything get in her way. If she wanted to sleep around, she did it.

If she wanted to party for three days straight, she did it. If she wanted to catch Danika’s murderer …

“I am going to find the person behind this,” she said with quiet fury. “If

you try to interfere with it, I will make your life a living Hel.”

“The demon that murderer is using is lethal.” He’d seen the crime scene

photos. The thought that Bryce had been saved by mere minutes, by sheer

drunken stupidity, still twisted him up. Ruhn continued before she could answer. “The Autumn King told you to lie low until the Summit—this is the fucking opposite, Bryce.”

“Well, it’s now part of my job. Jesiba signed off on it. I can’t very well

refuse, can I?”

No. No one could say no to that sorceress.

He slid his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. “She ever tell you

anything about Luna’s Horn?”

Bryce’s brows lifted at the shift in subject, but considering Jesiba

Roga’s field of work, she’d be the one to ask.

“She had me look for it two years ago,” Bryce said warily. “But it was a

dead end. Why?”

“Never mind.” He eyed the small gold amulet around his sister’s neck.

At least Jesiba gave her that much protection. Expensive protection, too— and powerful. Archesian amulets didn’t come cheap, not when there were only a few in the world. He nodded to it. “Don’t take that off.”

Bryce rolled her eyes. “Does everyone in this city think I’m dumb?” “I mean it. Beyond the shit you do for work, if you’re looking for

someone strong enough to summon a demon like that, don’t take that necklace off.” At least he could remind her to be smart.

She just opened the door. “If you hear anything about the Viper Queen,

call me.”

Ruhn stiffened, his heart thundering. “Do not provoke her.” “Bye, Ruhn.” He was desperate enough that he said, “I’ll go with you to—” “Bye.” Then she was down the stairs, waving in that annoying-as-fuck

way at Declan and Flynn, before swaggering out the front door.

His friends threw inquisitive looks to where Ruhn stood on the second-

floor landing. Declan’s whiskey was still raised to his lips.

Ruhn counted to ten, if only to keep from snapping the nearest object in

half, and then vaulted over the railing, landing so hard that the scuffed oak planks shuddered.

He felt, more than saw, his friends fall into place behind him, hands

within easy reach of their hidden weapons, drinks discarded as they read the fury on his face. Ruhn stormed through the front door and out into the brisk night.

Just in time to see Bryce strut across the street. To Hunt fucking Athalar. “What the actual Hel,” Declan breathed, halting beside Ruhn on the

porch.

The Umbra Mortis looked pissed, his arms crossed and wings flaring

slightly, but Bryce just breezed past him without so much as a glance.

Causing Athalar to slowly turn, arms slackening at his sides, as if such a thing had never happened in his long, miserable life.

And wasn’t that enough to put Ruhn in a killing sort of mood.

Ruhn cleared the porch and front lawn and stepped into the street,

holding out a hand to the car that skidded to a screeching halt. His hand hit the hood, fingers curving. Metal dented beneath it.

The driver, wisely, didn’t scream.

Ruhn strode between two parked sedans, Declan and Flynn close

behind, just as Hunt turned to see what the fuss was about.

Understanding flashed in Hunt’s eyes, quickly replaced by a half smile.

“Prince.”

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Hunt jerked his chin toward Bryce, already disappearing down the

street. “Protection duty.”

“Like Hel you’re watching her.” Isaiah Tiberian had failed to mention

this, too.

A shrug. “Not my call.” The halo across his brow seemed to darken as

he sized up Declan and Flynn. Athalar’s mouth twitched upward, onyx eyes glinting with an unspoken challenge.

Flynn’s gathering power had the earth beneath the pavement rumbling.

Hunt’s shit-eating grin only spread.

Ruhn said, “Tell the Governor to put someone else on the case.” Hunt’s grin sharpened. “Not an option. Not when it plays to my

expertise.”

Ruhn bristled at the arrogance. Sure, Athalar was one of the best

demon-hunters out there, but fuck, he’d even take Tiberian on this case over the Umbra Mortis.

A year ago, the Commander of the 33rd hadn’t been dumb enough to

get between them when Ruhn had launched himself at Athalar, having had enough of his snide remarks at the fancy-ass Spring Equinox party Micah threw every March. He’d broken a few of Athalar’s ribs, but the asshole had

gotten in a punch that had left Ruhn’s nose shattered and gushing blood all over the marble floors of the Comitium’s penthouse ballroom. Neither of them had been pissed enough to unleash their power in the middle of a crowded room, but fists had done just fine.

Ruhn calculated how much trouble he’d be in if he punched the

Governor’s personal assassin again. Maybe it’d be enough to get Hypaxia Enador to refuse to consider marrying him.

Ruhn demanded, “Did you figure out what kind of demon did it?” “Something that eats little princes for breakfast,” Hunt crooned.

Ruhn bared his teeth. “Blow me, Athalar.” Lightning danced over the angel’s fingers. “Must be easy to run your

mouth when you’re bankrolled by your father.” Hunt pointed to the white house. “He buy that for you, too?”

Ruhn’s shadows rose to meet the lightning wreathing Athalar’s fists,

setting the parked cars behind him shuddering. He’d learned from his cousins in Avallen how to make the shadows solidify—how to wield them as whips and shields and pure torment. Physical and mental.

But mixing magic and drugs was never a good idea. Fists it would have

to be, then. And all it would take was one swing, right into Athalar’s face—

Declan growled, “This isn’t the time or place.” No, it wasn’t. Even Athalar seemed to remember the gawking people,

the upraised phones recording everything. And the red-haired female nearing the end of the block. Hunt smirked. “Bye, assholes.” He followed Bryce, lightning skittering over the pavement in his wake.

Ruhn growled at the angel’s back, “Do not fucking let her go to the

Viper Queen.”

Athalar glanced over a shoulder, his gray wings tucking in. His blink

told Ruhn that he hadn’t been aware of Bryce’s agenda. A shiver of satisfaction ran through Ruhn. But Athalar continued down the street, people pressing themselves against buildings to give him a wide berth. The warrior’s focus remained on Bryce’s exposed neck.

Flynn shook his head like a wet dog. “I literally can’t tell if I’m

hallucinating right now.”

“I wish I were,” Ruhn muttered. He’d need to smoke another mountain

of mirthroot to mellow the Hel out again. But if Hunt Athalar was watching Bryce … He’d heard enough rumors to know what Hunt could do to an

opponent. That he, in addition to being a prime bastard, was relentless, single-minded, and utterly brutal when it came to eliminating threats.

Hunt had to obey the order to protect her. No matter what.

Ruhn studied them as they walked away. Bryce would speed up; Hunt

would match her pace. She’d drop back; he’d do the same. She’d edge him to the right, right, right—off the curb and into oncoming traffic; he’d narrowly avoid a swerving car and step back onto the sidewalk.

Ruhn was half-tempted to trail them, just to watch the battle of wills. “I need a drink,” Declan muttered. Flynn agreed and the two of them

headed back toward the house, leaving Ruhn alone on the street.

Could it really be a coincidence that the murders were starting again at

the same time his father had given the order to find an object that had gone missing a week before Danika’s death?

It felt … odd. Like Urd was whispering, nudging them all.

Ruhn planned to find out why. Starting with finding that Horn.

17

Bryce had just succeeded in nudging Hunt into oncoming traffic when he asked, “Do I get an explanation for why I’ve had to trail you like a dog all night?”

Bryce shoved her hand into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out a

piece of paper. Then silently handed it to Hunt.

His brow furrowed. “What’s this?” “My list of suspects,” she said, letting him glance at the names before

she snatched it away.

“When did you make this?” She said sweetly, “Last night. On the couch.” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “And you were going to tell me when?” “After you’d spent a whole day assuming I was a dumb, vapid female

more interested in getting my nails done than solving this case.”

“You did get your nails done.” She waved her pretty ombre fingernails in his face. He looked half-

inclined to bite them. “Do you know what else I did last night?” His silence was delightful. “I looked up Maximus Tertian some more. Because despite what the Governor says, there was no fucking way Danika knew him. And you know what? I was right. And you know how I know I’m right?”

“Cthona fucking save me,” Hunt muttered. “Because I looked up his profile on Spark.” “The dating site?”

“The dating site. Turns out even creepy vamps are looking for love,

deep down. And it showed that he was in a relationship. Which apparently did nothing to stop him from hitting on me, but that’s beside the point. So I did some more digging. And found his girlfriend.”

“Fuck.” “Aren’t there people at the 33rd who should be doing this shit?” When

he refused to answer, she grinned. “Guess where Tertian’s girlfriend works.”

Hunt’s eyes simmered. He said through his teeth, “At the nail salon on

Samson.”

“And guess who did my nails and got to chatting about the terrible loss

of her rich-ass boyfriend?”

He ran his hands through his hair, looking so disbelieving that she

chuckled. He snarled, “Stop with the fucking questions and just tell me, Quinlan.”

She examined her gorgeous new nails. “Tertian’s girlfriend didn’t know

anything about who might have wanted to murder him. She said the 33rd did vaguely question her, but that was it. So I told her that I’d lost someone, too.” It was an effort to keep her voice steady as the memory of that bloody apartment flashed. “She asked me who, I told her, and she looked so shocked that I asked if Tertian was friends with Danika. She told me no.

She said she would have known if Maximus was, because Danika was famous enough that he’d have been bragging about it. The closest to Danika she or Tertian got was through two degrees of separation—through the Viper Queen. Whose nails she does on Sundays.”

“Danika knew the Viper Queen?” Bryce held up the list. “Danika’s job in the Aux made her a friend and

enemy to a lot of people. The Viper Queen was one of them.”

Hunt paled. “You honestly think the Viper Queen killed Danika?” “Tertian was found dead just over her borders. Ruhn said she pulled her

people in last night. And no one knows what kind of powers she has. She could have summoned that demon.”

“That is a big fucking accusation to make.” “Which is why we need to feel her out. This is the only clue we have to

go on.”

Hunt shook his head. “All right. I can buy the possibility. But we need

to go through the right channels to contact her. It could be days or weeks

before she deigns to meet with us. Longer, if she gets a whiff that we’re onto her.”

With someone like the Viper Queen, even the law was flexible.

Bryce scoffed. “Don’t be such a stickler for the rules.” “The rules are there to keep us alive. We follow them, or we don’t go

after her at all.”

She waved a hand. “Fine.” A muscle ticked in his jaw again. “And what about Ruhn? You just

dragged your cousin into our business.”

“My cousin,” she said tightly, “will be unable to resist the urge to

inform his father that a member of the Fae race has been commandeered for an imperial investigation. How he reacts, who he contacts, might be worth noting.”

“What—you think the Autumn King could have done this?” “No. But Ruhn was given an order to warn me to keep out of trouble the

night of Maximus’s murder—maybe the old bastard knew something, too.

I’d suggest telling your people to watch him. See what he does and where he goes.”

“Gods,” Hunt breathed, striding past gawking pedestrians. “You want

me to just put a tail on the Autumn King like it’s not a violation of about ten different laws?”

“Micah said to do whatever was necessary.” “The Autumn King has free rein to kill anyone found stalking him like

that.”

“Then you better tell your spies to keep themselves hidden.” Hunt snapped his wings. “Don’t play games again. If you know

something, tell me.”

“I was going to tell you everything when I finished up at the nail salon

this morning.” She put her hands on her hips. “But then you bit my head off.”

“Whatever, Quinlan. Don’t do it again. You tell me before you make a

move.”

“I’m getting real bored with you giving me orders and forbidding me to

do things.”

“Whatever,” he said again. She rolled her eyes, but they’d reached her

building. Neither bothered to say goodbye before Hunt leapt into the skies,

aiming for the adjacent roof, a phone already at his ear.

Bryce rode the elevator up to her floor, mulling everything over in the

silence. She’d meant what she said to Hunt—she didn’t think her father was behind Danika’s and the pack’s deaths. She had little doubt he’d killed others, though. And would do anything to keep his crown.

The Autumn King was a courtesy title in addition to her father’s role as

a City Head—as for all the seven Fae Kings. No kingdom was truly their own. Even Avallen, the green isle ruled by the Stag King, still bowed to the Republic.

The Fae had coexisted with the Republic since its founding, answerable

to its laws, but ultimately left to govern themselves and retain their ancient titles of kings and princes and the like. Still respected by all—and feared.

Not as much as the angels, with their destructive, hideous storm-and-sky powers, but they could inflict pain if they wished. Choke the air from your lungs or freeze you or burn you from the inside out. Solas knew Ruhn and his two friends could raise Hel when provoked.

But she wasn’t looking to raise Hel tonight. She was looking to quietly

slip into its Midgard equivalent.

Which was precisely why she waited thirty minutes before tucking a

knife into her black leather ankle boots, and placed something that packed a bigger punch into the back of her dark jeans, hidden beneath her leather jacket. She kept the lights and television on, the curtains partially closed— just enough to block Hunt’s view of her front door as she left.

Sneaking out the rear stairwell of her building to the small alley where

her scooter was chained, Bryce took a swift, bracing breath before fitting on her helmet.

Traffic wasn’t moving as she unchained the ivory Firebright 3500

scooter from the alley lamppost and waddled it onto the cobblestones. She waited for other scooters, pedicabs, and motorcycles to zip past, then launched into the flow, the world stark through the visor of her helmet.

Her mother still complained about the scooter, begging her to use a car

until after the Drop, but Randall had always insisted Bryce was fine. Of course, she never told them of the various incidents on this scooter, but … her mother had a mortal life span. Bryce didn’t need to shave off any more years than necessary.

Bryce cruised down one of the city’s main arteries, losing herself in the

rhythm of weaving between cars and swerving around pedestrians. The world was a blur of golden light and deep shadows, neon glaring above, all of it accented by pops and flittering shimmers of street magic. Even the little bridges she crossed, spanning the countless tributaries to the Istros, were strung with sparkling lights that danced on the dim, drifting water below.

High above Main Street, a silvery sheen filled the night sky, limning the

drifting clouds where the malakim partied and dined. Only a flare of red interrupted the pale glow, courtesy of Redner Industries’ massive sign atop their skyscraper in the heart of the district.

Few people walked the streets of the CBD at this hour, and Bryce made

sure to get through its canyons of high-rises as swiftly as possible. She knew she’d entered the Meat Market not by any street or marker, but by the shift in the darkness.

No lights stained the skies above the low brick buildings crammed

together. And here the shadows became permanent, tucked into alleys and under cars, the streetlamps mostly shattered and never repaired.

Bryce pulled down a cramped street where a few dented delivery trucks

were in the process of unloading boxes of spiky green fruit and crates of crustacean-looking creatures that seemed far too aware of their captivity and oncoming demise via boiling pots of water in one of the food stalls.

Bryce tried not to meet their googly black eyes pleading with her

through the wooden bars as she parked a few feet away from a nondescript warehouse, removed her helmet, and waited.

Vendors and shoppers alike eyed her to glean if she was selling or for

sale. In the warrens below, carved deep into Midgard’s womb, lay three different levels just for flesh. Mostly human; mostly living, though she’d heard of some places that specialized in certain tastes. Every fetish could be bought; no taboo was too foul. Half-breeds were prized: they could heal faster and better than full-humans. A smarter long-term investment. And occasional Vanir were enslaved and bound with so many enchantments that they had no hope of escape. Only the wealthiest could afford to purchase a few hours with them.

Bryce checked the time on her scooter’s dash clock. Crossing her arms,

she leaned against the black leather seat.

The Umbra Mortis slammed to the ground, cracking the cobblestones in

a rippling circle.

Hunt’s eyes practically glowed as he said, in full view of those

cowering along the street, “I am going to kill you.”

18

Hunt stormed toward Bryce, stepping over the cobblestones fragmented from his landing. He’d detected her lilac-and-nutmeg scent on the wind the moment she’d stepped outside the back door of her building, and when he’d discovered where, precisely, she was driving on that scooter …

Bryce had the nerve to push back the sleeve of her leather jacket, frown

at her bare wrist as if she were reading a gods-damned watch, and say, “You’re two minutes late.”

He was going to throttle her. Someone should have done it a long

fucking time ago.

Bryce smiled in a way that said she’d like to see him try, and sauntered

toward him, scooter and helmet left behind.

Unbelievable. Un-fucking-believable.

Hunt growled, “There’s no way that scooter is there when we get back.” Bryce batted her eyelashes, fluffing out her helmet hair. “Good thing

you’ve made such a big entrance. No one would dare touch it now. Not with the Umbra Mortis as my wrathful companion.”

Indeed, people shrank from his gaze, some stepping behind the stacked

crates as Bryce aimed for one of the open doors into the labyrinth of subterraneanly interconnected warehouses that made up the blocks of the district.

Even Micah didn’t station legionaries here. The Meat Market had its

own laws and methods of enforcing them.

Hunt ground out, “I told you that there are protocols to follow if we

want to stand a chance of contacting the Viper Queen—”

“I’m not here to contact the Viper Queen.” “What?” The Viper Queen had ruled the Meat Market for longer than

anyone could remember. Hunt made a point—all the angels, whether civilians or legionaries, made a point—of staying the fuck away from the serpentine shifter, whose snake form, rumor claimed, was a true horror to behold. Before Bryce could answer, Hunt said, “I’m growing tired of this bullshit, Quinlan.”

She bared her teeth. “I’m sorry,” she seethed, “if your fragile ego can’t

handle that I know what I’m fucking doing.”

Hunt opened and closed his mouth. Fine, he’d misjudged her earlier

today, but she hadn’t exactly given him any hint of being remotely interested in this investigation. Or that she wasn’t trying to hinder it.

Bryce continued through the open doors to the warehouse without

saying another word.

Being in the 33rd—or any legion—was as good as putting a target on

your back, and Hunt checked that his weapons were in place in the cleverly constructed sheaths along his suit as he followed her.

The reek of bodies and smoke coated his face like oil. Hunt tucked in

his wings tightly.

Whatever fear he’d instilled in people on the streets was of no

consequence inside the market, packed with ramshackle stalls and vendors and food stands, smoke drifting throughout, the tang of blood and spark of magic acrid in his nostrils. And above it all, against the far wall of the enormous space, was a towering mosaic, the tiles taken from an ancient temple in Pangera, restored and re-created here in loving detail, despite its gruesome depiction: cloaked and hooded death, the skeleton’s face grinning out from the cowl, a scythe in one hand and an hourglass in the other.

Above its head, words had been crafted in the Republic’s most ancient language:

Memento Mori.

Remember that you will die. It was meant to be an invitation for

merriment, to seize each moment as if it were one’s last, as if tomorrow were not guaranteed, even for slow-aging Vanir. Remember that you will die, and enjoy each pleasure the world has to offer. Remember that you will

die, and none of this illegal shit will matter anyway. Remember that you will die, so who cares how many people suffer from your actions?

Bryce swept past it, her swaying hair shining like the heart of a ruby.

The lights illuminated the worn black leather of her jacket, bringing into stark relief the painted words along the back in feminine, colorful script. It was instinct to translate—also from the ancient language, as if Urd herself had chosen this moment to lay the two ancient phrases before him.

Through love, all is possible.

Such a pretty phrase was a fucking joke in a place like this. Glimmering

eyes that tracked Quinlan from the stalls and shadows quickly looked away when they noticed him at her side.

It was an effort not to haul her out of this shithole. Even though he

wanted this case solved, having only ten beautiful kills standing between him and freedom, coming here was a colossal risk. What was the use of his freedom if he was left in a dumpster behind one of these warehouses?

Maybe that was what she wanted. To lure him here—use the Meat

Market itself to kill him. It seemed unlikely, but he kept one eye on her.

Bryce knew her way around. Knew a few of the vendors, from the nods

they exchanged. Hunt marked each one: a metalworker specializing in intricate little mechanisms; a fruit vendor with exotic produce for sale; an owl-faced female who had a spread of scrolls and books bound in materials that were everything but cow leather.

“The metalworker helps me identify if an artifact is a fake,” Bryce said

under her breath as they wound through the steam and smoke of a food pit.

How she’d noticed his observing, he had no idea. “And the fruit lady gets shipments of durian in the early spring and fall—Syrinx’s favorite food.

Stinks up the whole house, but he goes nuts for it.” She edged around a garbage pail near-overflowing with discarded plates and bones and soiled napkins before ascending a rickety set of stairs to the mezzanine flanking either side of the warehouse floor, doors stationed every few feet.

“The books?” Hunt couldn’t help asking. She seemed to be counting

doors, rather than looking at the numbers. There were no numbers, he realized.

“The books,” Bryce said, “are a story for another time.” She paused

outside a pea-green door, chipped and deeply gouged in spots. Hunt sniffed,

trying to detect what lay beyond. Nothing, as far as he could detect. He subtly braced himself, keeping his hands within range of his weapons.

Bryce opened the door, not bothering to knock, revealing flickering

candles and—brine. Salt. Smoke and something that dried out his eyes.

Bryce stalked down the cramped hallway to the open, rotting sitting

room beyond. Scowling, he shut the door and followed, wings tucked in to keep from brushing the oily, crumbling walls. If Quinlan died, Micah’s offer would be off the table.

White and ivory candles guttered as Bryce walked onto the worn green

carpet, and Hunt held in his cringe. A sagging, ripped couch was shoved against a wall, a filthy leather armchair with half its stuffing bursting from it sat against the other, and around the room, on tables and stacks of books and half-broken chairs, were jars and bowls and cups full of salt.

White salt, black salt, gray salt—in grains of every size: from near-

powder to flakes to great, rough hunks of it. Salts for protection against darker powers. Against demons. Many Vanir built their houses with slabs of salt at the cornerstones. Rumor claimed that the entire base of the Asteri’s crystal palace was a slab of salt. That it had been built atop a natural deposit.

Fucking Hel. He’d never seen such an assortment. As Bryce peered

down the darkened hall to the left, where the shadows yielded three doors, Hunt hissed, “Please tell me—”

“Just keep your snarling and eye rolling to yourself,” she snapped at

him, and called into the gloom, “I’m here to buy, not collect.”

One of the doors cracked open, and a pale-skinned, dark-haired satyr

hobbled toward them, his furred legs hidden by trousers. His pageboy hat must have hid little, curling horns. The clopping of the hooves gave him away.

The male barely came up to Bryce’s chest, his shrunken, twisted body

half the size of the bulls that Hunt had witnessed tearing people into shreds on battlefields. And that he had faced himself in Sandriel’s arena. The male’s slitted pupils, knobbed at either side like a goat’s, expanded.

Fear—and not at Hunt’s presence, he realized with a jolt.

Bryce dipped her fingers into a lead bowl of pink salt, plucking up a

few pieces and letting them drop into the dish with faint, hollow cracks. “I need the obsidian.”

The satyr shifted, hooves clopping faintly, rubbing his hairy, pale neck.

“Don’t deal in that.”

She smiled slightly. “Oh?” She went over to another bowl, stirring the

powder-fine black salt in there. “Grade A, whole-rock obsidian salt. Seven pounds, seven ounces. Now.”

The male’s throat bobbed. “It’s illegal.” “Are you quoting the motto of the Meat Market, or trying to tell me that

you somehow don’t have precisely what I need?”

Hunt scanned the room. White salt for purification; pink for protection;

gray for spellwork; red for … he forgot what the Hel red was for. But obsidian … Shit.

Hunt fell back on centuries of training to keep the shock off his face.

Black salts were used for summoning demons directly—bypassing the Northern Rift entirely—or for various dark spellwork. A salt that went beyond black, a salt like the obsidian … It could summon something big.

Hel was severed from them by time and space, but still accessible

through the twin sealed portals at the north and south poles—the Northern Rift and the Southern Rift, respectively. Or by idiots who tried to summon demons through salts of varying powers.

A lot of fucked-up shit, Hunt had always thought. The benefit of using

salts, at least, was that only one demon could be summoned at a time.

Though if things went badly, the summoner could wind up dead. And a demon could wind up stuck in Midgard, hungry.

It was why the creeps existed in their world at all: most had been hunted

after those long-ago wars between realms, but every so often, demons got loose. Reproduced, usually by force.

The result of those horrible unions: the daemonaki. Most walking the

streets were diluted, weaker incarnations and hybrids of the purebred demons in Hel. Many were pariahs, through no fault of their own beyond genetics, and they usually worked hard to integrate into the Republic. But the lowest-level purebred demon fresh out of Hel could bring an entire city to a standstill as it went on a rampage. And for centuries now, Hunt had been tasked with tracking them down.

This satyr had to be a big-time dealer then, if he peddled obsidian salt.

Bryce took a step toward the satyr. The male retreated. Her amber eyes

gleamed with feral amusement, no doubt from her Fae side. A far cry from

the party girl getting her nails done.

Hunt tensed. She couldn’t be that foolish, could she? To show him that

she knew how to and could easily acquire the same type of salt that had probably been used to summon the demon that killed Tertian and Danika?

Another tally scratched itself into the Suspect column in his mind.

Bryce shrugged with one shoulder. “I could call your queen. See what

she makes of it.”

“You—you don’t have the rank to summon her.” “No,” Bryce said, “I don’t. But I bet if I go down to the main floor and

start screaming for the Viper Queen, she’ll drag herself out of that fighting pit to see what the fuss is about.”

Burning Solas, she was serious, wasn’t she?

Sweat beaded the satyr’s brow. “Obsidian’s too dangerous. I can’t in

good conscience sell it.”

Bryce crooned, “Did you say that when you sold it to Philip Briggs for

his bombs?”

Hunt stilled, and the male went a sickly white. He glanced to Hunt,

noting the tattoo across his brow, the armor he wore. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I—I was cleared by the investigators. I never sold Briggs anything.”

“I’m sure he paid you in cash to hide the money trail,” Bryce said. She

yawned. “Look, I’m tired and hungry, and I don’t feel like playing this game. Name your price so I can be on my way.”

Those goatlike eyes snapped to hers. “Fifty thousand gold marks.” Bryce smiled as Hunt held in his curse. “Do you know my boss paid

fifty thousand to watch a pack of Helhounds rip apart a satyr? Said it was the best minute of her miserable life.”

“Forty-five.” “Don’t waste my time with nonsense offers.” “I won’t go below thirty. Not for that much obsidian.” “Ten.” Ten thousand gold marks was still outrageous. But summoning

salts were extraordinarily valuable. How many demons had he hunted because of them? How many dismembered bodies had he seen from summonings gone wrong? Or right, if it was a targeted attack?

Bryce held up her phone. “In five minutes, I’m expected to call Jesiba,

and say that the obsidian salt is in my possession. In six minutes, if I do not

make that phone call, someone will knock on that door. And it will not be someone for me.”

Hunt honestly couldn’t tell if Quinlan was bluffing. She likely wouldn’t

have told him—could have gotten that order from her boss while he was sitting on the roof. If Jesiba Roga was dealing with whatever shit the obsidian implied, either for her own uses or on behalf of the Under-King … Maybe Bryce hadn’t committed the murder, but rather abetted it.

“Four minutes,” Bryce said.

Sweat slid down the satyr’s temple and into his thick beard. Silence.

Despite his suspicions, Hunt had the creeping feeling that this

assignment was either going to be a fuck-ton of fun or a nightmare. If it got him to his end goal, he didn’t care one way or another.

Bryce perched on the rotting arm of the chair and began typing into her

phone, no more than a bored young woman avoiding social interaction.

The satyr whirled toward Hunt. “You’re the Umbra Mortis.” He

swallowed audibly. “You’re one of the triarii. You protect us—you serve the Governor.”

Before Hunt could reply, Bryce lifted her phone to show him a photo of

two fat, roly-poly puppies. “Look what my cousin just adopted,” she told him. “That one is Osirys, and the one on the right is Set.” She lowered the phone before he could come up with a response, thumbs flying.

But she glanced at Hunt from under her thick lashes. Play along,

please, she seemed to say.

So Hunt said, “Cute dogs.” The satyr let out a small whine of distress. Bryce lifted her head, curtain

of red hair limned with silver in her screen’s light. “I thought you’d be running to get the salt by now. Maybe you should, considering you’ve got”—a glance at the phone, fingers flying—“oh. Ninety seconds.”

She opened what looked like a message thread and began typing.

The satyr whispered, “T-twenty thousand.” She held up a finger. “I’m writing back to my cousin. Give me two

seconds.” The satyr was trembling enough that Hunt almost felt bad.

Almost, until—

“Ten, ten, damn you! Ten!” Bryce smiled. “No need to shout,” she purred, pressing a button that

had her phone ringing.

“Yes?” The sorceress picked up after the first ring. “Call off your dogs.” A breathy, feminine laugh. “Done.” Bryce lowered the phone. “Well?” The satyr rushed to the back, hooves thumping on the worn floors, and

procured a wrapped bundle a moment later. It reeked of mold and dirt.

Bryce lifted a brow. “Put it in a bag.”

“I don’t have a—” Bryce gave him a look. The satyr found one. A

stained, reusable grocery bag, but better than holding the slab in public.

Bryce weighed the salt in her hands. “It’s two ounces over.” “It’s seven and seven! Just what you asked for! It’s all cut to sevens.” Seven—the holy number. Or unholy, depending on who was

worshipping. Seven Asteri, seven hills in their Eternal City, seven neighborhoods and seven Gates in Crescent City; seven planets, and seven circles in Hel, with seven princes who ruled them, each darker than the last.

Bryce inclined her head. “If I measure it and it’s not—” “It is!” the satyr cried. “Dark Hel, it is!” Bryce tapped some buttons on her phone. “Ten grand, transferred right

to you.”

Hunt kept at her back as she strode out, the satyr half-seething, half-

trembling behind them.

She opened the door, grinning to herself, and Hunt was about to start

demanding answers when she halted. When he also beheld who stood outside.

The tall, moon-skinned woman was dressed in a gold jumpsuit, emerald

hoop earrings hanging lower than her chin-length black bob. Her full lips were painted in purple so dark it was nearly black, and her remarkable green eyes … Hunt knew her by the eyes alone.

Humanoid in every aspect, but for them. Green entirely, marbled with

veins of jade and gold. Interrupted only by a slitted pupil now razor-thin in the warehouse lights. A snake’s eyes.

Or a Viper Queen’s.

19

Bryce shouldered the canvas bag, surveying the Viper Queen. “Nice outfit.”

The serpentine shifter smiled, revealing bright white teeth—and canines

that were slightly too elongated. And slightly too thin. “Nice bodyguard.”

Bryce shrugged as those snake’s eyes dragged over every inch of Hunt.

“Nothing going on upstairs, but everything happening where it counts.”

Hunt stiffened. But the female’s purple lips curved upward. “I’ve never

heard Hunt Athalar described that way, but I’m sure the general appreciates it.”

At the near-forgotten title, Hunt’s jaw tightened. Yes, the Viper Queen

had likely been alive during the Fall. Would have known Hunt not as one of the 33rd’s triarii or the Shadow of Death, but as General Hunt Athalar, High Commander of all the Archangel Shahar’s legions.

And Bryce had strung him along for two days. She glanced over a

shoulder, finding Hunt assessing the Viper Queen and the four Fae males flanking her. Defectors from her father’s court—trained assassins in not just weapons, but the queen’s specialty: venoms and poisons.

None of them deigned to acknowledge her.

The Viper Queen tilted her head to the side, the razor-sharp bob shifting

like black silk. On the ground below, patrons milled about, unaware that their ruler had graced them with her presence. “Looks like you were doing some shopping.”

Bryce gave a half shrug. “Bargain hunting is a hobby. Your realm is the

best place for it.”

“I thought your boss paid you too well for you to stoop to cutting costs.

And using salts.”

Bryce forced herself to smile, to keep her heartbeat steady, knowing full

well the female could pick up on it. Could taste fear. Could likely taste what variety of salt, exactly, sat in the bag dangling from her shoulder. “Just because I make money doesn’t mean I have to get ripped off.”

The Viper Queen glanced between her and Hunt. “I heard you two have

been spotted around town together.”

Hunt growled, “It’s classified.” The Viper Queen arched a well-groomed black eyebrow, the small

beauty mark just beneath the outer corner of her eye shifting with the movement. Her gold-painted nails glinted as she reached a hand into the pocket of her jumpsuit, fishing out a lighter encrusted with rubies forming the shape of a striking asp. A cigarette appeared between her purple lips a moment later, and they watched in silence, her guards monitoring every breath they made, as she lit up and inhaled deeply. Smoke rippled from those dark lips as she said, “Shit’s getting interesting these days.”

Bryce pivoted toward the exit. “Yep. Let’s go, Hunt.” One of the guards stepped in front of her, six and a half feet of Fae

grace and muscle.

Bryce stopped short, Hunt nearly slamming into her—his growl likely

his first and last warning to the male. But the guard merely gazed at his queen, vacant and beholden. Likely addicted to the venom she secreted and doled out to her inner circle.

Bryce looked over her shoulder at the Viper Queen, still leaning against

the rail, still smoking that cigarette. “It’s a good time for business,” the queen observed, “when key players converge for the Summit. So many ruling-class elites, all with their own … interests.”

Hunt was close enough to Bryce’s back that she could feel the tremor

that ran through his powerful body, could have sworn lightning tingled over her spine. But he said nothing.

The Viper Queen merely extended a hand to the walkway behind her,

gold nails flashing in the light. “My office, if you will.”

“No,” Hunt said. “We’re going.” Bryce stepped closer to the Viper Queen. “Lead the way, Majesty.”

She did. Hunt was bristling at her side, but Bryce kept her eyes on the

swaying, glossy bob of the female ahead of them. Her guards kept a few feet behind—far enough away that Hunt deemed it safe to mutter, “This is a terrible idea.”

“You were bitching this morning that I wasn’t doing anything of value,”

Bryce muttered back as they trailed the Viper Queen through an archway and down a back set of stairs. From below, roaring and cheers rose to meet them. “And now that I am doing something, you’re bitching about it, too?” She snorted. “Get your shit together, Athalar.”

His jaw tightened again. But he glanced at her bag, the block of salt

weighing it down. “You bought the salt because you knew it’d attract her attention.”

“You told me that it’d take weeks to get a meeting with her. I decided to

bypass all the bullshit.” She tapped the bag, the salt thumping hollowly beneath her hand.

“Cthona’s tits,” he muttered, shaking his head. They exited the stairwell

a level down, the walls solid concrete. Behind them, the roar of the fighting pit echoed down the corridor. But the Viper Queen glided ahead, passing rusty metal doors. Until she opened an unmarked one and swept in without so much as looking back. Bryce couldn’t help her smug smile.

“Don’t look so fucking satisfied,” Hunt hissed. “We might not even

walk out of this place alive.” True. “I’ll ask the questions.”

“No.” They glowered at each other, and Bryce could have sworn lightning

forked across his eyes. But they’d reached the door, which opened into—

She’d been expecting the plush opulence of Griffin Antiquities hidden

behind that door: gilded mirrors and velvet divans and silk drapes and a carved oak desk as old as this city.

Not this … mess. It was barely better than the stockroom of a dive bar.

A dented metal desk occupied most of the cramped space, a scratched purple chair behind it—tufts of stuffing poking out of the upper corner, and the pale green paint peeled off the wall in half a dozen spots. Not to mention the water stain gracing the ceiling, made worse by the thrumming fluorescent firstlights. Against one wall stood an open shelving unit filled with everything from files to crates of liquor to discarded guns; on the opposite, stacked cardboard boxes rose above her head.

One glance at Hunt and Bryce knew he was thinking the same: the

Viper Queen, mistress of the underworld, feared poisons expert and ruler of the Meat Market, claimed this hovel as an office?

The female slid into the chair, interlacing her fingers atop the mess of

papers strewn across the desk. A computer that was about twenty years out of date sat like a fat rock before her, a little statue of Luna poised atop it, the goddess’s bow aimed at the shifter’s face.

One of her guards shut the door, prompting Hunt’s hand to slide toward

his hip, but Bryce had already taken a seat in one of the cheap aluminum chairs.

“Not as fancy as your boss’s place,” the Viper Queen said, reading the

disbelief on Bryce’s face, “but it does the trick.”

Bryce didn’t bother agreeing that the space was far from anything

befitting a serpentine shifter whose snake form was a moon-white cobra with scales that gleamed like opals—and whose power was rumored to be … different. Something extra that mixed with her venom, something strange and old.

Hunt took a seat beside her, twisting the chair frontward to

accommodate his wings. Roaring from the fighting pit rumbled through the concrete floor beneath their feet.

The Viper Queen lit another cigarette. “You’re here to ask about Danika

Fendyr.”

Bryce kept her face neutral. To his credit, Athalar did, too.

Hunt said carefully, “We’re trying to get a clearer picture of

everything.”

Her remarkable eyes narrowed with pleasure. “If that’s what you want

to claim, then sure.” Smoke rippled from her lips. “I’ll spare you the bullshit, though. Danika was a threat to me, and in more ways than perhaps you know. But she was smart. Our relationship was a working one.” Another inhale. “I’m sure Athalar can back me up on this,” she drawled, earning a warning glare from him, “but to get shit done, sometimes the Aux and 33rd have to work with those of us who dwell in the shadows.”

Hunt said, “And Maximus Tertian? He was killed on the outskirts of

your territory.”

“Maximus Tertian was a spoiled little bitch, but I would never be stupid

enough to pick a fight with his father like that. I’d only stand to gain a

headache.”

“Who killed him?” Bryce asked. “I heard you pulled in your people.

You know something.”

“Just a precaution.” She flicked her tongue over her bottom teeth. “Us

serps can taste when shit is about to go down. Like a charge in the air. I can taste it now—all over this city.”

Hunt’s lightning grumbled in the room. “You didn’t think to warn

anyone?”

“I warned my people. As long as trouble doesn’t pass through my

district, I don’t care what goes on in the rest of Lunathion.”

Hunt said, “Real noble of you.” Bryce asked again, “Who do you think killed Tertian?” She shrugged. “Honestly? It’s the Meat Market. Shit happens. He was

probably coming here for drugs, and this is the price he paid.”

“What kind of drugs?” Bryce asked, but Hunt said, “Toxicology report

says there were no drugs in his system.”

“Then I can’t help you,” the shifter said. “Your guess is as good as

mine.” Bryce didn’t bother to ask about camera footage, not when the 33rd would have already combed through it.

The Viper Queen pulled something from a drawer and chucked it on the

desk. A flash drive. “My alibis from the night Tertian was killed and from the days before and during Danika and her pack’s murders.”

Bryce didn’t touch the tiny metal drive, no bigger than a lipstick tube.

The Viper Queen’s lips curved again. “I was at the spa the night of

Tertian’s murder. And as for Danika and the Pack of Devils, one of my associates threw a Drop party for his daughter that night. Turned into three days of … well, you’ll see.”

“This drive contains footage of you at a three-day orgy?” Hunt

demanded.

“Let me know if it gets you hot and bothered, Athalar.” The Viper

Queen took another hit of the cigarette. Her green eyes drifted toward his lap. “I hear you’re one Hel of a ride when you pause the brooding long enough.”

Oh please. Hunt’s teeth flashed as he bared them in a silent snarl, so

Bryce said, “Orgy and Hunt’s bedroom prowess aside, you’ve got a salt vendor in this market.” She tapped the bag balanced on her knees.

The Viper Queen tore her eyes from a still-snarling Hunt and said

sharply to Bryce, “I don’t use what I sell. Though I don’t think you live by that rule over at your fancy gallery.” She winked. “You ever get sick of crawling for that sorceress, come find me. I have a stable of clients who’d crawl for you. And pay to do it.”

Hunt’s hand was warm on her shoulder. “She’s not for sale.” Bryce leaned out of his grip, throwing him a warning glare.

The Viper Queen said, “Everyone, General, is for sale. You just have to

figure out the asking price.” Smoke flared from her nostrils, a dragon huffing flames. “Give me a day or two, Athalar, and I’ll figure out yours.”

Hunt’s smile was a thing of deadly beauty. “Maybe I’ve figured out

yours already.”

The Viper Queen smiled. “I certainly hope so.” She stubbed out the

cigarette and met Bryce’s stare. “Here’s a pro tip for your little investigation.” Bryce stiffened at the cool mockery. “Look toward where it hurts the most. That’s always where the answers are.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Bryce gritted out.

The shifter merely snapped her gold-tipped fingers. The office door

opened, those venom-addicted Fae males peering in. “They’re done,” the Viper Queen said, turning on her antique of a computer. “Make sure they get outside.” And don’t go poking about.

Bryce shouldered the block of salt as Hunt snatched up the flash drive,

pocketing it.

The guard was smart enough to step away as Hunt nudged Bryce

through the door. Bryce made it three steps before the Viper Queen said, “Don’t underestimate the obsidian salt, Quinlan. It can bring over the very worst of Hel.”

A chill snaked down her spine. But Bryce merely lifted a hand in an

over-the-shoulder wave as she entered the hall. “Well, at least I’ll be entertained, won’t I?”

They left the Meat Market in one piece, thank the five fucking gods— especially Urd herself. Hunt wasn’t entirely sure how they’d managed to walk away from the Viper Queen without their guts pumped full of poisoned bullets, but … He frowned at the red-haired woman now

inspecting her white scooter for damage. Even the helmet had been left untouched.

Hunt said, “I believe her.” No way in Hel was he watching the video on

that flash drive. He’d be sending it right over to Viktoria. “I don’t think she had anything to do with this.”

Quinlan and Roga, however … He hadn’t yet crossed them off his

mental list.

Bryce tucked the helmet into the crook of her arm. “I agree.” “So that brings us back to square one.” He suppressed the urge to pace,

picturing his kill count still in the thousands.

“No,” Bryce countered. “It doesn’t.” She fastened the bag of salt into

the small compartment on the back of her scooter. “She said to look where it hurts most for answers.”

“She was just spewing some bullshit to mess with us.” “Probably,” Bryce said, fitting the helmet over her head before flicking

up the visor to reveal those amber eyes. “But maybe she was unintentionally right. Tomorrow …” Her eyes shuttered. “I’ve got to do some thinking tomorrow. At the gallery, or else Jesiba will throw a fit.”

He was intrigued enough that he said, “You think you have a lead?” “Not yet. A general direction, though. It’s better than nothing.” He jerked his chin toward the compartment of her scooter. “What’s the

obsidian salt for?” She had to have another purpose for it. Even if he prayed she wasn’t dumb enough to use it.

Bryce just said blandly, “Seasoning my burgers.” Fine. He’d walked into that. “How’d you afford the salt, anyway?” He

doubted she had ten grand just sitting around in her bank account.

Bryce zipped up her leather jacket. “I put it on Jesiba’s account. She

spends more money on beauty products in a month, so I doubt she’ll notice.”

Hunt had no idea how to even respond to any of that, so he gritted his

teeth and surveyed her atop her ride. “You know, even a scooter is a dumb fucking thing to drive before making the Drop.”

“Thanks, Mom.” “You should take the bus.” She just let out a barking laugh, and zoomed off into the night.

20

Look toward where it hurts the most.

Bryce had refrained from telling Athalar how accurate the Viper

Queen’s tip had been. She’d already given him her list of suspects—but he hadn’t asked about the other demand he’d made.

So that’s what she’d decided to do: compile a list of every one of

Danika’s movements from the week before her death. But the moment she’d finished opening up the gallery for the day, the moment she’d come down to the library to make the list … Nausea had hit her.

She turned on her laptop instead, and began combing through her

emails with Maximus Tertian, dating back six weeks. Perhaps she’d find some sort of connection there—or at least a hint of his plans for that night.

Yet with each professional, bland email she reread, the memories from

Danika’s last days clawed at the welded-shut door of her mind. Like looming specters, they hissed and whispered, and she tried to ignore them, tried to focus on Tertian’s emails, but—

Lehabah looked over from where she’d sprawled on the tiny fainting

couch Bryce had given her years ago—courtesy of a dollhouse from her childhood—watching her favorite Vanir drama on her tablet. Her glass dome sat behind her atop a stack of books, the plumes of a purple orchid arching over it. “You could let the angel down here and work together on whatever is causing you such difficulty.”

Bryce rolled her eyes. “Your fascination with Athalar is taking on

stalkerish levels.”

Lehabah sighed. “Do you know what Hunt Athalar looks like?” “Considering that he’s living on the roof across from my apartment, I’d

say yes.”

Lehabah hit pause on her show, leaning her head against the backrest of

her little fainting couch. “He’s dreamy.”

“Yeah, just ask him.” Bryce clicked out of the email she’d been reading

—one of about a hundred between her and Tertian, and the first where he’d been mildly flirty with her.

“Hunt’s handsome enough to be on this show.” Lehabah pointed with a

dainty toe toward the tablet propped before her.

“Unfortunately, I don’t think the size differences between you and

Athalar would work in the bedroom. You’re barely big enough to wrap your arms around his dick.”

Smoke swirled around Lehabah at her puff of embarrassment, and the

sprite waved her little hands to clear it away. “BB!”

Bryce chuckled, then she gestured to the tablet. “I’m not the one who’s

bingeing a show that’s basically porn with a plot. What’s it called again?

Fangs and Bangs?”

Lehabah turned purple. “It’s not called that and you know it! And it’s

artistic. They make love. They don’t …” She choked.

“Fuck?” Bryce suggested dryly. “Exactly,” Lehabah said with a prim nod.

Bryce laughed, letting it chase away the swarming ghosts of the past,

and the sprite, despite her prudishness, joined her. Bryce said, “I doubt Hunt Athalar is the making love type.”

Lehabah hid her face behind her hands, humming with mortification.

Just to torture her a bit more, Bryce added, “He’s the type to bend you

over a desk and—”

The phone rang.

She glanced at the ceiling, wondering if Athalar had somehow heard,

but—no. It was worse.

“Hi, Jesiba,” she said, motioning Lehabah back to her guardian’s perch

in case the sorceress was monitoring through the library’s cameras.

“Bryce. Glad to see Lehabah is hard at work.” Lehabah quickly shut down the tablet and did her best to look alert.

Bryce said, “It was her midmorning break. She’s entitled to one.”

Lehabah threw her a grateful glance that cut right to the bone.

Jesiba just began rattling off commands.

Thirty minutes later, at the desk in the gallery showroom, Bryce stared toward the shut front door. The ticking of the clock filled the space, a steady reminder of each second lost. Each second that Danika and the pack’s killer roamed the streets while she sat in here, checking bullshit paperwork.

Unacceptable. Yet the thought of prying open the door to those

memories …

She knew she’d regret it. Knew it was probably ten kinds of stupid. But

she dialed the number before she could second-guess it.

“What’s wrong.” Hunt’s voice was already sharp, full of storms. “Why do you assume something’s wrong?” “Because you’ve never called me before, Quinlan.” This was stupid—really fucking stupid. She cleared her throat to make

up some excuse about ordering food for lunch, but he said, “You found something?”

For Danika, for the Pack of Devils, she could do this. Would do this.

Pride had no place here. “I need you to … help me with something.”

“With what?” But before his words finished sounding, a fist banged on

the door. She knew it was him without pulling up the camera feed.

She opened the door, getting a face full of wings and rain-kissed cedar.

Hunt asked wryly, “Are you going to give me shit about coming in or can we spare ourselves that song and dance?”

“Just get inside.” Bryce left Hunt in the doorway and walked to her

desk, where she hauled open the bottom drawer to yank out a reusable bottle. She drank straight from it.

Hunt shut the door after himself. “A little early to be drinking, isn’t it?” She didn’t bother to correct him, just took another sip and slid into her

chair.

He eyed her. “You gonna tell me what this is about?” A polite but insistent thump-thump-thump came from the iron door

down to the library. Hunt’s wings snapped shut as he turned his head toward the heavy metal slab.

Another tap-tap-tap filled the showroom atrium. “BB,” Lehabah said

mournfully through the door. “BB, are you all right?”

Bryce rolled her eyes. Cthona spare her.

Hunt asked too casually, “Who is that?” A third little knock-knock-knock. “BB? BB, please say you’re all right.” “I’m fine,” Bryce called. “Go back downstairs and do your job.” “I want to see you with my own eyes,” Lehabah said, sounding for all

the world like a concerned aunt. “I can’t focus on my work until then.”

Hunt’s brows twitched toward each other—even as his lips tugged

outward.

Bryce said to him, “One, hyperbole is an art form for her.” “Oh, BB, you can be so terribly cruel—” “Two, very few people are allowed downstairs, so if you report to

Micah about it, we’re done.”

“I promise,” Hunt said warily. “Though Micah can make me talk if he

insists.”

“Then don’t give him a reason to be curious about it.” She set the bottle

on her desk, and found her legs were surprisingly sturdy. Hunt still towered over her. The horrible twining thorns tattooed across his brow seemed to suck the light from the room.

But Hunt rubbed his jaw. “A lot of the stuff down there is contraband,

isn’t it.”

“Surely you’ve realized most of the shit in here is contraband. Some of

these books and scrolls are the last known copies in existence.” She pursed her lips, then added quietly, “A lot of people suffered and died to preserve what’s in the library downstairs.”

More than that, she wouldn’t say. She hadn’t been able to read most of

the books, since they were in long-dead languages or in codes so clever only highly trained linguists or historians might decipher them, but she’d finally learned last year what most of them were. Knew the Asteri and the Senate would order them destroyed. Had destroyed all other copies. There were normal books in there, too, which Jesiba acquired mostly for her own uses—possibly even for the Under-King. But the ones that Lehabah guarded … those were the ones people would kill for. Had killed for.

Hunt nodded. “I won’t breathe a word.”

She assessed him for a moment, then turned to the iron door. “Consider

this your birthday present, Lele,” she muttered through the metal.

The iron door opened on a sigh, revealing the pine-green carpeted

staircase that led straight down into the library. Hunt almost crashed into her as Lehabah floated up between them, her fire shining bright, and purred, “Hello.”

The angel examined the fire sprite hovering a foot away from his face.

She was no longer than Bryce’s hand, her flaming hair twirling above her head.

“Well, aren’t you beautiful,” Hunt said, his voice low and soft in a way

that made every instinct in Bryce sit up straight.

Lehabah flared as she wrapped her plump arms around herself and

ducked her head.

Bryce shook off the effects of Hunt’s voice. “Stop pretending to be

shy.”

Lehabah cut her a simmering glare, but Hunt lifted a finger for her to

perch on. “Shall we?”

Lehabah shone ruby red, but floated over to his scarred finger and sat,

smiling at him beneath her lashes. “He is very nice, BB,” Lehabah observed as Bryce walked down the stairs, the sun-chandelier blinking to life again. “I don’t see why you complain so much about him.”

Bryce scowled over her shoulder. But Lehabah was making mooncalf

eyes at the angel, who gave Bryce a wry smile as he trailed her into the library’s heart.

Bryce looked ahead quickly.

Maybe Lehabah had a point about Athalar’s looks.

Bryce was aware of every step downward, every rustle of Hunt’s wings mere steps behind her. Every bit of air that he filled with his breath, his power, his will.

Other than Jesiba, Syrinx, and Lehabah, only Danika had been down

here with her before.

Syrinx stirred enough from his nap to see that they had a guest—and his

little lion’s tail whacked against the velvet sofa. “Syrie says you can brush him now,” Lehabah told Hunt.

“Hunt is busy,” Bryce said, heading for the table where she’d left the

book open.

“Syrie talks, does he?” “According to her, he does,” Bryce muttered, scanning the table for—

right, she’d put the list on Lehabah’s table. She aimed for it, heels sinking deep into the carpet.

“There must be thousands of books in here,” Hunt said, surveying the

towering shelves.

“Oh yes,” Lehabah said. “But half of this is also Jesiba’s private

collection. Some of the books date all the way back to—”

“Ahem,” Bryce said.

Lehabah stuck out her tongue and said in a conspiratorial whisper to

Hunt, “BB is cranky because she hasn’t been able to make her list.”

“I’m cranky because I’m hungry and you’ve been a pain in my ass all

morning.”

Lehabah floated off Hunt’s finger to rush to her table, where she

plopped on her doll’s couch and said to the angel, who looked torn between wincing and laughing, “BB pretends to be mean, but she’s a softie. She bought Syrie because Jesiba was going to gift him to a warlord client in the Farkaan mountains—”

“Lehabah—” “It’s true.” Hunt examined the various tanks throughout the room and the

assortment of reptiles within them, then the empty waters of the massive aquarium. “I thought he was some designer pet.”

“Oh, he is,” Lehabah said. “Syrinx was stolen from his mother as a cub,

then traded for ten years around the world, then Jesiba bought him to be her pet, then Bryce bought him—his freedom, I mean. She even had proof of his freedom certified. No one can ever buy him again.” She pointed to the chimera. “You can’t see it with him lying down like that, but he’s got the freed brand on his front right paw. The official C and everything.”

Hunt twisted from the gloomy water to look Bryce over.

She crossed her arms. “What? You did the assuming.” His eyes flickered. Whatever the fuck that meant.

She tried not to look at his own wrist, though—the SPQM stamped

there. She wondered if he was resisting the same urge; if he was

contemplating whether he’d ever get that C one day.

But then Lehabah said to Hunt, “How much do you cost to buy, Athie?” Bryce cut in, “Lele, that’s rude. And don’t call him Athie.” She sent up a puff of smoke. “He and I are of the same House, and are

both slaves. My great-grandmother fought in his 18th Legion during their rebellion. I am allowed to ask.”

Hunt’s face wholly shuttered at the mention of the rebellion, but he

approached the couch, let Syrinx sniff his fingers, then scratched the beast behind his velvety ears. Syrinx let out a low growl of pleasure, his lion’s tail going limp.

Bryce tried to block out the squeezing sensation in her chest at the sight

of it.

Hunt’s wings rustled. “I was sold to Micah for eighty-five million gold

marks.”

Bryce’s heel snagged on the carpet as she reached Lehabah’s little

station and grabbed the tablet. Lehabah again floated over to the angel. “I cost ninety thousand gold marks,” Lehabah confided. “Syrie was two hundred thirty-three thousand gold marks.”

Hunt’s eyes snapped to Bryce. “You paid that?” Bryce sat at the worktable and pointed to the empty chair beside hers.

Hunt followed obediently, for once. “I got a fifteen percent employee discount. And we came to an arrangement.”

Let that be that.

Until Lehabah declared, “Jesiba takes some out of each paycheck.”

Bryce growled, reining in the instinct to smother the sprite with a pillow. “BB will be paying it off until she’s three hundred. Unless she doesn’t make the Drop. Then she’ll die first.”

Hunt dropped into his seat, his wing brushing her arm. Softer than

velvet, smoother than silk. He snapped it in tight at the touch, as if he couldn’t bear the contact. “Why?”

Bryce said, “Because that warlord wanted to hurt and break him until he

was a fighting beast, and Syrinx is my friend, and I was sick of losing friends.”

“I thought you were loaded.” “Nope.” She finished the word on a popping noise.

Hunt’s brow furrowed. “But your apartment—”

“The apartment is Danika’s.” Bryce couldn’t meet his gaze. “She

bought it as an investment. Had its ownership written in our names. I didn’t even know it existed until after she died. And I would have just sold it, but it had top-notch security, and grade A enchantments—”

“I get it,” he said again, and she shrank from the kindness in his eyes.

The pity.

Danika had died, and she was alone, and—Bryce couldn’t breathe.

She’d refused to go to therapy. Her mother had set up appointment after

appointment for the first year, and Bryce had bailed on all of them. She’d bought herself an aromatherapy diffuser, had read up on breathing techniques, and that had been that.

She knew she should have gone. Therapy helped so many people—

saved so many lives. Juniper had been seeing a therapist since she was a teenager and would tell anyone who would listen about how vital and brilliant it was.

But Bryce hadn’t shown up—not because she didn’t believe it would

work. No, she knew it would work, and help, and probably make her feel better. Or at least give her the tools to try to do so.

That was precisely why she hadn’t gone.

From the way Hunt was staring at her, she wondered if he knew it—

realized why she blew out a long breath.

Look toward where it hurts the most.

Fucker. The Viper Queen could go to Hel with her pro tips.

She turned on Lehabah’s electronic tablet. The screen revealed a

vampyr and wolf tangled in each other, groaning, naked—

Bryce laughed. “You stopped watching in the middle of this to come

bother me, Lele?”

The air in the room lightened, as if Bryce’s sorrow had cracked at the

sight of the wolf pounding into the moaning vampyr female.

Lehabah burned ruby. “I wanted to meet Athie,” she muttered, slinking

back to her couch.

Hunt, as if despite himself, chuckled. “You watch Fangs and Bangs?” Lehabah shot upright. “That is not what it’s called! Did you tell him to

say that, Bryce?”

Bryce bit her lip to keep from laughing and grabbed her laptop instead,

bringing up her emails with Tertian on the screen. “No, I didn’t.”

Hunt raised a brow, with that wary amusement. “I’m taking a nap with Syrie,” Lehabah declared to no one in particular.

Almost as soon as she said it, something heavy thumped on the mezzanine.

Hunt’s hand went to his side, presumably for the gun there, but Lehabah

hissed toward the railing, “Do not interrupt my nap.”

A heavy slithering filled the library, followed by a thump and rustle. It

didn’t come from Miss Poppy’s tank.

Lehabah said to Hunt, “Don’t let the books sweet-talk you into taking

them home.”

He threw her a half smile. “You’re doing a fine job ensuring that

doesn’t happen.”

Lehabah beamed, curling along Syrinx’s side. He purred with delight at

her warmth. “They’ll do anything to get out of here: sneak into your bag, the pocket of your coat, even flop up the stairs. They’re desperate to get into the world again.” She flowed toward the distant shelves behind them, where a book had landed on the steps. “Bad!” she seethed.

Hunt’s hand slid within easy reach of the knife at his thigh as the book,

as if carried by invisible hands, drifted up the steps, floated to the shelf, and found its place again, humming once with golden light—as if in annoyance.

Lehabah cast a warning simmer toward it, then wrapped Syrinx’s tail

around herself like a fur shawl.

Bryce shook her head, but a sidelong glance told her that Hunt was now

staring at her. Not in the way that males tended to stare at her. He said, “What’s up with all the little critters?”

“They’re Jesiba’s former lovers and rivals,” Lehabah whispered from

her fur-blanket.

Hunt’s wings rustled. “I’d heard the rumors.” “I’ve never seen her transform anyone into an animal,” Bryce said, “but

I try to stay on her good side. I’d really prefer not to be turned into a pig if Jesiba gets pissed at me for fucking up a deal.”

Hunt’s lips twitched upward, as if caught between amusement and

horror.

Lehabah opened her mouth, presumably to tell Hunt all the names she’d

given the creatures in the library, but Bryce cut her off, saying to Hunt, “I called you because I started to make that list of all of Danika’s movements during her final days.” She patted the page she’d started writing on.

“Yeah?” His dark eyes remained on her face.

Bryce cleared her throat and admitted, “It’s, um, hard. To make myself

remember. I thought … maybe you could ask me some questions. Help get the … memories flowing.”

“Ah. Okay.” Silence rippled again as she waited for him to remind her

that time wasn’t on their side, that he had a fucking job to do and she shouldn’t be such a wimp, blah blah.

But Hunt surveyed the books; the tanks; the door to the bathroom at the

back of the space; the lights high above, disguised like the stars painted across the ceiling. And then, rather than ask her about Danika, he said, “Did you study antiquities at school?”

“I took a few classes, yeah. I liked learning about old crap. I was a

classical literature major.” She added, “I learned the Old Language of the Fae when I was a kid.” She’d taught herself out of a sudden interest in learning more about her heritage. When she’d gone to her father’s house a year later—for the first time in her life—she’d hoped to use it to impress him. After everything went to shit, she’d refused to learn another language.

Childish, but she didn’t care.

Though knowing the most ancient of the Fae languages had been

helpful for this job, at least. For the few Fae antiquities that weren’t hoarded in their glittering troves.

Hunt again surveyed the space. “How’d you get this job?” “After I graduated, I couldn’t get a job anywhere. The museums didn’t

want me because I didn’t have enough experience, and the other art galleries in town were run by creeps who thought I was … appetizing.” His eyes darkened, and she made herself ignore the rage she beheld there on her behalf. “But my friend Fury …” Hunt stiffened slightly at the name—he clearly knew her reputation. “Well, she and Jesiba worked together in Pangera at some point. And when Jesiba mentioned that she needed a new assistant, Fury basically shoved my résumé down her throat.” Bryce snorted at the memory. “Jesiba offered me the job because she didn’t want an uptight priss. The work is too dirty, customers too shady. She needed someone with social skills as well as a little background in ancient art. And that was that.”

Hunt considered, then asked, “What’s your deal with Fury Axtar?”

“She’s in Pangera. Doing what Fury does best.” It wasn’t really an

answer.

“Axtar ever tell you what she gets up to over there?” “No. And I like it to stay that way. My dad told me enough stories about

what it’s like. I don’t enjoy imagining what Fury sees and deals with.” Blood and mud and death, science versus magic, machines versus Vanir, bombs of chemicals and firstlight, bullets and fangs.

Randall’s own service had been mandatory, a condition of life for any

non-Lower in the peregrini class: all humans had to serve in the military for three years. Randall had never said it, but she’d always known the years on the front had left deep scars beyond those visible on him. Being forced to kill your own kind was no small task. But the Asteri’s threat remained: Should any refuse, their lives would be forfeit. And then the lives of their families. Any survivors would be slaves, their wrists forever inked with the same letters that marred Hunt’s skin.

“There’s no chance Danika’s murderer might have been connected to

—”

“No.” Bryce growled. She and Fury might be totally fucked up right

now, but she knew that. “Fury’s enemies weren’t Danika’s enemies. Once Briggs was behind bars, she bailed.” Bryce hadn’t seen her since.

Searching for anything to change the topic, Bryce asked, “How old are

you?”

“Two hundred thirty-three.” She did the math, frowning. “You were that young when you rebelled?

And already commanded a legion?” The angels’ failed rebellion had been two hundred years ago; he’d have been incredibly young—by Vanir standards—to have led it.

“My gifts made me invaluable to people.” He held up a hand, lightning

writhing around his fingers. “Too good at killing.” She grunted her agreement. Hunt eyed her. “You ever killed before?”

“Yes.” Surprise lit his eyes. But she didn’t want to go into it—what had

happened with Danika senior year that had left them both in the hospital, her arm shattered, and a stolen motorcycle little more than scrap.

Lehabah cut in from across the library, “BB, stop being cryptic! I’ve

wanted to know for years, Athie, but she never tells me anything good—”

“Leave it, Lehabah.” The memories of that trip pelted her. Danika’s

smiling face in the hospital bed beside hers. How Thorne carried Danika up the stairs of their dorm when they got home, despite her protests. How the pack had fussed over them for a week, Nathalie and Zelda kicking the males out one night so they could have a girls-only moviefest. But none of it had compared to what had changed between her and Danika on that trip. The final barrier that had fallen, the truth laid bare.

I love you, Bryce. I’m so sorry.

Close your eyes, Danika.

A hole tore open in her chest, gaping and howling.

Lehabah was still grousing. But Hunt was watching Bryce’s face. He

asked, “What’s one happy memory you have with Danika from the last week of her life?”

Her blood pounded through her entire body. “I—I have a lot of them

from that week.”

“Pick one, and we’ll start with that.” “Is this how you get witnesses to talk?” He leaned back in his seat, wings adjusting around its low back. “It’s

how you and I are going to make this list.”

She weighed his stare, his solid, thrumming presence. She swallowed.

“The tattoo on my back—she and I got it done that week. We got stupid drunk one night, and I was so out of it I didn’t even know what the fuck she put on my back until I’d gotten over my hangover.”

His lips twitched. “I hope it was something good, at least.” Her chest ached, but she smiled. “It was.” Hunt sat forward and tapped the paper. “Write it down.” She did. He asked, “What’d Danika do during that day before you got

the tattoo?”

The question was calm, but he weighed her every movement. As if he

were reading something, assessing something that she couldn’t see.

Eager to avoid that too-aware look, Bryce picked up the pen, and began

writing, one memory after another. Kept writing her recollections of Danika’s whereabouts that week: that silly wish on the Old Square Gate, the pizza she and Danika had devoured while standing at the counter of the shop, swigging from bottles of beer and talking shit; the hair salon where Bryce flipped through gossip magazines while Danika had gotten her

purple, blue, and pink streaks touched up; the grocery store two blocks down where she and Thorne had found Danika stuffing her face with a bag of chips she hadn’t yet paid for and teased her for hours afterward; the CCU sunball arena where she and Danika had ogled the hot players on Ithan’s team during practice and called dibs on them … She kept writing and writing, until the walls pressed in again.

Her knee bounced relentlessly beneath the table. “I think we can stop

there for today.”

Hunt opened his mouth, glancing to the list—but her phone buzzed.

Thanking Urd for the well-timed intervention, Bryce glanced at the

message on the screen and scowled. The expression was apparently intriguing enough that Hunt peered over her shoulder.

Ruhn had written, Meet me at Luna’s Temple in thirty minutes.

Hunt asked, “Think it’s got to do with last night?” Bryce didn’t answer as she typed back, Why?

Ruhn replied. Because it’s one of the few places in this city without

cameras.

“Interesting,” she murmured. “You think I should give him a heads-up

that you’re coming?”

Hunt’s grin was pure wickedness. “Hel no.” Bryce couldn’t keep herself from grinning back.

21

Ruhn Danaan leaned against one of the marble pillars of the inner sanctum of Luna’s Temple and waited for his sister to arrive. Tourists drifted past, snapping photos, none marking his presence, thanks to the shadow veil he’d pulled around himself.

The chamber was long, its ceiling lofty. It had to be, to accommodate

the statue enthroned at the back.

Thirty feet high, Luna sat in a carved golden throne, the goddess

lovingly rendered in shimmering moonstone. A silver tiara of a full moon held by two crescent ones graced her upswept curling hair. At her sandaled feet lay twin wolves, their baleful eyes daring any pilgrim to come closer.

Across the back of her throne, a bow of solid gold had been slung, its quiver full of silver arrows. The pleats of her thigh-length robe draped across her lap, veiling the slim fingers resting there.

Both wolves and Fae claimed Luna as their patron goddess—had gone

to war over whom she favored in millennia long past. And while the wolves’ connection to her had been carved into the statue with stunning detail, the nod to the Fae had been missing for two years. Maybe the Autumn King had a point about restoring the Fae to glory. Not in the haughty, sneering way his father intended, but … the lack of Fae heritage on the statue raked down Ruhn’s nerves.

Footsteps scuffed in the courtyard beyond the sanctum doors, followed

by excited whispers and the click of cameras.

“The courtyard itself is modeled after the one in the Eternal City,” a

female voice was saying as a new flock of tourists entered the temple, trailing their guide like ducklings.

And at the rear of the group—a wine-red head of hair.

And a too-recognizable pair of gray wings.

Ruhn gritted his teeth, keeping hidden in the shadows. At least she’d

shown up.

The tour group stopped in the center of the inner sanctum, the guide

speaking loudly as everyone spread out, cameras flashing like Athalar’s lightning in the gloom. “And here it is, folks: the statue of Luna herself.

Lunathion’s patron goddess was crafted from a single block of marble hewn from the famed Caliprian Quarries by the Melanthos River up north. This temple was the first thing built upon the city’s founding five hundred years ago; the location of this city was selected precisely because of the way the Istros River bends through the land. Can anyone tell me what shape the river makes?”

“A crescent!” someone called out, the words echoing off the marble

pillars, wending through the curling smoke from the bowl of incense laid between the wolves at the goddess’s feet.

Ruhn saw Bryce and Hunt scan the sanctum for him, and he let the

shadows peel back long enough for them to spy his location. Bryce’s face revealed nothing. Athalar just grinned.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

With all the tourists focused on their guide, no one noticed the unusual

pair crossing the space. Ruhn kept the shadows at bay until Bryce and Hunt reached him—and then willed them to encompass them as well.

Hunt just said, “Fancy trick.” Bryce said nothing. Ruhn tried not to remember how delighted she’d

once been whenever he’d demonstrated how his shadows and starlight worked—both halves of his power working as one.

Ruhn said to her, “I asked you to come. Not him.” Bryce linked her arm through Athalar’s, the portrait they painted

laughable: Bryce in her fancy work dress and heels, the angel in his black battle-suit. “We’re joined at the hip now, unfortunately for you. Best, best friends.”

“The best,” Hunt echoed, his grin unfading.

Luna shoot him dead. This would not end well.

Bryce nodded to the tour group still trailing their leader through the

temple. “This place might not have any cameras, but they do.”

“They’re focused on their guide,” Ruhn said. “And the noise they’re

making will mask any conversation we have.” The shadows could only hide him from sight, not sound.

Through thin ripples in the shadows, they could make out a young

couple edging around the statue, so busy snapping photos they didn’t note the denser bit of darkness in the far corner. But Ruhn fell silent, and Bryce and Athalar followed suit.

As they waited for the couple to pass, the tour guide went on, “We’ll

dive more into the architectural wonders of the inner sanctum in a minute, but let’s direct our attention to the statue. The quiver, of course, is real gold, the arrows pure silver with tips of diamond.”

Someone let out an appreciative whistle. “Indeed,” the tour guide

agreed. “They were donated by the Archangel Micah, who is a patron and investor in various charities, foundations, and innovative companies.” The tour guide went on, “Unfortunately, two years ago, the third of Luna’s treasures was stolen from this temple. Can anyone tell me what it was?”

“The Horn,” someone said. “It was all over the news.” “It was a terrible theft. An artifact that cannot be replaced easily.” The couple moved on, and Ruhn uncrossed his arms.

Hunt said, “All right, Danaan. Get to the point. Why’d you ask Bryce to

come?”

Ruhn gestured to where the tourists were snapping photos of the

goddess’s hand. Specifically, the fingers that now curled around air, where a cracked ivory hunting horn had once lain.

“Because I was tasked by the Autumn King to find Luna’s Horn.” Athalar angled his head, but Bryce snorted. “Is that why you asked

about it last night?”

They were interrupted again by the tour guide saying, as she moved

toward the rear of the room, “If you’ll follow me, we’ve been granted special permission to see the chamber where the stag sacrifices are prepared to be burned in Luna’s honor.” Through the murky shadows, Bryce could make out a small door opening in the wall.

When they’d filtered out, Hunt asked, eyes narrowing, “What is the

Horn, exactly?”

“A bunch of fairy-tale bullcrap,” Bryce muttered. “You really dragged

me here for this? To what—help you impress your daddy?”

Growling, Ruhn pulled out his phone, making sure the shadows held

around them, and brought up the photos he’d snapped in the Fae Archives last night.

But he didn’t share them, not before he said to Athalar, “Luna’s Horn

was a weapon wielded by Pelias, the first Starborn Prince, during the First Wars. The Fae forged it in their home world, named it for the goddess in their new one, and used it to battle the demon hordes once they made the Crossing. Pelias wielded the Horn until he died.” Ruhn put a hand on his chest. “My ancestor—whose power flows in my veins. I don’t know how it worked, how Pelias used it with his magic, but the Horn became enough of a nuisance for the demon princes that they did everything they could to retrieve it from him.”

Ruhn held out his phone, the picture of the illuminated manuscript

glaringly bright in the thick shadows. The illustration of the carved horn lifted to the lips of a helmeted Fae male was as pristine as it had been when inked millennia ago. Above the figure gleamed an eight-pointed star, the emblem of the Starborn.

Bryce went wholly still. The stillness of the Fae, like a stag halting in a

wood.

Ruhn went on, “The Star-Eater himself bred a new horror just to hunt

the Horn, using some blood he managed to spill from Prince Pelias on a battlefield and his own terrible essence. A beast twisted out of the collision of light and darkness.” Ruhn swiped on his phone, and the next illustration appeared. The reason he’d had her come here—had taken this gamble.

Bryce recoiled at the grotesque, pale body, the clear teeth bared in a

roar.

“You recognize it,” Ruhn said softly.

Bryce shook herself, as if to bring herself back to reality, and rubbed her

thigh absently. “That’s the demon I found attacking the angel in the alley on that night.”

Hunt gave her a sharp look. “The one that attacked you, too?” Bryce gave a small, affirmative nod. “What is it?”

“It dwells in the darkest depths of the Pit,” Ruhn answered. “So

lightless that the Star-Eater named it the kristallos, for its clear blood and teeth.”

Athalar said, “I’ve never heard of it.” Bryce contemplated the drawing. “It … There was never a mention of a

fucking demon in the research I did on the Horn.” She met his gaze. “No one put this together two years ago?”

“I think it’s taken two years to put it together,” Ruhn said carefully.

“This volume was deep in the Fae Archives, with the stuff that’s not allowed to be scanned. None of your research would have ever pulled it up.

The entire damn thing was in the Old Language of the Fae.” And had taken him most of the night to translate. Throwing in the lingering fog of the mirthroot hadn’t helped.

Bryce’s brow furrowed. “But the Horn was broken—it basically became

a dud, right?”

“Right,” Ruhn said. “During the final battle of the First Wars, Prince

Pelias and the Prince of the Pit faced each other. The two of them fought for like three fucking days, until the Star-Eater struck the fatal blow. But not before Pelias was able to summon all the Horn’s strength, and banished the Prince of the Pit, his brethren, and their armies back to Hel. He sealed the Northern Rift forever—so only small cracks in it or summonings with salt can bring them over now.”

Athalar frowned. “So you mean to tell me this deadly artifact, which the

Prince of the Pit literally bred a new demon species to hunt, was just sitting here? In this temple? And no one from this world or Hel tried to take it until that blackout? Why?”

Bryce met Hunt’s disbelieving stare. “The Horn cracked in two when

Pelias sealed the Northern Rift. Its power was broken. The Fae and Asteri tried for years to renew it through magic and spells and all that crap, but no luck. It was given a place of honor in the Asteri Archives, but when they established Lunathion a few millennia later, they had it dedicated to the temple here.”

Ruhn shook his head. “That the Fae allowed for the artifact to be given

over suggests they’d dismissed its worth—that even my father might have forgotten its importance.” Until it was stolen—and he’d gotten it into his head that it would be a rallying symbol of power during a possible war.

Bryce added, “I thought it was just a replica until Jesiba made me start

looking for it.” She turned to Ruhn. “So you think someone has been summoning this demon to hunt for the Horn? But why, when it no longer has any power? And how does it explain any of the deaths? You think the victims somehow … had contact with the Horn, and it brought the kristallos right to them?” She went on before either of them could answer, “And why the two-year gap?”

Hunt mused, “Maybe the murderer waited until things calmed down

enough to resume searching.”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Ruhn admitted. “It doesn’t seem like

coincidence that the Horn went missing right before this demon showed up, though, and for the murders to be starting again—”

“Could mean someone is hunting for the Horn once more,” Bryce

finished, frowning.

Hunt said, “The kristallos’s presence in Lunathion suggests the Horn is

still inside the city walls.”

Bryce pinned Ruhn with a look. “Why does the Autumn King suddenly

want it?”

Ruhn chose his words carefully. “Call it pride. He wants it returned to

the Fae. And wants me to find it quietly.”

Athalar asked him, “But why ask you to look for the Horn?” The shadows veiling them rippled. “Because Prince Pelias’s Starborn

power was woven into the Horn itself. And it’s in my blood. My father thinks I might have some sort of preternatural gift to find it.” He admitted, “When I was browsing the Archives last night, this book … jumped out at me.”

“Literally?” Bryce asked, brows high.

Ruhn said, “It just felt like it … shimmered. I don’t fucking know. All I

know is I was down there for hours, and then I sensed the book, and when I saw that illustration of the Horn … There it was. The crap I translated confirmed it.”

“So the kristallos can track the Horn,” Bryce said, eyes glittering. “But

so can you.”

Athalar’s mouth curled in a crooked grin, catching Bryce’s drift. “We

find the demon, we find who’s behind this. And if we have the Horn …”

Ruhn grimaced. “The kristallos will come to us.”

Bryce glanced to the empty-handed statue behind them. “Better get

cracking, Ruhn.”

Hunt leaned against the entry pillars atop the steps leading into Luna’s Temple, his phone at his ear. He’d left Quinlan inside with her cousin, needing to make this phone call before they could sort out logistics. He would have made the call right there, but the moment he’d pulled up his contacts list, he’d earned a snipe from Bryce about mobile phones in sacred spaces.

Cthona spare him. Declining to tell her to fuck off, he’d decided to

spare them a public scene and stalked out through the cypress-lined courtyard and to the front steps.

Five temple acolytes emerged from the sprawling villa behind the

temple itself, bearing brooms and hoses to clean the temple steps and the flagstones beyond it for their midday washing.

Unnecessary, he wanted to tell the young females. With the misting rain

yet again gracing the city, the hoses were superfluous.

Teeth gritted, he listened to the phone ring and ring. “Pick the fuck up,”

he muttered.

A dark-skinned temple acolyte—black-haired, white-robed, and no

more than twelve—gaped at him as she walked past, clutching a broom to her chest. He nearly winced, realizing the portrait of wrath he now presented, and checked his expression.

The Fae girl still kept back, the golden crescent moon dangling from a

delicate chain across her brow glinting in the gray light. A waxing moon— until she became a full-fledged priestess upon reaching maturity, when she would trade the crescent for the full circle of Luna. And whenever her immortal body began to age and fade, her cycle vanishing with it, she would again trade the charm, this time for a waning crescent.

The priestesses all had their own reasons for offering themselves to

Luna. For forsaking their lives beyond the temple grounds and embracing the goddess’s eternal maidenhood. Just as Luna had no mate or lover, so they would live.

Hunt had always thought celibacy seemed like a bore. Until Shahar had

ruined him for anyone else.

Hunt offered the shrinking acolyte his best attempt at a smile. To his

surprise, the Fae girl offered a small one back. The girl had courage.

Justinian Gelos answered on the sixth ring. “How’s babysitting?” Hunt straightened. “Don’t sound so amused.” Justinian huffed a laugh. “You sure Micah’s not punishing you?” Hunt had considered the question a great deal in the past two days.

Across the empty street, the palm trees dotting the rain-soft grasses of the Oracle’s Park shone in the gray light, the domed onyx building of the Oracle’s Temple veiled in the mists that had rolled in over the river.

Even at midday, the Oracle’s Park was near-empty, save for the

hunched, slumbering forms of the desperate Vanir and humans who wandered the paths and gardens, waiting for their turn to enter the incense-filled hallways.

And if the answers they sought weren’t what they’d hoped … Well, the

white-stoned temple on whose steps Hunt now stood could offer some solace.

Hunt glanced over his shoulder to the dim temple interior just visible

through the towering bronze doors. In the firstlight from a row of shimmering braziers, he could just barely make out the gleam of red hair in the quiet gloom of the inner sanctum, shining like molten metal as Bryce talked animatedly with Ruhn.

“No,” Hunt said at last. “I don’t think this assignment was punishment.

He was out of options and knew I’d cause more trouble if he stationed me on guard duty around Sandriel.” And Pollux.

He didn’t mention the bargain he’d struck with Micah. Not when

Justinian bore the halo as well and Micah had never shown much interest in him beyond his popularity with the grunt troops of the 33rd. If there was any sort of deal to earn his freedom, Justinian had never said a word.

Justinian blew out a breath. “Yeah—shit’s getting intense around here

right now. People are on edge and she hasn’t even arrived yet. You’re better off where you are.”

A glassy-eyed Fae male stumbled past the steps of the temple, got a

good look at who was barring entry into the temple itself—and aimed for the street, staggering toward the Oracle’s Park and the domed building in its heart. Another lost soul looking for answers in smoke and whispers.

“I’m not so sure of that,” Hunt said. “I need you to look up something

for me—an old-school demon. The kristallos. Just search through the databases and see if anything pops up.” He’d have asked Vik, but she was already busy going through the alibi footage from the Viper Queen.

“I’ll get on it,” Justinian said. “I’ll message over any results.” He added,

“Good luck.”

“I’ll need it,” Hunt admitted. In a hundred fucking ways.

Justinian added slyly, “Though it doesn’t hurt that your partner is easy

on the eyes.”

“I gotta go.” “No one gets a medal for suffering the most, you know,” Justinian

pushed, his voice slipping into uncharacteristic seriousness. “It’s been two centuries since Shahar died, Hunt.”

“Whatever.” He didn’t want to have this conversation. Not with

Justinian or anyone.

“It’s admirable that you’re still holding out for her, but let’s be realistic

about—”

Hunt hung up. Debated throwing his phone against a pillar.

He had to call Isaiah and Micah about the Horn. Fuck. When it had

gone missing two years ago, top inspectors from the 33rd and the Aux had combed this temple. They’d found nothing. And since no cameras were allowed within the temple walls, there had been no hint of who might have taken it. It had been nothing more than a stupid prank, everyone had claimed.

Everyone except for the Autumn King, it seemed.

Hunt hadn’t paid much attention to the theft of the Horn, and sure as

fuck hadn’t listened during history lessons as a boy about the First Wars.

And after Danika’s and the Pack of Devils’ murders, they’d had bigger things to worry about.

He couldn’t tell what was worse: the Horn possibly being a vital piece

of this case, or the fact that he’d now have to work alongside Ruhn Danaan to find it.

22

Bryce waited until Hunt’s muscled back and beautiful wings had disappeared through the inner sanctum’s gates before she whirled on Ruhn. “Did the Autumn King do it?”

Ruhn’s blue eyes glimmered in his shadow-nest or whatever the fuck he

called it. “No. He’s a monster in so many ways, but he wouldn’t kill Danika.”

She’d come to that conclusion the other night, but she asked, “How can

you be so sure? You have no idea what the Hel his long-term agenda is.”

Ruhn crossed his arms. “Why ask me to hunt for the Horn if he’s

summoning the kristallos?”

“Two trackers are better than one?” Her heart thundered. “He’s not behind this. He’s just trying to take advantage of the situation

—to restore the Fae to their former glory. You know how he likes to delude himself with that kind of crap.”

Bryce trailed her fingers through the wall of shadows, the darkness

running over her skin like mist. “Does he know you came to meet with me?”

“No.” She held her brother’s stare. “Why …” She struggled for words. “Why

bother?”

“Because I want to help you. Because this shit puts the entire city at

risk.”

“How very Chosen One of you.”

Silence stretched between them, so taut it trembled. She blurted, “Just

because we’re working together doesn’t mean anything changes between us. You’ll find the Horn, and I’ll find who’s behind this. End of story.”

“Fine,” Ruhn said, his eyes cold. “I wouldn’t expect you to consider

listening to me anyway.”

“Why would I listen to you?” she seethed. “I’m just a half-breed slut,

right?”

Ruhn stiffened, a flush flaring. “You know it was a dumb fight and I

didn’t mean that—”

“Yes, you fucking did,” she spat, and turned on her heel. “You might

dress like you’re a punk rebelling against Daddy’s rules, but deep down, you’re no better than the rest of the Fae shitheads who kiss your Chosen One ass.”

Ruhn snarled, but Bryce didn’t wait before shoving through the

shadows, blinking at the flood of light that greeted her, and aiming for where Hunt had paused at the doors.

“Let’s go,” she said. She didn’t care what he’d overheard.

Hunt lingered in place, his black eyes flickering as he gazed toward the

shadowed back of the room, where her so-called cousin was again veiled in darkness. But the angel thankfully said nothing as he fell into step beside her, and she said nothing more to him.

Bryce practically ran back to the gallery. In part to start researching the Horn again, but also thanks to the flurry of messages from Jesiba, demanding to know where she was, whether she still wanted her job, and whether she’d prefer to be turned into a rat or a pigeon. And then an order to get back now to greet a client.

Five minutes after Bryce got there, Jesiba’s client—a raging asshole of

a leopard shifter who believed he was entitled to put his paws all over her ass—prowled in and purchased a small statue of Solas and Cthona, portrayed as a sun with male features burying his face in a pair of mountain-shaped breasts. The holy image was known simply as the Embrace. Her mother even wore its simplified symbol—a circle nestled atop two triangles —as a silver pendant. But Bryce had always found the Embrace cheesy and

cliché in every incarnation. Thirty minutes and two blatant rejections to his slimy come-ons later, Bryce was mercifully alone again.

But in the hours she looked, the gallery’s databases for Luna’s Horn

revealed nothing beyond what she already knew, and what her brother had claimed that morning. Even Lehabah, gossip queen extraordinaire, didn’t know anything about the Horn.

With Ruhn heading back to the Fae Archives to see if any more

information appealed to his Starborn sensibilities, she supposed she’d have to wait for an update.

Hunt had gone to take watch on the roof, apparently needing to make

calls to his boss—or whatever Micah pretended he was—and Isaiah regarding the Horn. He hadn’t tried to come back down to the library, as if sensing she needed space.

Look toward where it hurts the most. That’s always where the answers

are.

Bryce found herself staring down at the half-finished list she’d started

that morning.

She might not be able to find much on the Horn itself, but maybe she

could figure out how the Hel Danika factored into all of it.

Hands shaking, she made herself finish the list of Danika’s locations—

as far as she knew.

By the time the sun was near setting, and Syrinx was ready to be

walked home, Bryce would have traded what was left of her soul to a Reaper just for the quiet comfort of her bed. It had been a long fucking day, full of information she needed to process, and a list that she’d left in her desk drawer.

It must have been a long day for Athalar, too, because he trailed her and

Syrinx from the skies without saying a word to her.

She was in bed by eight, and didn’t even remember falling asleep.

23

The next morning, Bryce was sitting at the reception desk in the gallery’s showroom, staring at her list of Danika’s last locations, when her phone rang.

“The deal with the leopard went through,” she said to Jesiba by way of

greeting. The paperwork had been finalized an hour ago.

“I need you to go up into my office and send me a file from my

computer.”

Bryce rolled her eyes, refraining from snipping, You’re welcome, and

asked, “You don’t have access to it?”

“I made sure this one wasn’t on the network.” Nostrils flaring, Bryce rose, her leg throbbing slightly, and walked to

the small door in the wall adjacent to the desk. A hand on the metal panel beside it had the enchantments unlocking, the door swinging open to reveal the tight, carpeted staircase upward.

“When I want things done, Bryce, you’re to do them. No questions.” “Yes, Jesiba,” Bryce muttered, climbing the stairs. Dodging the

reaching hands of the leopard shifter yesterday had twinged something in her bad leg.

“Would you like to be a worm, Bryce?” Jesiba purred, voice sliding into

something eerily close to a Reaper’s rasp. At least Jesiba wasn’t one of them—even if Bryce knew the sorceress often dealt with them in the House of Flame and Shadow. Thank the gods none had ever shown up at the gallery, though. “Would you like to be a dung beetle or a centipede?”

“I’d prefer to be a dragonfly.” Bryce entered the small, plush office

upstairs. One wall was a pane of glass that overlooked the gallery floor a level below, the material utterly soundproof.

“Be careful what you ask of me,” Jesiba went on. “You’d find that

smart mouth of yours shut up fairly quickly if I transform you. You wouldn’t have any voice at all.”

Bryce calculated the time difference between Lunathion and the western

shores of Pangera and realized Jesiba had probably just come back from dinner. “That Pangeran red wine is heady stuff, isn’t it?” She was almost to the wooden desk when the firstlights flicked on. A rack of them illuminated the dismantled gun hanging on the wall behind the desk, the Godslayer Rifle gleaming as fresh as it had the day it’d been forged. She could have sworn a faint whine radiated from the gold and steel—like the legendary, lethal gun was still ringing after a shot.

It unnerved her that it was in here, despite the fact that Jesiba had split it

into four pieces, mounted like a work of art behind her desk. Four pieces that could still be easily assembled, but it put her clients at ease, even while it reminded them that she was in charge.

Bryce knew the sorceress never told them about the six-inch engraved

golden bullet in the safe beside the painting on the right wall. Jesiba had shown it to her just once, letting her read the words etched onto the bullet: Memento Mori.

The same words that appeared in the mosaic in the Meat Market.

It’d seemed melodramatic, but some part of her had marveled at it—at

the bullet and at the rifle, so rare only a few existed in Midgard.

Bryce powered up Jesiba’s computer, letting the female rattle off

instructions before sending the file. Bryce was halfway down the stairs again when she asked her boss, “Have you heard anything new about Luna’s Horn?”

A long, contemplative pause. “Does it have to do with this investigation

of yours?”

“Maybe.” Jesiba’s low, cold voice was an embodiment of the House she served. “I

haven’t heard anything.” Then she hung up. Bryce gritted her teeth as she headed back to her desk on the showroom floor.

Lehabah interrupted her by whispering through the iron door, “Can I see

Athie now?”

“No, Lele.” He’d kept his distance this morning, too. Good.

Look toward where it hurts the most.

She had her list of Danika’s locations. Unfortunately, she knew what

she had to do next. What she’d woken up this morning dreading. Her phone rang in her clenched hand, and Bryce steeled herself for Jesiba calling to bitch that she’d fucked up the file, but it was Hunt.

“Yeah?” she asked by way of greeting. “There’s been another murder.” His voice was tight—cold.

She nearly dropped the phone. “Who—” “I’m still getting the details. But it was about ten blocks from here—

near the Gate in the Old Square.”

Her heart beat so fast she could scarcely draw breath to say, “Any

witnesses?”

“No. But let’s go over there.” Her hands shook. “I’m busy,” she lied.

Hunt paused. “I’m not fucking around, Quinlan.” No. No, she couldn’t do it, endure it, see it again— Bryce forced herself to breathe, practically inhaling the peppermint

vapors from the diffuser. “There’s a client coming—”

He banged on the gallery door, sealing her fate. “We’re leaving.”

Bryce’s entire body was taut to the point of near-trembling as she and Hunt approached the magi-screens blocking the alley a few blocks away from the Old Square Gate.

She tried to breathe through it, tried all the techniques she’d read and

heard about regarding reining in her dread, that sickening plunging feeling in her stomach. None of them worked.

Angels and Fae and shifters milled about the alley, some on radios or

phones.

“A jogger found the remains,” Hunt said as people parted to let him

pass. “They think it happened sometime last night.” He added carefully, “The 33rd’s still working on getting an ID, but from the clothes, it looks

like an acolyte from Luna’s Temple. Isaiah is already asking the temple priestesses who might be missing.”

All sounds turned into a blaring drone. She didn’t entirely remember the

walk over.

Hunt edged around the magi-screen blocking the crime scene from

view, took one look at what lay there, and swore. He whirled toward her, as if realizing what he was dragging her back into, but too late.

Blood had splashed across the bricks of the building, pooled on the

cracked stones of the alley floor, splattered on the sides of the dumpster.

And beside that dumpster, as if someone had chucked them out of a bucket, sat clumps of red pulp. A torn robe lay beside the carnage.

The droning turned into a roar. Her body pulled farther away.

Danika howling with laughter, Connor winking at her, Bronson and

Zach and Zelda and Nathalie and Thorne all in hysterics—

Then nothing but red pulp. All of them, all they had been, all she had

been with them, became nothing more than piles of red pulp.

Gone, gone, gone— A hand gripped her shoulder. But not Athalar’s. No, Hunt remained

where he was, face now hard as stone.

She flinched as Ruhn said at her ear, “You don’t need to see this.” This was another murder. Another body. Another year.

A medwitch even knelt before the body, a wand buzzing with firstlight

in her hands, trying to piece the corpse—the girl—back together.

Ruhn tugged her away, toward the screen and open air beyond— The movement shook her loose. Snapped the droning in her ears.

She yanked her body free from his grip, not caring if anyone else saw,

not caring that he, as head of the Fae Aux units, had the right to be here. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

Ruhn’s mouth tightened. But he looked over her shoulder to Hunt.

“You’re an asshole.”

Hunt’s eyes glittered. “I warned her on the walk over what she’d see.”

He added a touch ruefully, “I didn’t realize what a mess it’d be.” He had warned her, hadn’t he? She’d drifted so far away that she’d barely listened to Hunt on the walk. As dazed as if she’d snorted a heap of lightseeker.

Hunt added, “She’s a grown woman. She doesn’t need you deciding what

she can handle.” He nodded toward the alley exit. “Shouldn’t you be researching? We’ll call you if you’re needed, princeling.”

“Fuck you,” Ruhn shot back, shadows twining through his hair. Others

were noticing now. “You don’t think it’s more than a coincidence that an acolyte was killed right after we went to the temple?”

Their words didn’t register. None of it registered.

Bryce turned from the alley, the swarming investigators. Ruhn said,

“Bryce—”

“Leave me alone,” she said quietly, and kept walking. She shouldn’t

have let Athalar bully her into coming, shouldn’t have seen this, shouldn’t have had to remember.

Once, she might have gone right to the dance studio. Would have

danced and moved until the world made sense again. It had always been her haven, her way of puzzling out the world. She’d gone to the studio whenever she’d had a shit day.

It had been two years since she’d set foot in one. She’d thrown out all

her dance clothes and shoes. Her bags. The one at the apartment had all been splattered with blood anyway—Danika’s, Connor’s, and Thorne’s on the clothes in the bedroom, and Zelda’s and Bronson’s on her secondary bag, which had been left hanging beside the door. Blood patterns just like—

A rain-kissed scent brushed her nose as Hunt fell into step beside her.

And there he was. Another memory from that night.

“Hey,” Hunt said.

Hey, he’d said to her, so long ago. She’d been a wreck, a ghost, and

then he’d been there, kneeling beside her, those dark eyes unreadable as he’d said, Hey.

She hadn’t told him—that she remembered that night in the

interrogation room. She sure as Hel didn’t feel like telling him now.

If she had to talk to someone, she’d explode. If she had to do anything

right now, she’d sink into one of those primal Fae wraths and—

The haze started to creep over her vision, her muscles seizing painfully,

her fingertips curled as if imagining shredding into someone—

“Walk it off,” Hunt murmured. “Leave me alone, Athalar.” She wouldn’t look at him. Couldn’t stand

him or her brother or anyone. If the acolyte’s murder had been because of their presence at the temple, either as a warning or because the girl might

have seen something related to the Horn, if they’d accidentally brought her death about … Her legs kept moving, swifter and swifter. Hunt didn’t falter for a beat.

She wouldn’t cry. Wouldn’t dissolve into a hyperventilating mess on the

street corner. Wouldn’t scream or puke or—

After another block, Hunt said roughly, “I was there that night.” She kept walking, her heels eating up the pavement.

Hunt asked, “How did you survive the kristallos?” He’d no doubt been looking at the body just now and wondering this.

How did she, a pathetic half-breed, survive when full-blooded Vanir hadn’t?

“I didn’t survive,” she mumbled, crossing a street and edging around a

car idling in the intersection. “It got away.”

“But the kristallos pinned Micah, ripped open his chest—” She nearly tripped over the curb, and whipped around to gape at him.

“That was Micah?”

24

She had saved Micah Domitus that night.

Not some random legionary, but the gods-damned Archangel himself.

No wonder the emergency responder had launched into action when he traced the phone number.

The knowledge rippled through her, warping and clearing some of the

fog around her memories. “I saved the Governor in the alley.”

Hunt just gave her a slow, wincing nod.

Her voice sharpened. “Why was it a secret?” Hunt waited until a flock of tourists had passed before saying, “For his

sake. If word got out that the Governor had his ass handed to him, it wouldn’t have looked good.”

“Especially when he was saved by a half-breed?” “No one in our group ever used that term—you know that, right? But

yes. We did consider how it’d look if a twenty-three-year-old human-Fae female who hadn’t made the Drop had saved the Archangel when he couldn’t save himself.”

Her blood roared in her ears. “Why not tell me, though? I looked in all

the hospitals, just to see if he’d made it.” More than that, actually. She’d demanded answers about how the warrior was recovering, but she’d been put on hold or ignored or asked to leave.

“I know,” Hunt said, scanning her face. “It was deemed wiser to keep it

a secret. Especially when your phone got hacked right after—”

“So I was just going to live in ignorance forever—”

“Did you want a medal or something? A parade?” She halted so quickly that Hunt had to splay his wings to pause, too.

“Go fuck yourself. What I wanted …” She tried to stop the sharp, jagged breaths that blinded her, built and built under her skin— “What I wanted,” she hissed, resuming her walk as he just stared at her, “was to know that something I did made a difference that night. I assumed you’d dumped him in the Istros—some legionary grunt not worth the honor of a Sailing.”

Hunt shook his head. “Look, I know it was shitty. And I’m sorry, okay?

I’m sorry for all of it, Quinlan. I’m sorry we didn’t tell you, and I’m sorry you’re on my suspect list, and I’m sorry—”

“I’m on your what?” she spat. Red washed over her vision as she bared

her teeth. “After all of this,” she seethed, “you think I am a fucking suspect?” She screamed the last words, only pure will keeping her from leaping on him and shredding his face off.

Hunt held up his hands. “That—fuck, Bryce. That didn’t come out right.

Look—I had to consider every angle, every possibility, but I know now … Solas, when I saw your face in that alley, I realized it couldn’t ever have been you, and—”

“Get the fuck out of my sight.” He watched her, assessing, then spread his wings. She refused to back

up a step, teeth still bared. The wind off his wings stirred her hair, throwing his cedar-and-rain scent into her face as he leapt into the skies.

Look toward where it hurts the most.

Fuck the Viper Queen. Fuck everything.

Bryce launched into a run—a steady, swift run, despite the flimsy flats

she’d switched into at the gallery. A run not toward anything or from anything, but just … movement. The pounding of her feet on pavement, the heaving of her breath.

Bryce ran and ran, until sounds returned and the haze receded and she

could escape the screaming labyrinth of her mind. It wasn’t dancing, but it would do.

Bryce ran until her body screamed to stop. Ran until her phone buzzed and she wondered if Urd herself had extended a golden hand. The phone call was swift, breathless.

Minutes later, Bryce slowed to a walk as she approached the White

Raven. And then stopped entirely before the alcove tucked into the wall just beside its service doors. Sweat ran down her neck, into her dress, soaking the green fabric as she again pulled out her phone.

But she didn’t call Hunt. He hadn’t interrupted her, but she knew he was

overhead.

A few drops of rain splattered the pavement. She hoped it poured on

Athalar all night.

Her fingers hesitated on the screen, and she sighed, knowing she

shouldn’t.

But she did. Standing there in that same alcove where she’d exchanged

some of her final messages with Danika, she pulled up the thread. It burned her eyes.

She scrolled upward, past all those final, happy words and teasing. To

the photo Danika had sent that afternoon of herself and the pack at the sunball game, decked out in CCU gear. In the background, Bryce could make out the players on the field—Ithan’s powerful form among them.

But her gaze drifted to Danika’s face. That broad smile she’d known as

well as her own.

I love you, Bryce. The worn memory of that mid-May day during their

senior year tugged at her, sucked her in.

The hot road bit into Bryce’s knees through her torn jeans, her scraped

hands trembling as she kept them interlocked behind her head, where she’d been ordered to hold them. The pain in her arm sliced like a knife. Broken.

The males had made her put her hands up anyway.

The stolen motorcycle was no more than scrap metal on the dusty

highway, the unmarked semitruck pulled over twenty feet away left idle. The rifle had been thrown into the olive grove beyond the mountain road, wrenched from Bryce’s hands in the accident that had led them here. The accident Danika had shielded her from, wrapping her body around Bryce’s.

Danika had taken the shredding of the asphalt for them both.

Ten feet away, hands also behind her head, Danika bled from so many

places her clothes were soaked with it. How had it come to this? How had things gone so terribly wrong?

“Where are those fucking bullets?” the male from the truck shrieked to

his cronies, his empty gun—that blessedly, unexpectedly empty gun—

clenched in his hand.

Danika’s caramel eyes were wide, searching, as they remained on

Bryce’s face. Sorrow and pain and fear and regret—all of it was written there.

“I love you, Bryce.” Tears rolled down Danika’s face. “And I’m sorry.” She had never said those words before. Ever. Bryce had teased her for

the past three years about it, but Danika had refused to say them.

Motion caught Bryce’s attention to their left. Bullets had been found in

the truck’s cab. But her gaze remained on Danika. On that beautiful, fierce face.

She let go, like a key turning in a lock. The first rays of the sun over the

horizon.

And Bryce whispered, as those bullets came closer to that awaiting gun

and the monstrous male who wielded it, “Close your eyes, Danika.”

Bryce blinked, the shimmering memory replaced by the photo still

glaring from her screen. Of Danika and the Pack of Devils years later—so happy and young and alive.

Mere hours from their true end.

The skies opened, and wings rustled above, reminding her of Athalar’s

hovering presence. But she didn’t bother to look as she strode into the club.

25

Hunt knew he’d fucked up. And he was in deep shit with Micah—if Micah found out that he’d revealed the truth about that night.

He doubted Quinlan had made that call—either to the sorceress or to

Micah’s office—and he’d make sure she didn’t. Maybe he’d bribe her with a new pair of shoes or some purse or whatever the fuck might be enticing enough to keep her mouth shut. One fuckup, one misstep, and he had few illusions about how Micah would react.

He let Quinlan run through the city, trailing her from the Old Square

into the dark wasteland of Asphodel Meadows, then into the CBD, and back to the Old Square again.

Hunt flew above her, listening to the symphony of honking cars,

thumping bass, and the brisk April wind whispering through the palms and cypresses. Witches on brooms soared down the streets, some close enough to touch the roofs of the cars they passed. So different from the angels, Hunt included, who always kept above the buildings when flying. As if the witches wanted to be a part of the bustle the angels defined themselves by avoiding.

While he’d trailed Quinlan, Justinian had called with the information on

the kristallos, which amounted to a whole lot of nothing. A few myths that matched with what they already knew. Vik had called five minutes after that: the Viper Queen’s alibis checked out.

Then Isaiah had called, confirming that the victim in the alley was

indeed a missing acolyte. He knew Danaan’s suspicions were right: it

couldn’t be coincidence that they’d been at the temple yesterday, talking about the Horn and the demon that had slaughtered Danika and the Pack of Devils, and now one of its acolytes had died at the kristallos’s claws.

A Fae girl. Barely more than a child. Acid burned through his stomach

at the thought.

He shouldn’t have brought Quinlan to the murder scene. Shouldn’t have

pushed her into going, so blinded by his damn need to get this investigation solved quickly that he hadn’t thought twice about her hesitation.

He hadn’t realized until he’d seen her look at the pulped body, until her

face had gone white as death, that her quiet wasn’t calm at all. It was shock.

Trauma. Horror. And he’d shoved her into it.

He’d fucked up, and Ruhn had been right to call him on that, but—shit.

He’d taken one look at Quinlan’s ashen face and known she hadn’t been

behind these murders, or even remotely involved. And he was a giant fucking asshole for even entertaining the idea. For even telling her she’d been on his list.

He rubbed his face. He wished Shahar were here, soaring beside him.

She’d always let him talk out various strategies or issues during the five years he’d been with her 18th, always listened, and asked questions.

Challenged him in a way no one else had.

By the time an hour had passed and the rain had begun, Hunt had

planned a whole speech. He doubted Quinlan wanted to hear it, or would admit what she’d felt today, but he owed her an apology. He’d lost so many essential parts of himself over these centuries of enslavement and war, but he liked to think he hadn’t lost his basic decency. At least not yet.

After completing those two thousand–plus kills he still had to make if

he failed to solve this case, however, he couldn’t imagine he’d have even that left. Whether the person he’d be at that point would deserve freedom, he didn’t know. Didn’t want to think about it.

But then Bryce got a phone call—got one, didn’t make one, thank fuck

—and didn’t break her stride to answer it. Too high up to hear, he could only watch as she’d shifted directions again and aimed—he realized ten minutes later—for Archer Street.

Just as the rain increased, she’d paused outside the White Raven and

spent a few minutes on her phone. But despite his eagle-sharp eyesight, he couldn’t make out what she was doing on it. So he’d watched from the

adjacent roof, and must have checked his own phone a dozen times in those five minutes like a pathetic fucking loser, hoping she’d message him.

And right when the rain turned to a downpour, she put her phone away,

walked past the bouncers with a little wave, and vanished into the White Raven without so much as a look upward.

Hunt landed, sending Vanir and humans skittering down the sidewalk.

And the half-wolf, half-daemonaki bouncer had the nerve to actually hold out a hand. “Line’s to the right,” the male to his left rumbled.

“I’m with Bryce,” he said.

The other bouncer said, “Tough shit. Line’s on the right.” The line, despite the early hour, was already down the block. “I’m here

on legion business,” Hunt said, fishing for his badge, wherever the fuck he’d put it—

The door cracked open, and a stunning Fae waitress peeked out. “Riso

says he’s in, Crucius.”

The bouncer who’d first spoken just held Hunt’s stare.

Hunt smirked. “Some other time.” Then he followed the female inside.

The scent of sex and booze and sweat that hit him had every instinct

rising with dizzying speed as they crossed the glass-framed courtyard and ascended the steps. The half-crumbled pillars were uplit by purple lights.

He’d never set foot in the club—always made Isaiah or one of the

others do it. Mostly because he knew it was no better than the palaces and country villas of the Pangeran Archangels, where feasts turned to orgies that lasted for days. All while people starved mere steps from those villas— humans and Vanir alike rooting through garbage piles for anything to fill their children’s bellies. He knew his temper and triggers well enough to stay the fuck away.

Some people whispered as he walked by. He just kept his eyes on

Bryce, who was already in a booth between two carved pillars, sipping at a glass of something clear—either vodka or gin. With all the scents in here, he couldn’t make it out.

Her eyes lifted to him from the rim of her glass as she sipped. “How’d

you get in?”

“It’s a public place, isn’t it?” She said nothing. Hunt sighed, and was about to sit down to make that

apology when he scented jasmine and vanilla, and—

“Excuse me, sir—oh. Um. Erm.” He found himself looking at a lovely

faun, dressed in a white tank top and skirt short enough to show off her long, striped legs and delicate hooves. Her gently arcing horns were nearly hidden in curly hair that was pulled back into a coiled bun, her brown skin dusted with gold that flickered in the club lights. Gods, she was beautiful.

Juniper Andromeda: Bryce’s friend in the ballet. He’d read her file, too.

The dancer glanced between Hunt and Quinlan. “I—I hope I’m not interrupting anything—”

“He was just leaving,” Bryce said, draining her glass.

He finally slid into the booth. “I was just arriving.” He extended a hand

to the faun. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Hunt.”

“I know who you are,” the faun said, her voice husky.

Juniper’s grip was light but solid. Bryce refilled her glass from a

decanter of clear liquid and drank deep. Juniper asked her, “Did you order food? Rehearsal just let out and I’m starving.” Though the faun was thin, she was leanly muscled, strong as Hel beneath that graceful exterior.

Bryce held up her drink. “I’m having a liquid dinner.” Juniper frowned. But she asked Hunt, “You want food?” “Hel yes.” “You can order whatever you want—they’ll get it for you.” She raised a

hand, signaling a waitress. “I’ll have a veggie burger, no cheese, with a side of fries, vegetable oil only to cook them, and two pieces of pizza—plant-based cheese on it, please.” She bit her lip, then explained to Hunt, “I don’t eat animal products.”

As a faun, meat and dairy were abhorrent. Milk was only for nursing

babies.

“Got it,” he said. “You mind if I do?” He’d fought alongside fauns over

the centuries. Some hadn’t been able to stand the sight of meat. Some hadn’t cared. It was always worth asking.

Juniper blinked, but shook her head.

He offered the waitress a smile as he said, “I’ll have … a bone-in rib

eye and roasted green beans.” What the Hel. He glanced at Bryce, who was guzzling her booze like it was a protein shake.

She hadn’t eaten dinner yet, and even though he’d been distracted this

morning when she’d emerged from her bedroom in nothing but a lacy hot-pink bra and matching underwear, he’d noted through the living room

window that she’d also forgone breakfast, and since she hadn’t brought lunch with her or ordered in, he was willing to bet she hadn’t eaten that, either.

So Hunt said, “She’ll have lamb kofta with rice, roasted chickpeas, and

pickles on the side. Thanks.” He’d watched her go for lunch a few times now, and had scented precisely what was inside her takeaway bags. Bryce opened her mouth, but the waitress was already gone. Juniper surveyed them nervously. Like she knew precisely what Bryce was about to—

“Are you going to cut my food, too?” “What?” “Just because you’re some big, tough asshole doesn’t mean you get the

right to decide when I should eat—or when I’m not taking care of my body.

I’m the one who lives in it, I know when I fucking want to eat. So keep your possessive and aggressive bullshit to yourself.”

Juniper’s swallow was audible over the music. “Long day at work,

Bryce?”

Bryce reached for her drink again. But Hunt moved faster, his hand

wrapping around her wrist and pinning it to the table before she could guzzle down more booze.

“Get your fucking hand off me,” she snarled.

Hunt threw her a half smile. “Don’t be such a cliché.” Her eyes

simmered. “You have a rough day and you come to drown yourself in vodka?” He snorted, letting go of her wrist and grabbing her glass. He lifted it to his lips, holding her stare over the rim as he said, “At least tell me you have good taste in—” He sniffed the liquor. Tasted it. “This is water.”

Her fingers curled into fists on the table. “I don’t drink.” Juniper said, “I invited Bryce tonight. It’s been a while since we’ve seen

each other, and I have to meet some of the company members here later, so

—”

“Why don’t you drink?” Hunt asked Bryce. “You’re the Umbra Mortis. I’m sure you can figure it out.” Bryce

scooted out of the booth, forcing Juniper to get up. “Though considering you thought I killed my best friend, maybe you can’t.” Hunt bristled, but Bryce just declared, “I’m going to the bathroom.” Then she walked right into the throng on the ancient dance floor, the crowd swallowing her as she

wove her way toward a distant door between two pillars at the back of the space.

Juniper’s face was tight. “I’ll go with her.” Then she was gone, moving swift and light, two males gaping as she

passed. Juniper ignored them. She caught up to Bryce midway across the dance floor, halting her with a hand on her arm. Juniper smiled—bright as the lights around them—and began speaking, gesturing to the booth, the club. Bryce’s face remained cold as stone. Colder.

Males approached, saw that expression, and didn’t venture closer. “Well, if she’s pissed at you, it’ll make me look better,” drawled a male

voice beside him.

Hunt didn’t bother to look pleasant. “Tell me you’ve found something.” The Crown Prince of the Valbaran Fae leaned against the edge of the

booth, his strikingly blue eyes lingering on his cousin. He’d no doubt used those shadows of his to creep up without Hunt’s notice. “Negative. I got a call from the Raven’s owner that she was here. She was in bad enough shape when she left the crime scene that I wanted to make sure she was all right.”

Hunt couldn’t argue with that. So he said nothing.

Ruhn nodded toward where the females stood motionless in the middle

of a sea of dancers. “She used to dance, you know. If she’d been able, she would have gone into the ballet like Juniper.”

He hadn’t known—not really. Those facts had been blips on her file.

“Why’d she drop it?”

“You’ll have to ask her. But she stopped dancing completely after

Danika died.”

“And drinking, it seems.” Hunt glanced toward her discarded glass of

water.

Ruhn followed his line of sight. If he was surprised, the prince didn’t let

on.

Hunt took a sip of Bryce’s water and shook his head. Not a party girl at

all—just content to let the world believe the worst of her.

Including him. Hunt rolled his shoulders, wings moving with him, as he

watched her on the dance floor. Yeah, he’d fucked up. Royally.

Bryce looked toward the booth and when she saw her cousin there …

There were trenches of Hel warmer than the look she gave Ruhn.

Juniper tracked her gaze.

Bryce took all of one step toward the booth before the club exploded.

26

One minute, Athalar and Ruhn were talking. One minute, Bryce was about to go rip into both of them for their alphahole protectiveness, smothering her even from afar. One minute, she was just trying not to drown in the weight that had yanked her under that too-familiar black surface. No amount of running could free her from it, buy her a sip of air.

The next, her ears hollowed out, the ground ripped from beneath her,

the ceiling rained down, people screamed, blood sprayed, fear scented the air, and she was twisting, lunging for Juniper—

Shrill, incessant ringing filled her head.

The world had been tipped on its side.

Or maybe that was because she lay sprawled on the wrecked floor,

debris and shrapnel and body parts around her.

But Bryce kept down, stayed arched over Juniper, who might have been

screaming—

That shrill ringing wouldn’t stop. It drowned out every other sound.

Coppery slickness in her mouth—blood. Plaster coated her skin.

“Get up.” Hunt’s voice cut through the ringing, the screaming, the

shrieking, and his strong hands wrapped around her shoulders. She thrashed against him, reaching for Juniper—

But Ruhn was already there, blood running from his temple as he

helped her friend stand—

Bryce looked over every inch of Juniper: plaster and dust and someone

else’s green blood, but not a scratch, not a scratch, not a scratch—

Bryce swayed back into Hunt, who gripped her shoulders. “We need to

get out—now,” the angel was saying to Ruhn, ordering her brother like a foot soldier. “There could be more.”

Juniper pushed out of Ruhn’s grip and screamed at Bryce, “Are you out

of your mind?”

Her ears—her ears wouldn’t stop ringing, and maybe her brain was

leaking because she couldn’t talk, couldn’t seem to remember how to use her limbs—

Juniper swung. Bryce didn’t feel the impact on her cheek. Juniper

sobbed as if her body would break apart. “I made the Drop, Bryce! Two years ago! You haven’t! Have you completely lost it?”

A warm, strong arm slid across her abdomen, holding her upright. Hunt

said, his mouth near her ear, “Juniper, she’s shell-shocked. Give it a rest.”

Juniper snapped at him, “Stay out of this!” But people were wailing,

screaming, and debris was still raining down. Pillars lay like fallen trees around them. June seemed to notice, to realize—

Her body, gods, her body wouldn’t work—

Hunt didn’t object when Ruhn gave them an address nearby and told them to go wait for him there. It was closer than her apartment, but frankly, Hunt wasn’t entirely sure Bryce would let him in—and if she went into shock and he couldn’t get past those enchantments … Well, Micah would spike his head to the front gates of the Comitium if she died on his watch.

He might very well do that just for not sensing that the attack was about

to happen.

Quinlan didn’t seem to notice he was carrying her. She was heavier than

she looked—her tan skin covered more muscle than he’d thought.

Hunt found the familiar white-columned house a few blocks away; the

key Ruhn had given him opened a green-painted door. The cavernous foyer was laced with two male scents other than the prince’s. A flick of the light switch revealed a grand staircase that looked like it’d been through a war zone, scuffed oak floors, and a crystal chandelier hanging precariously.

Beneath it: a beer pong table painted with remarkable skill—portraying

a gigantic Fae male swallowing an angel whole.

Ignoring that particular fuck you to his kind, Hunt aimed for the living

room to the left of the entry. A stained sectional lay against the far wall of the long room, and Hunt set Bryce down there as he hurried for the equally worn wet bar midway down the far wall. Water—she needed some water.

There hadn’t been an attack in the city for years now—since Briggs.

He’d felt the bomb’s power as it rippled through the club, shredding the former temple and its inhabitants apart. He’d leave it to the investigators to see what exactly it was, but—

Even his lightning hadn’t been fast enough to stop it, not that it would

have been any protection against a bomb, not in an ambush like that. He’d destroyed enough on battlefields to know how to intercept them with his power, how to match death with death, but this hadn’t been some long-range missile fired from a tank.

It had been planted somewhere in the club, and detonated at a

predetermined moment. There were a handful of people who might be capable of such a thing, and at the top of Hunt’s list … there was Philip Briggs again. Or his followers, at least—Briggs himself was still imprisoned at the Adrestia Prison. He’d think on it later, when his head wasn’t still spinning, and his lightning wasn’t still a crackle in his blood, hungry for an enemy to obliterate.

Hunt turned his attention to the woman who sat on the couch, staring at

nothing.

Bryce’s green dress was wrecked, her skin was covered in plaster and

someone else’s blood, her face pale—save for the red mark on her cheek.

Hunt grabbed an ice pack from the freezer under the bar counter and a

dish towel to wrap it in. He set the glass of water on the stained wood coffee table, then handed her the ice. “She slugged you pretty damn good.”

Those amber eyes lifted slowly to him. Dried blood crusted inside her

ears.

A moment’s searching in the sorry-looking kitchen and bathroom

cabinet revealed more towels and a first aid kit.

He knelt on the worn gray carpet before her, tucking his wings in tight

to keep them from tangling with the beer cans that littered the coffee table.

She kept staring at nothing as he cleaned out her bloody ears.

He didn’t have med-magic like a witch, but he knew enough battlefield

healing to assess her arched ears. The Fae hearing would have made that explosion horrific—the human bloodline then slowing down the healing process. Mercifully, he found no signs of continued bleeding or damage.

He started on the left ear. And when he’d finished, he noticed her knees

were scraped raw, with shards of stone embedded in them.

“Juniper stands a shot of being promoted to principal,” Bryce rasped at

last. “The first faun ever. The summer season starts soon—she’s an understudy for the main roles in two of the ballets. A soloist in all five of them. This season is crucial. If she got injured, it could interfere.”

“She made the Drop. She would have bounced back quickly.” He pulled

a pair of tweezers from the kit.

“Still.” She hissed as he carefully pried out some shards of metal and stone

from her knee. She’d hit the ground hard. Even with the club exploding, he’d seen her move.

She’d thrown herself right over Juniper, shielding her from the blast. “This will sting,” he told her, frowning at the bottle of healing solution.

Fancy, high-priced stuff. Surprising that it was even here, given that the prince and his roommates had all made the Drop. “But it’ll keep it from scarring.”

She shrugged, studying the massive, dark television screen over his

shoulder.

Hunt doused her leg with the solution, and she jerked. He gripped her

calf hard enough to keep her down, even as she cursed. “I warned you.”

She pushed a breath out between clenched teeth. The hem of her already

short dress had ridden up with her movements, and Hunt told himself he looked only to assess if there were other injuries, but—

The thick, angry scar cut across an otherwise sleek, unnervingly perfect

thigh.

Hunt stilled. She’d never gotten it healed.

And every limp he’d sometimes caught her making from the corner of

his eye … Not from her dumb fucking shoes. But from this. From him.

From his clumsy battlefield instincts to staple her up like a soldier.

“When males are kneeling between my legs, Athalar,” she said, “they’re

not usually grimacing.”

“What?” But her words registered, just at the moment he realized his

hand still gripped her calf, the silky skin beneath brushing against the calluses on his palms. Just as he realized that he was indeed kneeling between her thighs, and had leaned closer to her lap to see that scar.

Hunt reeled back, unable to help the heat rising to his face. He removed

his hand from her leg. “Sorry,” he ground out.

Any amusement faded from her eyes as she said, “Who do you think

did it—the club?”

The heat of her soft skin still stained his palm. “No idea.” “Could it have anything to do with us looking into this case?” Guilt

already dampened her eyes, and he knew the body of the acolyte flashed through her mind.

He shook his head. “Probably not. If someone wanted to stop us, a

bullet in the head’s a lot more precise than blowing up a club. It could easily have been some rival of the club’s owner. Or the remaining Keres members looking to start more shit in this city.”

Bryce asked, “You think we’ll have war here?” “Some humans want us to. Some Vanir want us to. To get rid of the

humans, they say.”

“They’ve destroyed parts of Pangera with the war there,” she mumbled.

“I’ve seen the footage.” She looked at him, letting her unspoken question hang. How bad was it?

Hunt just said, “Magic and machines. Never a good mix.” The words rippled between them. “I want to go home,” she breathed.

He peeled off his jacket and settled it around her shoulders. It nearly devoured her. “I want to shower all this off.” She gestured at the blood on her bare skin.

“Okay.” But the front door in the foyer opened. One set of booted feet.

Hunt had his gun out, hidden against his thigh as he turned, when Ruhn

walked in, shadows in his wake. “You’re not going to like this,” the prince said.

She wanted to go home. Wanted to call Juniper. Wanted to call her mom and Randall just to hear their voices. Wanted to call Fury and learn what she knew, even if Fury wouldn’t pick up or answer her messages. Wanted to call

Jesiba and make her find out what had happened. But she mostly just wanted to go home and shower.

Ruhn, stone-faced and blood-splattered, halted in the archway.

Hunt slid the handgun back into its holster at his thigh before sitting on

the couch beside her.

Ruhn went to the wet bar and filled a glass of water from the sink.

Every movement was stiff, shadows whispering around him. But the prince exhaled and the shadows, the tension, vanished.

Hunt spared her from demanding that Ruhn elaborate. “I’m assuming

this has to do with whoever bombed the club?”

Ruhn nodded and tossed back a gulp of water. “All signs point to the

human rebels.” Bryce’s blood chilled. She and Hunt swapped glances. Their discussion moments ago hadn’t been far from the mark. “The bomb was smuggled into the club through some new exploding liquid hidden in a delivery of wine. They left the calling card on the crate—their own logo.”

Hunt cut in. “Any potential connection to Philip Briggs?” Ruhn said, “Briggs is still behind bars.” A polite way of describing the

punishment the rebel leader now endured at Vanir hands in Adrestia Prison.

“The rest of his Keres group isn’t,” Bryce croaked. “Danika was the one

who made the raid on Briggs in the first place. Even if he didn’t kill her, he’s still doing time for his rebel crimes. He could have instructed his followers to carry out this bombing.”

Ruhn frowned. “I thought they’d disbanded—joined other factions or

returned to Pangera. But here’s the part you’re not going to like. Next to the logo on the crate was a branded image. My team and your team thought it was a warped C for Crescent City, but I looked at the footage of the storage area before the bomb went off. It’s hard to make out, but it could also be depicting a curved horn.”

“What does the Horn have to do with the human rebellion?” Bryce

asked. Then her mouth dried out. “Wait. Do you think that Horn image was a message to us? To warn us away from looking for the Horn? As if that acolyte wasn’t enough?”

Hunt mused, “It can’t just be coincidence that the club was bombed

when we were there. Or that one of the images on the crate seems like it could be the Horn, when we’re knee-deep in a search for it. Before Danika

busted him, Briggs planned to blow up the Raven. The Keres sect has been inactive since he went to prison, but …”

“They could be coming back,” Bryce insisted. “Looking to pick up

where Briggs left off, or somehow getting directions from him even now.”

Hunt looked somber. “Or it was one of Briggs’s followers all along—

the planned bombing, Danika’s murder, this bombing … Briggs might not be guilty, but maybe he knows who is. He could be protecting someone.” He pulled out his phone. “We need to talk to him.”

Ruhn said, “Are you fucking nuts?” Hunt ignored him and dialed a number, rising to his feet. “He’s in

Adrestia Prison, so the request might take a few days,” he said to Bryce.

“Fine.” She blocked out the thought of what, exactly, this meeting

would be like. Danika had been unnerved by Briggs’s fanaticism toward the human cause, and had rarely wanted to talk about him. Busting him and his Keres group—an offshoot of the main Ophion rebellion—had been a triumph, a legitimization of the Pack of Devils. It still hadn’t been enough to win Sabine’s approval.

Hunt tucked the phone to his ear. “Hey, Isaiah. Yeah, I’m all right.” He

stepped into the foyer, and Bryce watched him go.

Ruhn said quietly, “The Autumn King knows I’ve involved you in

looking for the Horn.”

She lifted heavy eyes to her brother. “How pissed is he?” Ruhn’s grim smile wasn’t comforting. “He warned me of the poison

you’d spew in my ear.”

“I should take that as a compliment, I suppose.” Ruhn didn’t smile this time. “He wants to know what you’ll do with the

Horn if it’s found.”

“Use it as my new drinking mug on game day.” Hunt gave a snort of laughter as he entered the room, call over. Ruhn

just said, “He was serious.”

“I’ll give it back to the temple,” Bryce said. “Not to him.” Ruhn looked at both of them as Hunt again sat on the couch. “My father

said that since I have now involved you in something so dangerous, Bryce, you need a guard to … remain with you at all times. Live with you. I volunteered.”

Every part of her battered body ached. “Over my dead fucking corpse.”

Hunt crossed his arms. “Why does your king care if Quinlan lives or

dies?”

Ruhn’s eyes grew cold. “I asked him the same. He said that she falls

under his jurisdiction, as half-Fae, and he doesn’t want to have to clean up any messy situations. The girl is a liability, he said.” Bryce could hear the cruel tones in every word Ruhn mimicked. Could see her father’s face as he spoke them. She often imagined how it’d feel to beat in that perfect face with her fists. To give him a scar like the one her mother bore along her cheekbone—small and slender, no longer than a fingernail, but a reminder of the blow he’d given her when his hideous rage drove him too far.

The blow that had sent Ember Quinlan running—pregnant with Bryce.

Creep. Old, hateful creep. “So he’s just concerned about the PR nightmare of Quinlan’s death

before the Summit,” Hunt said roughly, disgust tightening his face.

“Don’t look so shocked,” Ruhn said, then added to Bryce, “I’m only the

messenger. Consider whether it’s wise to pick this as your big battle with him.”

No chance in Hel was she letting Ruhn into her apartment to order her

around. Especially with those friends of his. It was bad enough she had to work with him on this case.

Gods, her head was pounding. “Fine,” she said, simmering. “He said I

needed a guard—not you specifically, right?” At Ruhn’s tense silence, Bryce went on, “That’s what I thought. Athalar stays with me instead. Order fulfilled. Happy?”

“He won’t like that.” Bryce smiled smugly, even as her blood simmered. “He didn’t say who

the guard had to be. The bastard should have been more precise with his wording.”

Even Ruhn couldn’t argue against that.

If Athalar was shocked at Bryce’s choice of roommates, he didn’t let on.

Ruhn watched the angel glance between them—carefully.

Fuck. Had Athalar finally started putting it together—that they were

more entwined than cousins should be, that Ruhn’s father shouldn’t be taking such an interest in her?

Bryce seethed at Ruhn, “Did you put your father up to this?” “No,” Ruhn said. His father had cornered him about the temple visit

right as he left the ruined club. Honestly, given how pissed the male had been, it was a miracle Ruhn wasn’t dead in a gutter. “He’s got a network of spies that even I don’t know about.”

Bryce scowled, but it morphed into a wince as she got off the couch,

Athalar keeping a hand within easy reach of her elbow, should she need it.

Ruhn’s phone buzzed, and he pulled it from his pocket long enough to

read the message on the screen. And the others that began flying in.

Declan had written in the group chain with Flynn, What the fuck

happened?

Flynn replied, I’m at the club. Sabine sent Amelie Ravenscroft to head

the Aux packs hauling away debris and helping the wounded. Amelie said she saw you leave, Ruhn. You all right?

Ruhn answered, just so they wouldn’t call. I’m fine. I’ll meet you at the

club soon. He squeezed the phone in his fist as Bryce made her way toward the front door and the Helscape beyond. Blue and red sirens blared, casting their light on the oak floors of the foyer.

But his sister paused before reaching for the handle, twisting to ask him,

“Why were you at the Raven earlier?”

And here it was. If he mentioned the call Riso had made to him, that

Ruhn had been keeping tabs on her, he’d get his head bitten off. So Ruhn half lied, “I want to check out your boss’s library.”

Hunt paused, a step behind Bryce. It was impressive, really, to watch

both of them plaster confused expressions on their faces.

“What library?” she asked, the portrait of innocence.

Ruhn could have sworn Athalar was trying not to smile. But he said

tightly, “The one everyone says is beneath the gallery.”

“First I’ve heard of it,” Hunt said with a shrug. “Fuck off, Athalar.” Ruhn’s jaw ached from clenching it so hard.

Bryce said, “Look, I get that you want in on our little cool kids’ club,

but there’s a strict membership-vetting process.”

Yeah, Athalar was trying really hard not to smile.

Ruhn growled, “I want to look at the books there. See if anything about

the Horn jumps out.” She paused at the tone in his voice, the bit of

dominance Ruhn threw into it. He wasn’t above pulling rank. Not where this was concerned.

Though Athalar was glaring daggers at him, Ruhn said to his sister,

“I’ve been through the Fae Archives twice, and …” He shook his head. “I just kept thinking about the gallery. So maybe there’s something there.”

“I searched it,” she said. “There’s nothing about the Horn beyond vague

mentions.”

Ruhn gave her a half smile. “So you admit there’s a library.” Bryce frowned at him. He knew that contemplative look. “What.” Bryce flipped her hair over a dirty, torn shoulder. “I’ll make a bargain

with you: you can come hunt for the Horn at the gallery, and I’ll help in whatever way I can. If—” Athalar whipped his head to her, the outrage on his face almost delightful. Bryce went on, nodding to the phone in Ruhn’s hand, “If you put Declan at my disposal.”

“I’ll have to tell him about this case, then. And what he knows, Flynn

will learn two seconds later.”

“Fine. Go ahead and fill them in. But tell Dec I need intel about

Danika’s last movements.”

“I don’t know where he can get that,” Ruhn admitted. “The Den would have it,” Hunt said, eyeing Bryce with something like

admiration. “Tell Emmet to hack the Den archives.”

So Ruhn nodded. “Fine. I’ll ask him later.” Bryce gave him that smile that didn’t meet her eyes. “Then come by the

gallery tomorrow.”

Ruhn had to give himself a moment to master his shock at how easy it

had been to get access. Then he said, “Be careful out there.”

If she and Athalar were right and it was some Keres rebels acting on

Briggs’s request or in his honor … the political mess would be a nightmare.

And if he hadn’t been wrong about that C actually being an image of the Horn, if this bombing and the acolyte’s murder were targeted warnings to them regarding their search for it … then the threat to all of them had just become a Hel of a lot deadlier.

Bryce said sweetly before continuing on, “Tell your daddy we say hello

—and that he can go fuck himself.”

Ruhn gritted his teeth again, earning another grin from Athalar. Winged

asshole.

The two of them strode through the door, and Ruhn’s phone rang a

heartbeat after that.

“Yeah,” he said.

Ruhn could have sworn he could hear his father tense before the male

drawled, “Is that how you speak to your king?”

Ruhn didn’t bother replying. His father said, “Since you couldn’t stop

yourself from revealing my business, I wish to make one thing clear regarding the Horn.” Ruhn braced himself. “I don’t want the angels getting it.”

“Fine.” If Ruhn had anything to say about it, no one would get the

Horn. It would go straight back to the temple, with a permanent Fae guard.

“Keep an eye on that girl.” “Both eyes.” “I mean it, boy.” “So do I.” He let his father hear the growl of sincerity in his voice.

His father went on, “You, as Crown Prince, revealed the secrets of your

king to the girl and Athalar. I have every right to punish you for this, you know.”

Go ahead, he wanted to say. Go ahead and do it. Do me a favor and

take my title while you’re at it. The royal bloodline ends with me anyway.

Ruhn had puked after hearing it the first time when he was thirteen, sent

to the Oracle for a glimpse of his future, like all Fae. The ritual had once been to foretell marriages and alliances. Today, it was more to get a feel for a child’s career and whether they’d amount to anything. For Ruhn—and for Bryce, years later—it had been a disaster.

Ruhn had begged the Oracle to tell him whether she meant he’d die

before he could sire a child, or if she meant he was infertile. She only repeated her words. The royal bloodline shall end with you, Prince.

He’d been too much of a coward to tell his king what he’d learned. So

he’d fed his father a lie, unable to bear the male’s disappointment and rage.

The Oracle said I would be a fair and just king.

His father had been disappointed, but only that the fake prophecy hadn’t

been mightier.

So, yeah. If his father wanted to strip him of his title, he’d be doing him

a favor. Or even unwittingly fulfilling that prophecy at last.

Ruhn had truly worried about its meaning once—the day he’d learned

he had a little sister. He’d thought it might foretell an untimely death for her. But his fears had been assuaged by the fact that she was not and would never be formally recognized as part of the royal bloodline. To his relief, she’d never questioned why, in those early years when they were still close, Ruhn hadn’t lobbied their father to publicly accept her.

The Autumn King continued, “Unfortunately, the punishment you

deserve would render you unable to look for the Horn.”

Ruhn’s shadows drifted around him. “I’ll take a rain check, then.” His father snarled, but Ruhn hung up.

27

The streets were packed with Vanir streaming from the still-chaotic White Raven, all looking for answers about what the Hel had happened. Various legionaries, Fae, and Aux pack members had erected a barricade around the site, a thrumming, opaque magic wall, but the crowds still converged.

Hunt glanced to where Bryce walked beside him, silent, glassy-eyed.

Barefoot, he realized.

How long had she been barefoot? She must have lost her shoes in the

explosion.

He debated offering to carry her again, or suggesting that he fly them to

her apartment, but she held her arms so tightly around herself that he had a feeling one word would send her into a rage-spiral with no bottom.

The look she gave Ruhn before walking out … It made Hunt glad she

wasn’t an acid-spitting viper. The male’s face would have melted.

Gods help them when the prince arrived at the gallery tomorrow.

Bryce’s doorman leapt out of his seat as they walked into the pristine

lobby, asking if she was all right, if she’d been in the club. She mumbled that she was fine, and the ursine shifter surveyed Hunt with a predator’s focus. Noticing that look, she waved a hand at him, punching the elevator button, and introduced them. Hunt, this is Marrin; Marrin, this is Hunt; he’s staying with me for the foreseeable future, unfortunately. Then she was padding into the elevator, where she had to lean against the chrome rail along the back, as if she were about to collapse—

Hunt squeezed in as the doors were closing. The box was too small, too

tight with his wings, and he kept them close as they shot up to the penthouse—

Bryce’s head sagged, her shoulders curving inward— Hunt blurted, “Why won’t you make the Drop?” The elevator doors opened and she slumped against them before she

entered the elegant cream-and-cobalt hallway. But she halted at her apartment door. Then turned to him.

“My keys were in my purse.” Her purse was now in the ruin of the club. “Does the doorman have a spare?” She grunted her confirmation, eyeing the elevator as if it were a

mountain to climb.

Marrin busted Hunt’s balls for a good minute, checking that Bryce was

alive in the hallway, asking into the hall vidcom if she approved—to which he got a thumbs-up.

When Hunt returned, he found her sitting against her door, legs up and

spread enough to show a pair of hot-pink underwear. Thankfully, the hall cameras couldn’t see at that angle, but he had no doubt the shifter monitored them as Hunt helped her to her feet and handed her the spare keys.

She slowly slid in the key, then put her palm to the bespelled finger pad

beside the door.

“I was waiting,” she murmured as the locks clicked open and the dim

apartment lights flickered on. “We were supposed to make the Drop together. We picked two years from now.”

He knew who she meant. The reason why she no longer drank, or

danced, or really seemed to live her life. The reason why she must keep that scar on her pretty, sleek thigh. Ogenas and all her sacred Mysteries knew that Hunt had punished himself for a damn long while after the colossal failure that had been the Battle of Mount Hermon. Even while he’d been tortured in the Asteri’s dungeons, he’d punished himself, flaying his own soul in a way no imperial interrogator ever could.

So maybe it was a stupid question, but he asked as they entered the

apartment, “Why bother waiting now?”

Hunt stepped inside and got a good look at the place Quinlan called

home. The open-concept apartment had looked nice from outside the windows, but inside …

Either she or Danika had decorated it without sparing any expense: a

white deep-cushioned couch lay in the right third of the great room, set before a reclaimed wood coffee table and the massive television atop a carved oak console. A fogged-glass dining table with white leather chairs took up the left third of the space, and the center third of it went to the kitchen—white cabinets, chrome appliances, and white marble counters. All of it impeccably clean, soft, and welcoming.

Hunt took it in, standing like a piece of baggage by the kitchen island

while Bryce padded down a pale oak hallway to release Syrinx from where he yowled from his crate.

She was halfway down the hallway when she said without looking

back, “Without Danika … We were supposed to make the Drop together,” she said again. “Connor and Thorne were going to Anchor us.”

The choice of Anchor during the Drop was pivotal—and a deeply

personal choice. But Hunt shoved aside the thoughts of the sour-faced government employee he’d been appointed, since he sure as fuck hadn’t had any family or friends left to Anchor him. Not when his mother had died only days before.

Syrinx flung himself through the apartment, claws clicking on the light

wood floors, yipping as he leapt upon Hunt, licking his hands. Each one of Bryce’s returning steps dragged on her way to the kitchen counter.

The silence pressed on him enough that he asked, “Were you and

Danika lovers?”

He’d been told two years ago that they weren’t, but friends didn’t

mourn each other the way Bryce seemed to have so thoroughly shut down every part of herself. The way he had for Shahar.

The patter of kibble hitting tin filled the apartment before Bryce

plunked down the bowl, and Syrinx, abandoning Hunt, half threw himself inside it as he gobbled it down.

Hunt turned in place as Bryce padded around the other end of the

kitchen island, flinging open the enormous metal fridge to examine its meager contents. “No,” she said, her voice flat and cold. “Danika and I weren’t like that.” Her grip on the fridge’s handle tightened, her knuckles

going white. “Connor and I—Connor Holstrom, I mean. He and I …” She trailed off. “It was complicated. When Danika died, when they all died … a light went out in me.”

He remembered the details about her and the elder of the Holstrom

brothers. Ithan hadn’t been there that night, either—and was now Second in Amelie Ravenscroft’s pack. A sorry replacement for what the Pack of Devils had once been. This city had also lost something that night.

Hunt opened his mouth to tell Quinlan he understood. Not just the

complicated relationship thing, but the loss. To wake up one morning surrounded by friends and his lover—and then to end the day with all of them dead. He understood how it gnawed on bones and blood and the very soul of a person. How nothing could ever make it right.

How cutting out the alcohol and the drugs, how refusing to do the thing

she loved most—the dancing—still couldn’t make it right. But the words stalled in his throat. He hadn’t felt like talking about it two hundred years ago, and sure as Hel didn’t feel like talking about it now.

A landline phone somewhere in the house began ringing, and a pleasant

female voice trilled, Call from … Home.

Bryce closed her eyes, as if rallying herself, then padded down the

darkened hallway that led to her bedroom. A moment later, she said with a cheerfulness that should have earned her an award for Best Fucking Actor in Midgard, “Hey, Mom.” A mattress groaned. “No, I wasn’t there. My phone fell in the toilet at work—yep, totally dead. I’ll get a new one tomorrow. Yeah, I’m fine. June wasn’t there, either. We’re all good.” A pause. “I know—it was just a long day at work.” Another pause. “Look, I’ve got company.” A rough laugh. “Not that kind. Don’t get your hopes up.

I’m serious. Yes, I let him into my house willingly. Please don’t call the front desk. His name? I’m not telling you.” Just the slightest hesitation. “Mom. I will call you tomorrow. I’m not telling him hello. Bye—bye, Mom.

Love you.”

Syrinx had finished his food and was staring expectantly at Hunt—

silently pleading for more, that lion’s tail waggling. “No,” he hissed at the beast just as Bryce walked back into the main room.

“Oh,” she said, as if she’d forgotten he was there. “I’m going to take a

shower. Guest room is yours. Use whatever you need.”

“I’ll swing by the Comitium tomorrow to get more clothes.” Bryce just

nodded like her head weighed a thousand pounds. “Why’d you lie?” He’d let her decide which one she wanted to explain.

She paused, Syrinx trotting ahead down the hall to her bedroom. “My

mom would only worry and come visit. I don’t want her around if things are getting bad. And I didn’t tell her who you were because that would lead to questions, too. It’s easier this way.”

Easier to not let herself enjoy life, easier to keep everyone at arm’s

length.

The mark on her cheek from Juniper’s slap had barely faded. Easier to

throw herself on top of a friend as a bomb exploded, rather than risk losing them.

She said quietly, “I need to find who did this, Hunt.” He met her raw, aching stare. “I know.” “No,” she said hoarsely. “You don’t. I don’t care what Micah’s motives

are—if I don’t find this fucking person, it is going to eat me alive.” Not the murderer or the demon, but the pain and grief that he was only starting to realize dwelled inside her. “I need to find who did this.”

“We will,” he promised. “How can you know that?” She shook her head. “Because we don’t have another choice. I don’t have another choice.”

At her confused look, Hunt blew out a breath and said, “Micah offered me a deal.”

Her eyes turned wary. “What sort of deal?” Hunt clenched his jaw. She’d offered up a piece of herself, so he could

do the same. Especially if they were now gods-damned roommates. “When I first came here, Micah offered me a bargain: if I could make up for every life the 18th took that day on Mount Hermon, I’d get my freedom back. All two thousand two hundred and seventeen lives.” He steeled himself, willing her to hear what he couldn’t quite say.

She chewed on her lip. “I’m assuming that make up means …” “Yes,” he ground out. “It means doing what I’m good at. A death for a

death.”

“Micah has more than two thousand people for you to assassinate?” Hunt let out a harsh laugh. “Micah is a Governor of an entire territory,

and he will live for at least another two hundred years. He’ll probably have

double that number of people on his shit list before he’s done.” Horror crept into her eyes, and he scrambled for a way to get rid of it, unsure why. “It comes with the job. His job, and mine.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Look, it’s awful, but he offered me a way out, at least. And when the killings started again, he offered me a different bargain: find the murderer before the Summit meeting, and he’d reduce the debts I owe to ten.”

He waited for her judgment, her disgust with him and Micah. But she

angled her head. “That’s why you’ve been a bullish pain the ass.”

“Yes,” he said tightly. “Micah ordered me not to say anything, though.

So if you breathe one word about it—”

“His offer will be rescinded.” Hunt nodded, scanning her battered face. She said nothing more. After a

heartbeat, he demanded, “Well?”

“Well, what?” She again began walking toward her bedroom. “Well, aren’t you going to say that I’m a self-serving piece of shit?” She paused again, a faint ray of light entering her eyes. “Why bother,

Athalar, when you just said it for me?”

He couldn’t help it then. Even though she was bloodied and covered in

debris, he looked her over. Every inch and curve. Tried not to think about the hot-pink underwear beneath that tight green dress. But he said, “I’m sorry I thought you were a suspect. And more than that, I’m sorry I judged you. I thought you were just a party girl, and I acted like an asshole.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being a party girl. I don’t get why the

world thinks there is.” But she considered his words. “It’s easier for me— when people assume the worst about what I am. It lets me see who they really are.”

“So you’re saying you think I’m really an asshole?” A corner of his

mouth curled up.

But her eyes were dead serious. “I’ve met and dealt with a lot of

assholes, Hunt. You’re not one of them.”

“You weren’t singing that tune earlier.” She just aimed for her room once more. So Hunt asked, “Want me to

get food?”

Again, she paused. She looked like she was about to say no, but then

rasped, “Cheeseburger—with cheese fries. And a chocolate milkshake.”

Hunt smiled. “You got it.”

The elegant guest room on the other side of the kitchen was spacious, decorated in shades of gray and cream accented with pale rose and cornflower blue. The bed was big enough for Hunt’s wings, thankfully— definitely bought with Vanir in mind—and a few photos in expensive-looking frames were propped next to a lopsided, chipped ceramic blue bowl, all adorning a chest of drawers to the right of the door.

He’d gotten them both burgers and fries, and Bryce had torn into hers

with a ferocity that Hunt had seen only among lions gathered around a fresh kill. He’d tossed the whining Syrinx a few fries under the white glass table, since she sure as shit wasn’t sharing anything.

Exhaustion had set in so thoroughly that neither of them spoke, and

once she’d finished slurping down the milkshake, she’d merely gathered up the trash, dumped it into the bin, and headed to her room. Leaving Hunt to enter his.

A mortal scent lingered that he assumed was courtesy of her parents,

and as Hunt opened the drawers, he found some of them full of clothes— light sweaters, socks, pants, athletic-looking gear … He was snooping.

Granted, it was part of the job description, but it was still snooping.

He shut the drawers and studied the framed photos.

Ember Quinlan had been a knockout. No wonder that Fae asshole had

pursued her to the point where she’d bailed. Long black hair framed a face that could have been on a billboard: freckled skin, full lips, and high cheekbones that made the dark, depthless eyes above them striking.

It was Bryce’s face—the coloring was just different. An equally

attractive brown-skinned, dark-haired human male stood beside her, arm slung around her slim shoulders, grinning like a fiend at whoever was behind the camera. Hunt could just barely make out the writing on the silver dog tags dipping over the man’s gray button-up.

Well, holy shit.

Randall Silago was Bryce’s adoptive father? The legendary war hero

and sharpshooter? He had no idea how he’d missed that fact in her file, though he supposed he had been skimming when he’d read it years ago.

No wonder his daughter was so fearless. And there, to the right of

Ember, stood Bryce.

She was barely past three, that red hair pulled high into two floppy

pigtails. Ember was looking at her daughter—the expression a bit

exasperated—as if Bryce was supposed to be in the nice clothes that the two adults were wearing. But there she was, giving her mother an equally sassy look, hands on her chubby hips, legs set apart in an unmistakable fighting stance. Covered head to toe in mud.

Hunt snickered and turned to the other photo on the dresser.

It was a beautiful shot of two women—girls, really—sitting on some

red rocks atop a desert mountain, their backs to the camera, shoulder-to-shoulder as they faced the scrub and sand far below. One was Bryce—he could tell from her sheet of red hair. The other was in a familiar leather jacket, the back painted with those words in the Republic’s most ancient language. Through love, all is possible.

It had to be Bryce and Danika. And—that was Danika’s jacket that

Bryce now wore.

She had no other photos of Danika in the apartment.

Through love, all is possible. It was an ancient saying, dating back to

some god he couldn’t remember. Cthona, probably—what with all the mother-goddess stuff she presided over. Hunt had long since stopped visiting temples, or paying much attention to the overzealous priestesses who popped up on the morning talk shows every now and then. None of the five gods had ever helped him—or anyone he cared about. Urd, especially, had fucked him over often enough.

Danika’s blond ponytail draped down Bryce’s back as she leaned her

head against her friend’s shoulder. Bryce wore a loose white T-shirt, showing a bandaged arm braced on her knee. Bruises peppered her body.

And gods—that was a sword lying to Danika’s left. Sheathed and clean, but —he knew that sword.

Sabine had gone ballistic searching for it when it was discovered to be

missing from the apartment where her daughter had been murdered.

Apparently it was some wolf heirloom. But there it lay, beside Bryce and Danika in the desert.

Sitting there on those rocks, perched over the world, they seemed like

two soldiers who had just walked through the darkest halls of Hel and were taking a well-earned break.

Hunt turned from the picture and rubbed at the tattoo on his brow. A

flick of his power had the heavy gray curtains sliding shut over the floor-to-

ceiling windows on a chill wind. He peeled off his clothes one by one, and found the bathroom was just as spacious as the bedroom.

Hunt showered quickly and fell into bed with his skin still drying. The

last thing he saw before sleep overtook him was the photo of Bryce and Danika, frozen forever in a moment of peace.

28

Hunt woke the moment he scented a male in his room, his fingers wrapping around the knife under his pillow. He opened an eye, grip tightening on the hilt, remembering every window and doorway, every possible would-be weapon that he could wield to his advantage—

He found Syrinx sitting on the pillow beside his, the chimera’s

smooshed-up face peering into his own.

Hunt groaned, a breath exploding out of him. Syrinx just swatted at his

face.

Hunt rolled out of reach. “Good morning to you, too,” he mumbled,

scanning the room. He’d definitely shut the door last night. It now gaped wide open. He glanced at the clock.

Seven. He hadn’t noticed Bryce get up for work—hadn’t heard her

buzzing about the apartment or the music he knew she liked to play.

Granted, he hadn’t heard his own door open, either. He’d slept like the

dead. Syrinx rested his head on Hunt’s shoulder, and huffed a mournful sigh.

Solas spare him. “Why do I get the feeling that if I give you breakfast,

it’ll actually be your second or third meal of the day?”

An innocent blink of those round eyes.

Unable to help himself, Hunt scratched the little beast behind his silly

ears.

The sunny apartment beyond his room was silent, the light warming the

pale wood floors. He eased from the bed, hauling on his pants. His shirt was

a wreck from last night’s events, so he left it on the floor, and— Shit. His phone. He grabbed it from the bedside table and flicked through the messages. Nothing new, no missions from Micah, thank the gods.

He left the phone on the dresser beside the door and padded into the

great room.

No sign or sound. If Quinlan had just left— He stormed across the space, to the hall on the other side. Her bedroom

door was cracked, as if Syrinx had seen himself out, and—

Sound asleep. The heap of blankets had been twisted and tossed around,

and Quinlan lay belly-down on the bed, wrapped around a pillow. The position was almost identical to the one she’d been in last night in the club, flung over Juniper.

Hunt was pretty sure most people would consider the low-backed gray

nightgown, edged with pale pink lace, to be a shirt. Syrinx trotted past, leaping on the bed and nosing her bare shoulder.

The tattoo down her back—scrolling, beautiful lines in some alphabet

he didn’t recognize—rose and fell with each deep breath. Bruises he hadn’t noted last night peppered her golden skin, already greenish thanks to the Fae blood in her.

And he was staring at her. Like a fucking creep.

Hunt twisted for the hall, his wings suddenly too big, his skin too tight,

when the front door swung open. A smooth movement had his knife angled behind him—

Juniper breezed in, a brown bag of what smelled like chocolate pastries

in one hand, a spare set of keys in another. She stopped dead as she spied him in the bedroom hallway.

Her mouth popped open in a silent Oh.

She looked him over—not in the way some females did until they noted

the tattoos, but in the way that told him she realized a half-naked male stood in Bryce’s apartment at seven in the morning.

He opened his mouth to say it wasn’t how it looked, but Juniper just

strutted past, her delicate hooves clipping on the wood floors. She shoved into the bedroom, jostling the bag, and Syrinx went wild, curly tail wagging as Juniper trilled, “I brought chocolate croissants, so get that bare ass out of bed and into some pants.”

Bryce lifted her head to see Juniper, then Hunt in the hall. She didn’t

bother to tug the hem of her nightgown over her teal lace underwear as she squinted. “What?”

Juniper strode to the bed and looked like she was about to plop onto it,

but glanced at him.

Hunt stiffened. “It’s not what it seems.” Juniper gave him a sweet smile. “Then some privacy would be nice.” He backed down the hall, into the kitchen. Coffee. That sounded like a

good plan.

He opened a cabinet, fishing out some mugs. Their voices flitted out to

him anyway.

“I tried calling you, but your phone wasn’t on—I figured you probably

lost it,” Juniper said.

Blankets rustled. “Are you all right?” “Totally fine. News reports are still speculating, but they think human

rebels from Pangera did it, wanting to start trouble here. There’s video footage from the loading dock that shows their insignia on a case of wine.

They think that’s how the bomb got in.”

So the theory had held overnight. Whether it was truly connected to the

Horn remained to be seen. Hunt made a note to check with Isaiah about the request to meet with Briggs as soon as Juniper left.

“Is the Raven totally wrecked?” A sigh. “Yeah—really bad. No idea when it’ll be open again. I finally

got a hold of Fury last night, and she said Riso’s mad enough that he put a bounty on the head of whoever was responsible.”

No surprise there. Hunt had heard that despite his laughing nature,

when the butterfly shifter got pissed, he went all in. Juniper went on, “Fury’s probably coming home because of it. You know she can’t resist a challenge.”

Burning Solas. Throwing Fury Axtar into this mess was a bad fucking

idea. Hunt spooned coffee beans into the gleaming chrome machine built into the kitchen wall.

Quinlan asked tightly, “So she’ll come back home for a bounty, but not

to see us?”

A silence. Then, “You weren’t the only one who lost Danika that night,

B. We all dealt with it in different ways. Fury’s answer to her pain was to

bail.”

“Your therapist tell you that?” “I’m not fighting with you about this again.” More silence. Juniper cleared her throat. “B, I’m sorry for what I did.

You’ve got a bruise—”

“It’s fine.” “No, it’s not—” “It is. I get it, I—” Hunt turned on the machine’s coffee grinder to give them some privacy.

He might have ground the beans into a fine powder instead of rough shards, but when he finished, Juniper was saying, “So, the gorgeous angel who’s making you coffee right now—”

Hunt grinned at the coffee machine. It had been a long, long while since

anyone had bothered describing him as anything but Umbra Mortis, the Knife of the Archangels.

“No, no, and no,” Bryce cut her off. “Jesiba is having me do a classified

job, and Hunt was assigned to protect me.”

“Is being shirtless in your house part of that assignment?” “You know how these Vanir males are. They live to show off their

muscles.”

Hunt rolled his eyes as Juniper laughed. “I’m shocked you’re even

letting him stay here, B.”

“I didn’t really have a choice.” “Hmmm.” A thump of bare feet on the ground. “You know he’s listening, right?

His feathers are probably so puffed up he won’t be able to fit through the door.”

Hunt leaned against the counter, the coffee machine doing the growling

for him as Bryce stalked into the hallway. “Puffed up?”

She certainly hadn’t bothered to fulfill her friend’s pants request. Each

step had the pale pink lace of the nightgown’s hem brushing against her upper thighs, tugging up slightly to reveal that thick, brutal scar on the left leg. His stomach twisted at the sight of what he’d done to her.

“Eyes up here, Athalar,” she drawled. Hunt scowled.

But Juniper was following closely on Bryce’s heels, her hooves

clopping lightly on the wood floors as she held up the pastry bag. “I just

wanted to drop these off. I’ve got rehearsal in …” She fished her phone from the pocket of her tight black leggings. “Oh shit. Now. Bye, B.” She rushed to the door, chucking the pastry bag on the table with impressive aim.

“Good luck—call me later,” Bryce said, already going to inspect her

friend’s peace offering.

Juniper lingered in the doorway long enough to say to him, “Do your

job, Umbra.”

Then she was gone.

Bryce slid into one of the white leather chairs at the glass table and

sighed as she pulled out a chocolate croissant. She bit in and moaned. “Do legionaries eat croissants?”

He remained leaning against the counter. “Is that an actual question?” Crunch-munch-swallow. “Why are you up so early?” “It’s nearly seven thirty. Hardly early by anyone’s count. But your

chimera nearly sat on my face, so how could I not be up? And how many people, exactly, have keys to this place?”

She finished off her croissant. “My parents, Juniper, and the doorman.

Speaking of which … I need to give those keys back—and get another copy made.”

“And get me a set.” The second croissant was halfway to her mouth when she set it down.

“Not going to happen.”

He held her stare. “Yes, it is. And you’ll change the enchantments so I

can get access—”

She bit into the croissant. “Isn’t it exhausting to be an alphahole all the

time? Do you guys have a handbook for it? Maybe secret support groups?”

“An alpha-what?” “Alphahole. Possessive and aggressive.” She waved a hand at his bare

torso. “You know—you males who rip your shirt off at the slightest provocation, who know how to kill people in twenty different ways, who have females falling over themselves to be with you; and when you finally bang one, you go full-on mating-frenzy with her, refusing to let another male look at or talk to her, deciding what and when she needs to eat, what she should wear, when she sees her friends—”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Your favorite hobbies are brooding, fighting, and roaring; you’ve

perfected about thirty different types of snarls and growls; you’ve got a cabal of hot friends, and the moment one of you mates, the others fall like dominoes, too, and gods help you when you all start having babies—”

He snatched the croissant out of her hand. That shut her up.

Bryce gaped at him, then at the pastry, and Hunt wondered if she’d bite

him as he lifted it to his mouth. Damn, but it was good.

“One,” he told her, yanking over a chair and turning it backward for

him to straddle. “The last thing I want to do is fuck you, so we can take the whole Sex, Mating, and Baby option off the table. Two, I don’t have friends, so there sure as fuck will be no couples-retreat lifestyle anytime soon.

Three, if we’re complaining about people who are clothing-optional …” He finished the croissant and gave her a pointed look. “I’m not the one who parades around this apartment in a bra and underwear every morning while getting dressed.”

He’d worked hard to forget that particular detail. How after her morning

run, she did her hair and makeup in a routine that took her more than an hour from start to finish. Wearing only what seemed to be an extensive, and rather spectacular, assortment of lingerie.

Hunt supposed if he looked the way she did, he’d wear that shit, too.

Bryce only glared at him—his mouth, his hand—and grumbled, “That

was my croissant.”

The coffee machine beeped, but he kept his ass planted in the chair.

“You’re going to get me a new set of keys. And add me to the enchantments. Because it’s part of my job, and being assertive isn’t the first sign of being an alphahole—it’s a sign of me wanting to make sure you don’t wind up dead.”

“Stop cursing so much. You’re upsetting Syrinx.” He leaned close enough to note gold flecks in her amber eyes. “You

have the dirtiest mouth I’ve ever heard, sweetheart. And from the way you

act, I think you might be the alphahole here.”

She hissed. “See?” he drawled. “What was it you said? An assortment of snarls and

growls?” He waved a hand. “Well, there you go.”

She tapped her dusk-sky nails on the glass table. “Don’t ever eat my

croissant again. And stop calling me sweetheart.”

Hunt threw her a smirk and rose. “I need to head to the Comitium for

my clothes. Where are you going to be?”

Bryce scowled and said nothing. “The answer,” Hunt went on, “is with me. Anywhere you or I go, we go

together from now on. Got it?”

She flipped him off. But she didn’t argue further.

29

Micah Domitus might have been an asshole, but at least he gave his triarii the weekend off—or its equivalent if a particular duty required them to work through it.

Jesiba Roga, no surprise, didn’t seem to believe in weekends. And since

Quinlan was expected at work, Hunt had decided they’d hit the barracks at the Comitium during lunch, while most people were distracted.

The thick veils of morning mist hadn’t burned off by the time Hunt

trailed Bryce on her way to work. No new updates had been delivered to him on the bombing, and there was no mention of further attacks that matched the kristallos’s usual methods.

But Hunt still kept his focus sharp, assessing every person who passed

the redhead below. Most people spotted Syrinx, prancing at the end of his leash, and gave her a healthy berth. Chimeras were volatile pets—prone to small magics and biting. No matter that Syrinx seemed more interested in whatever food he could swindle out of people.

Bryce wore a little black dress today, her makeup more subdued,

heavier on the eyes, lighter on the lipstick … Armor, he realized as she and Syrinx wound through other commuters and tourists, dodging cars already honking with impatience at the usual Old Square traffic. The clothes, the hair, the makeup—they were like the leather and steel and guns he donned every morning.

Except he didn’t wear lingerie beneath it.

For whatever reason, he found himself dropping onto the cobblestones

behind her. She didn’t so much as flinch, her sky-high black heels unfaltering. Impressive as Hel, for her to walk on the ancient streets without snapping an ankle. Syrinx huffed his greeting and kept trotting, proud as an imperial parade horse. “Your boss ever give you a day off?”

She sipped from the coffee she balanced in her free hand. She drank a

surely illegal amount of the stuff throughout the day. Starting with no less than three cups before they’d left the apartment. “I get Sundays off,” she said. Palm fronds hissed in the chill breeze above them. The tan skin of her legs pebbled with the cold. “Many of our clients are busy enough that they can’t come in during the workweek. Saturday is their day of leisure.”

“Do you get holidays off at least?” “The store is closed on the major ones.” She idly jangled the tri-knot

amulet around her neck.

An Archesian charm like that had to cost … Burning Solas, it had to

cost a fuck-ton. Hunt thought about the heavy iron door to the archives.

Perhaps it hadn’t been put there to keep thieves out … but to keep things in.

He had a feeling she wouldn’t tell him any details about why the art

required her to wear such an amulet, so he instead asked, “What’s the deal with you and your cousin?” Who would be arriving at the gallery at some point this morning.

Bryce gently pulled on Syrinx’s leash when he lunged for a squirrel

scampering up a palm tree. “Ruhn and I were close for a few years when I was a teenager, and then we had a big fight. I stopped speaking to him after that. And things have been … well, you see how things are now.”

“What’d you fight about?” The morning mist swirled past as she fell quiet, as if debating what to

reveal. She said, “It started off as a fight about his father. What a piece of shit the Autumn King is, and how Ruhn was wrapped around his finger. It devolved into a screaming match about each other’s flaws. I walked out when Ruhn said that I was flirting with his friends like a shameless hussy and to stay away from them.”

Ruhn had said far worse than that, Hunt recalled. At Luna’s Temple,

he’d heard Bryce refer to him calling her a half-breed slut. “I’ve always known Danaan was an asshole, but even for him, that’s low.”

“It was,” she admitted softly, “But … honestly, I think he was being

protective of me. That’s what the argument was about, really. He was acting like every other domineering Fae asshole out there. And just like my father.”

Hunt asked, “You ever have contact with him?” There were a few dozen

Fae nobles that might be monstrous enough to have prompted Ember Quinlan to bail all those years ago.

“Only when I can’t avoid it. I think I hate him more than anyone else in

Midgard. Except for Sabine.” She sighed skyward, watching angels and witches zoom past above the buildings around them. “Who’s number one on your shit list?”

Hunt waited until they’d passed a reptilian-looking Vanir typing on their

phone before he replied, mindful of every camera mounted on the buildings or hidden in trees or garbage cans. “Sandriel.”

“Ah.” Only Sandriel’s first name was necessary for anyone on Midgard.

“From what I’ve seen on TV, she seems …” Bryce grimaced.

“Whatever you’ve seen is the pleasant version. The reality is ten times

worse. She’s a sadistic monster.” To say the least. He added, “I was forced to … work for her for more than half a century. Until Micah.” He couldn’t say the word—owned. He’d never let Sandriel have that kind of power over him. “She and the commander of her triarii, Pollux, take cruelty and punishment to new levels.” He clenched his jaw, shaking off the blood-soaked memories. “They’re not stories to tell on a busy street.” Or at all.

But she eyed him. “You ever want to talk about it, Athalar, I’m here.” She said it casually, but he could read the sincerity in her face. He

nodded. “Likewise.”

They passed the Old Square Gate, tourists already queued to take

photos or touch the disk on the dial pad, gleefully handing over a drop of their power as they did so. None seemed aware of the body that had been found a few blocks away. In the drifting mist, the quartz Gate was almost ethereal, like it had been carved from ancient ice. Not one rainbow graced the buildings around it—not in the fog.

Syrinx sniffed at a trash can overflowing with food waste from the

stands around the square. “You ever touch the disk and make a wish?” Bryce asked.

He shook his head. “I thought it was something only kids and tourists

did.”

“It is. But it’s fun.” She tossed her hair over a shoulder, smiling to

herself. “I made a wish here when I was thirteen—when I visited the city for the first time. Ruhn took me.”

Hunt lifted a brow. “What’d you wish for?” “For my boobs to get bigger.” A laugh burst out of him, chasing away any lingering shadows that talk

of Sandriel dragged up. But Hunt avoided looking at Bryce’s chest as he said, “Seems your wish paid off, Quinlan.” Understatement. Big, fucking, lace-covered understatement.

She chuckled. “Crescent City: Where dreams come true.” Hunt elbowed her ribs, unable to stop himself from making physical

contact.

She batted him away. “What would you wish for, if you knew it’d come

true?”

For his mother to be alive and safe and happy. For Sandriel and Micah

and all the Archangels and Asteri to be dead. For his bargain with Micah to be over and the halo and slave tattoos removed. For the rigid hierarchies of the malakim to come crashing down.

But he couldn’t say any of that. Wasn’t ready to say those things aloud

to her.

So Hunt said, “Since I’m perfectly happy with the size of my assets, I’d

wish for you to stop being such a pain in my ass.”

“Jerk.” But Bryce grinned, and damn if the morning sun didn’t finally

make an appearance at the sight of it.

The library beneath Griffin Antiquities would have made even the Autumn King jealous.

Ruhn Danaan sat at the giant worktable in its heart, still needing a

moment to take in the space—and the fire sprite who’d batted her eyelashes and asked if all his piercings had hurt.

Bryce and Athalar sat on the other side of the table, the former typing at

a laptop, the latter leafing through a pile of old tomes. Lehabah lay on what

seemed to be a doll’s fainting couch, a digital tablet propped up before her, watching one of the more popular Vanir dramas.

“So,” Bryce said without glancing up from the computer, “are you

going to look around or sit there and gawk?”

Athalar snickered, but said nothing, his finger tracing over a line of text.

Ruhn glared at him. “What are you doing?” “Researching the kristallos,” Hunt said, his dark eyes lifting from the

book. “I’ve killed about a dozen Type-Six demons over the centuries, and I want to see if there are any similarities.”

“Is the kristallos a Type-Six?” Ruhn asked. “I’m assuming it is,” Hunt replied, studying the book again. “Type-

Seven is only for the princes themselves, and given what this thing can do, I’d bet it’d be deemed a Six.” He drummed his fingers on the ancient page. “I haven’t seen any similarities, though.”

Bryce hummed. “Maybe you’re looking in the wrong spot. Maybe …”

She angled her laptop toward Athalar, fingers flying. “We’re looking for info on something that hasn’t entered this world in fifteen thousand years.

The fact that no one could ID it suggests it might not have made it into many of the history books, and only a handful of those books survived this long. But …” More typing, and Ruhn craned his neck to see the database she pulled up. “Where are we right now?” she asked Athalar.

“A library.” “An antiquities gallery, dumbass.” A page loaded, full of images of

ancient vases and amphorae, mosaics, and statues. She’d typed demon + Fae into the search bar. Bryce slid the laptop to Hunt. “Maybe we can find the kristallos in ancient art.”

Hunt grumbled, but Ruhn noted the impressed gleam in his eyes before

he began scanning through the pages of results.

“I’ve never met a prince before,” Lehabah sighed from the couch. “They’re overrated,” Ruhn said over a shoulder.

Athalar grunted his agreement. “What is it like,” the sprite asked, propping her fiery head on a burning

fist, “to be the Chosen One?”

“Boring,” Ruhn admitted. “Beyond the sword and some party tricks,

there’s not much to it.”

“Can I see the Starsword?”

“I left it at home. I didn’t feel like having to deal with tourists stopping

me on every block, wanting to take pictures.”

“Poor little prince,” Bryce cooed.

Hunt grunted his agreement again, and Ruhn bit out, “You got

something to say, Athalar?”

The angel’s eyes lifted from the laptop. “She said it all.” Ruhn snarled, but Bryce asked, surveying them, “What’s the deal with

you two?”

“Oh, do tell,” Lehabah pleaded, pausing her show to perk up on the

couch.

Hunt went back to perusing the results. “We beat the shit out of each

other at a party. Danaan’s still sore about it.”

Bryce’s grin was the definition of shit-eating. “Why’d you fight?” Ruhn snapped, “Because he’s an arrogant asshole.” “Likewise,” Hunt said, mouth curling in a half smile.

Bryce threw Lehabah a knowing look. “Boys and their pissing

contests.”

Lehabah made a prim little sound. “Not nearly as advanced as us

ladies.”

Ruhn rolled his eyes, surprised to find Athalar doing the same.

Bryce gestured to the endless shelves that filled the library. “Well,

cousin,” she said, “have at it. Let your Starborn powers guide you to enlightenment.”

“Funny,” he said, but began walking toward the shelves, scanning the

titles. He paused at the various tanks and terrariums built into the bookcases, the small animals within wholly uninterested in his presence. He didn’t dare ask if the rumors about them were true, especially not when Lehabah called over from her couch, “The tortoise is named Marlene.”

Ruhn gave his sister an alarmed look, but Bryce was doing something

on her phone.

Music began playing a moment later, trickling in from speakers hidden

in the wood panels. Ruhn listened to the first strains of the song—just a guitar and two soaring, haunting female voices. “You’re still into this band?” As a kid, she’d been obsessed with the sister folk duo.

“Josie and Laurel keep making good music, so I keep listening.” She

swiped at her phone.

Ruhn continued his idle browsing. “You always had really good taste.”

He tossed it out there—a rope into the stormy sea that was their relationship.

She didn’t look up, but she said a shade quietly, “Thanks.” Athalar, wisely, didn’t say a word.

Ruhn scanned the shelves, waiting to feel a tug toward anything beyond

the sister who’d spoken more to him in the past few days than she had in nine years. The titles were in the common language, the Old Language of the Fae, the mer, and a few other alphabets he didn’t recognize. “This collection is amazing.”

Ruhn reached for a blue tome whose spine glittered with gold foil.

Words of the Gods.

“Don’t touch it,” Lehabah warned. “It might bite.” Ruhn snatched back his hand as the book stirred, rumbling on the shelf.

His shadows murmured inside him, readying to strike. He willed them to settle. “Why does the book move?”

“Because they’re special—” Lehabah began. “Enough, Lele,” Bryce warned. “Ruhn, don’t touch anything without

permission.”

“From you or the book?” “Both,” she said. As if in answer, a book high up on the shelf rustled.

Ruhn craned his head to look, and saw a green tome … shining. Beckoning.

His shadows murmured, as if in urging. All right, then.

It was a matter of moments to drag over the brass ladder and scale it.

Bryce said, seemingly to the library itself, “Don’t bother him,” before Ruhn pulled the book from its resting place. He rolled his eyes at the title. Great Romances of the Fae.

Starborn power indeed. Tucking the book into the crook of his arm, he

descended the ladder and returned to the table.

Bryce choked on a laugh at the title. “You sure that Starborn power isn’t

for finding smut?” She called to Lehabah, “This one’s right up your alley.”

Lehabah burned to a raspberry pink. “BB, you’re horrible.” Athalar winked at him. “Enjoy.” “I will,” Ruhn shot back, flipping open the book. His phone buzzed

before he could begin. He fished it from his back pocket and glanced at the screen. “Dec’s got the intel you wanted.”

Bryce and Athalar went still. Ruhn opened the email, then his fingers

hovered over the forwarding screen. “I, uh … is your email still the same?” he asked her. “And I don’t have yours, Athalar.”

Hunt rattled his off, but Bryce frowned at Ruhn for a long moment, as if

weighing whether she wanted to open yet another door into her life. She then sighed and answered, “Yes, it’s the same.”

“Sent,” Ruhn said, and opened up the attachment Declan had emailed

over.

It was full of coordinates and their correlating locations. Danika’s daily

routine as Alpha of the Pack of Devils had her moving throughout the Old Square and beyond. Not to mention her healthy social life after sundown.

The list covered everything from the apartment, the Den, the City Head office at the Comitium, a tattoo parlor, a burger joint, too many pizza places to count, bars, a concert venue, the CCU sunball arena, hair salons, the gym … Fuck, had she ever gotten any sleep? The list dated back two weeks prior to her death. From the silence around the table, he knew Bryce and Hunt were also skimming over the locations. Then—

Surprise lit Hunt’s dark eyes as he looked to her. Bryce murmured,

“Danika wasn’t merely on duty near Luna’s Temple around that time—this says Danika was stationed at the temple for the two days before the Horn was stolen. And during the night of the blackout.”

Hunt asked, “You think she saw whoever took it and they killed her to

cover it up?”

Could it be that easy? Ruhn prayed it was.

Bryce shook her head. “If Danika saw the Horn being stolen, she would

have reported it.” She sighed again. “Danika wasn’t usually stationed at the temple, but Sabine often switched her schedule around for spite. Maybe Danika had some of the Horn’s scent on her from being on duty and the demon tracked her down.”

“Go through it again,” Ruhn urged. “Maybe there’s something you’re

missing.”

Bryce’s mouth twisted to the side, the portrait of skepticism, but Hunt

said, “Better than nothing.” Bryce held the angel’s stare for longer than most people deemed wise.

Nothing good could come of it—Bryce and Athalar working together.

Living together.

But Ruhn kept his mouth shut, and began reading.

“Any good sex scenes yet?” Bryce asked Ruhn idly, going over Danika’s location data for the third time. The first few of those locations, she’d realized, had been to Philip Briggs’s bomb lab just outside the city walls.

Including the night of the bust itself.

She still remembered Danika and Connor limping into the apartment

that night, after making the bust on Briggs and his Keres group two years ago. Danika had been fine, but Connor had sported a split lip and black eye that screamed some shit had gone down. They never told her what, and she hadn’t asked. She’d just made Connor sit at that piece-of-shit kitchen table and let her clean him up.

He’d kept his eyes fixed on her face, her mouth, the entire time she’d

gently dabbed his lip. She’d known then and there that it was coming—that Connor was done waiting. That five years of friendship, of dancing around each other, was now going to change, and he’d make his move soon. It didn’t matter that she’d been dating Reid. Connor had let her take care of him, his eyes near-glowing, and she’d known it was time.

When Ruhn didn’t immediately respond to her taunting, Bryce looked

up from the laptop. Her brother had kept reading—and didn’t seem to hear her. “Ruhn.”

Hunt halted his own searching through the gallery database. “Danaan.” Ruhn snapped his head up, blinking. Bryce asked, “You found

something?”

“Yes and no,” Ruhn said, sitting back in his chair. “This is just a three-

page account of Prince Pelias and his bride, Lady Helena. But I didn’t realize that Pelias was actually the high general for a Fae Queen named Theia when they entered this world during the Crossing—and Helena was her daughter. From what it sounds like, Queen Theia was also Starborn, and her daughter possessed the same power. Theia had a younger daughter with the same gift, but only Lady Helena gets mentioned.” Ruhn cleared his throat and read, “Night-haired Helena, from whose golden skin poured starlight and shadows. It seems like Pelias was one of several Fae back then with the Starborn power.”

Bryce blinked. “So? What does it have to do with the Horn?”

“It mentions here that the sacred objects were made only for Fae like

them. That the Horn worked only when that starlight flowed through it, when it was filled with power. This claims that the Starborn magic, in addition to a bunch of other crap, can be channeled through the sacred objects—bringing them to life. I sure as fuck have never been able to do anything like that, even with the Starsword. But it says that’s why the Prince of the Pit had to steal Pelias’s blood to make the kristallos to hunt the Horn—it contained that essence. I think the Horn could have been wielded by any of them, though.”

Hunt said, “But if the Prince of the Pit had gotten his hands on the

Horn, he wouldn’t be able to use it unless he had a Starborn Fae to operate it.” He nodded to Ruhn. “Even if whoever wants the Horn now finds it, they’d have to use you.”

Ruhn considered. “But let’s not forget that whoever is summoning the

demon to track the Horn—and kill these people—doesn’t have the Horn.

Someone else stole it. So we’re essentially looking for two different people: the killer and whoever has the Horn.”

“Well, the Horn is broken anyway,” Bryce said.

Ruhn tapped the book. “Permanently broken, apparently. It says here

that once it was cracked, the Fae claimed it could only be repaired by light that is not light; magic that is not magic. Basically a convoluted way of saying there’s no chance in Hel of it ever working again.”

Hunt said, “So we need to find out why someone would want it, then.”

He frowned at Ruhn. “Your father wants it for what—some Fae PR campaign about the good old days of Faedom?”

Ruhn snorted, and Bryce smiled slightly. With lines like that, Athalar

was in danger of becoming one of her favorite people. Ruhn said, “Basically, yeah. The Fae have been declining, according to him, for the past several thousand years. He claims our ancestors could burn entire forests to ash with half a thought—while he can probably torch a grove, and not much more.” Ruhn’s jaw tightened. “It drives him nuts that my Chosen One powers are barely more than a kernel.”

Bryce knew her own lack of power had been part of her father’s disgust

with her.

Proof of the Fae’s failing influence.

She felt Hunt’s eyes on her, as if he could sense the bitterness that

rippled through her. She half lied to him, “My own father never had a lick of interest in me for the same reason.”

“Especially after your visit to the Oracle,” Ruhn said.

Hunt’s brows rose, but Bryce shook her head at him, scowling. “It’s a

long story.”

Hunt again looked at her in that considering, all-seeing way. So Bryce

peered over at Ruhn’s tome, skimmed a few lines, and then looked back up at Ruhn. “This whole section is about your fancy Avallen cousins. Shadow-walking, mind-reading … I’m surprised they don’t claim they’re Starborn.”

“They wish they were,” Ruhn muttered. “They’re a bunch of pricks.” She had a vague memory of Ruhn telling her the details about why,

exactly, he felt that way, but asked, “No mind-reading for you?”

“It’s mind-speaking,” he grumbled, “and it has nothing to do with the

Starborn stuff. Or this case.”

Hunt, apparently, seemed to agree, because he cut in, “What if we asked

the Oracle about the Horn? Maybe she could see why someone would want a broken relic.”

Bryce and Ruhn straightened. But she said, “We’d be better off going to

the mystics.”

Hunt cringed. “The mystics are some dark, fucked-up shit. We’ll try the

Oracle first.”

“Well, I’m not going,” Bryce said quickly.

Hunt’s eyes darkened. “Because of what happened at your visit?” “Right,” she said tightly.

Ruhn cut in and said to Hunt, “You go, then.” Hunt snickered. “You have a bad experience, too, Danaan?” Bryce found herself carefully watching her brother. Ruhn had never

mentioned the Oracle to her. But he just shrugged and said, “Yeah.”

Hunt threw up his hands. “Fine, assholes. I’ll go. I’ve never been. It

always seemed too gimmicky.”

It wasn’t. Bryce blocked out the image of the golden sphinx who’d sat

before the hole in the floor of her dim, black chamber—how that human woman’s face had monitored her every breath.

“You’ll need an appointment,” she managed to say.

Silence fell. A buzzing interrupted it, and Hunt sighed as he pulled out

his phone. “I gotta take this,” he said, and didn’t wait for them to reply before striding up the stairs out of the library. A moment later, the front door to the gallery shut.

With Lehabah still watching her show behind them, Ruhn quietly said

to Bryce, “Your power levels never mattered to me, Bryce. You know that, right?”

She went back to looking through Danika’s data. “Yeah. I know.” She

lifted an eyebrow. “What’s your deal with the Oracle?”

His face shuttered. “Nothing. She told me everything the Autumn King

wanted to hear.”

“What—you’re upset that it wasn’t something as disastrous as mine?” Ruhn rose from his seat, piercings glittering in the firstlights. “Look,

I’ve got an Aux meeting this afternoon that I need to prep for, but I’ll see you later.”

“Sure.” Ruhn paused, as if debating saying something else, but continued

toward the stairs and out.

“Your cousin is dreamy,” Lehabah sighed from her couch. “I thought Athalar was your one true love,” Bryce said. “Can’t they both be?” “Considering how terrible they are at sharing, I don’t think it’ll end well

for any of you.”

Her email pinged on the laptop. Since her phone was in shards in the

rubble of the Raven, Hunt had emailed, Saw your cousin leave. We’re heading to the Comitium in five minutes.

She wrote back, Don’t give me orders, Athalar.

Four minutes, sweetheart.

I told you: don’t call me sweetheart.

Three minutes.

Growling, she stood from the table, rubbing her leg. Her heels were

already killing her, and knowing Athalar, he’d make her walk the entire Comitium complex. Her dress would look ridiculous with a different set of shoes, but fortunately, she kept a change of clothes in the bottom drawer of the library desk, mostly in case of a rainy day that threatened to ruin whatever she was wearing.

Lehabah said, “It’s nice—to have company down here.” Something in Bryce’s chest wrenched, but she said, “I’ll be back later.”

30

Hunt kept a casual distance from Bryce as she walked beside him through the Comitium lobby to the bank of elevators that would take them up to the 33rd’s barracks. The other elevator bays dispersed through the centralized, glass-enclosed atrium led to the four other towers of the complex: one for the City Heads’ meeting rooms and the running of Lunathion, one for Micah as both residence and official office, one for general administrative bullshit, and one for public meetings and events. Thousands upon thousands of people lived and worked within its walls, but even with the bustling lobby, Quinlan somehow managed to stand out.

She’d changed into red suede flats and a button-up white blouse tucked

into tight jeans, and tied her silken mass of hair into a high ponytail that swayed sassily with every step she took, matching Hunt stride for stride.

He placed his palm against the round disk next to the elevator doors,

clearing him for access to his floor thirty levels up. Usually, he flew to the barracks’ landing balcony—half for ease, half to avoid the busybodies who were now gawking at them across the lobby floor, no doubt wondering if Hunt was bringing Quinlan here to fuck her or interrogate her.

The legionary who lounged on a low-lying couch wasn’t particularly

skilled in stealing covert glances at her ass. Bryce looked over a shoulder, as if some extra sense told her someone was watching, and gave the soldier a smile.

The legionary stiffened. Bryce bit her lower lip, her lashes lowering

slightly.

Hunt punched the elevator button, hard, even as the male gave Bryce a

half smile Hunt was pretty sure the bastard threw at any female who came his way. As low-level grunts in a very large machine, legionaries—even those in the famed 33rd—couldn’t be picky.

The elevator doors opened, and legionaries and business types filed out,

those without wings careful not to step on anyone’s feathers. And all of them careful not to look Hunt in the eye.

It wasn’t that he was unfriendly. If someone offered him a smile, he

usually made an attempt at returning it. But they’d all heard the stories. All knew whom he worked for—every one of his masters—and what he did for them.

They’d be more comfortable getting into an elevator with a starved

tiger.

So Hunt kept back, minimizing any chance of contact. Bryce whirled to

face the elevator, that ponytail nearly whipping him in the face.

“Watch that thing,” Hunt snapped as the elevator finally emptied and

they walked in. “You’ll take my eye out.”

She leaned nonchalantly against the far glass wall. Mercifully, no one

got inside with them. Hunt wasn’t stupid enough to think that it was by pure chance.

They’d made only one stop on their way here, to buy her a replacement

phone for the one she’d lost at the club. She’d even coughed up a few extra marks for a standard protection spell package on the phone.

The glass-and-chrome store had been mostly empty, but he hadn’t failed

to notice how many would-be shoppers spied him through the windows and kept far away. Bryce hadn’t seemed to notice, and while they’d waited for the employee to bring out a new phone for her, she’d asked him for his own, so she could trawl the news feeds for any updates on the club attack.

Somehow, she’d wound up going through his photos. Or lack of them.

“There are thirty-six photos on this phone,” she said flatly.

Hunt had frowned. “So?” She scrolled through the paltry collection. “Going back four years.” To

when he’d arrived in Lunathion and gotten his first phone and taste of life without a monster ruling over him. Bryce had gagged as she opened a photo of a severed leg on a bloody carpet. “What the fuck?”

“I sometimes get called to crime scenes and have to snap a few for

evidence.”

“Are any of these people from your bargain with—” “No,” he said. “I don’t take pictures of them.” “There are thirty-six photos on your four-year-old phone, and all of

them are of dismembered bodies,” she said. Someone gasped across the store.

Hunt gritted his teeth. “Say it a little louder, Quinlan.” She frowned. “You never take any others?” “Of what?” “Oh, I don’t know—of life? A pretty flower or good meal or

something?”

“What’s the point?” She’d blinked, then shook her head. “Weirdo.” And before he could stop her, she’d angled his phone in front of her,

beamed from ear to ear, and snapped a photo of herself before she handed it back to him. “There. One non-corpse photo.”

Hunt had rolled his eyes, but pocketed the phone.

The elevator hummed around them, shooting upward. Bryce watched

the numbers rise. “Do you know who that legionary was?” she asked casually.

“Which one? There was the one drooling on the Traskian carpet, the one

with his tongue rolled out on the floor, or the one who was staring at your ass like it was going to talk to him?”

She laughed. “They must keep you all starved for sex in these barracks

if the presence of one female sends them into such a tizzy. So—do you know his name? The one who wanted to have a chat with my ass.”

“No. There are three thousand of us in the 33rd alone.” He glanced at

her sidelong, watching her monitor the rising floor numbers. “Maybe some guy that checks out your ass before he says hello isn’t someone worth knowing.”

Her brows lifted as the elevator stopped and the doors opened. “That is

precisely the kind of person I’m looking for.” She stepped into the simple hallway, and he followed her—realizing as she paused that he knew where they were going, and she only faked it.

He turned left. Their footsteps echoed off the tan granite tile of the long

corridor. The stone was cracked and chipped in spots—from dropped weapons, magical pissing contests, actual brawls—but still polished enough that he could see both their reflections.

Quinlan took in the hall, the names on each door. “Males only, or are

you mixed?”

“Mixed,” he told her. “Though there are more males than females in the

33rd.”

“Do you have a girlfriend? Boyfriend? Someone whose ass you gawk

at?”

He shook his head, trying to fight the ice in his veins as he stopped

before his door, opened it, and let her inside. Trying to block out the image of Shahar plunging to the earth, Sandriel’s sword through her sternum, both angels’ white wings streaming blood. Both sisters screaming, faces nearly mirror images of each other. “I was born a bastard.” He shut the door behind them, watching her survey the small room. The bed was big enough to fit his wings, but there wasn’t space for much else beyond an armoire and dresser, a desk stacked with books and papers, and discarded weapons.

“So?” “So my mother had no money, and no distinguished bloodline that

might have made up for it. I don’t exactly have females lining up for me, despite this face of mine.” His laugh was bitter as he opened the cheap pine armoire and pulled out a large duffel. “I had someone once, someone who didn’t care about status, but it didn’t end well.” Each word singed his tongue.

Bryce wrapped her arms around herself, nails digging into the filmy silk

of her shirt. She seemed to realize whom he’d alluded to. She glanced around, as if casting for things to say, and somehow settled on, “When did you make the Drop?”

“I was twenty-eight.” “Why then?” “My mother had just died.” Sorrow filled her eyes, and he couldn’t

stand the look, couldn’t stand to open up the wound, so he added, “I was reeling afterward. So I got a public Anchor and made the Drop. But it didn’t make a difference. If I’d inherited the power of an Archangel or a

dormouse, once the tattoos got inked on me five years later, it cut me off at the knees.”

He could hear her hand stroke his blanket. “You ever regret the angels’

rebellion?”

Hunt glanced over a shoulder to find her leaning against the bed. “No

one’s ever asked me that.” No one dared. But she held his stare. Hunt admitted, “I don’t know what I think.”

He let his stare convey the rest. And I wouldn’t say a fucking word

about it in this place.

She nodded. Then looked at the walls—no artwork, no posters. “Not

one to decorate?”

He stuffed clothes into the duffel, remembering she had a washing

machine in the apartment. “Micah can trade me whenever he wants. It’s asking for bad luck to put down roots like that.”

She rubbed her arms, even though the room was warm, almost stuffy.

“If he’d died that night, what would have happened to you? To every Fallen and slave he owns?”

“Our deed of ownership passes on to whoever replaces him.” He hated

every word out of his mouth. “If he doesn’t have anyone listed, the assets get divided among the other Archangels.”

“Who wouldn’t honor his bargain with you.” “Definitely not.” Hunt started on the weapons stashed in his desk

drawers.

He could feel her watching his every movement, as if counting each

blade and gun he pulled out. She asked, “If you achieved your freedom, what would you do?”

Hunt checked the ammo for the guns he had on his desk, and she

wandered over to watch. He tossed a few into his bag. She picked up a long knife as if it were a dirty sock. “I heard your lightning is unique among the angels—even the Archangels can’t produce it.”

He tucked in his wings. “Yeah?” A shrug. “So why is Isaiah the Commander of the 33rd?” He took the knife from her and set it in his bag. “Because I piss off too

many people and don’t give a shit that I do.” It had been that way even before Mount Hermon. Yet Shahar had seen it as a strength. Made him her general. He’d tried and failed to live up to that honor.

Bryce gave him a conspirator’s smile. “We have something in common

after all, Athalar.”

Fine. The angel wasn’t so bad. He had patched her up after the bombing with no male swaggering. And he had one Hel of a reason to want this case solved. And he pissed Ruhn off to no end.

As he’d finished packing, he’d gotten a call from Isaiah, who said that

their request to see Briggs had been approved—but that it would take a few days to get Briggs cleaned up and brought over from Adrestia Prison. Bryce had chosen to ignore what, exactly, that implied about Briggs’s current state.

The only bright spot was that Isaiah informed Hunt that the Oracle had

made room for him on her schedule first thing tomorrow.

Bryce eyed Hunt as they boarded the elevator once again, her stomach

flipping as they plunged toward the central lobby of the Comitium.

Whatever clearance Hunt had, it somehow included overriding the elevator commands to stop at other floors. Sweet.

She’d never really known any of the malakim beyond seeing the

legionaries on patrol, or their rich elite strutting like peacocks around town.

Most preferred the rooftop lounges in the CBD. And since half-breed sluts weren’t allowed into those, she’d never had a chance to take one home.

Well, now she was taking one home, though not in the way she’d once

imagined while ogling their muscles. She and Danika had once spent two solid summer weeks of lunch breaks sitting on a rooftop adjacent to a legion training space. With the heat, the male angels had stripped down to their pants while they sparred. And then got sweaty. Very, very sweaty.

She and Danika would have kept going every lunch hour if they hadn’t

been caught by the building’s janitor, who called them perverts and permanently locked access to the roof.

The elevator slowed to a stop, setting her stomach flipping again. The

doors opened, and they were greeted by a wall of impatient-looking legionaries—who all made sure to rearrange their expressions to carefully noncommittal when they beheld Hunt.

The Shadow of Death. She’d spied the infamous helmet in his room,

sitting beside his desk. He’d left it behind, thank the gods.

The Comitium lobby beyond the elevators was packed. Full of wings

and halos and those enticing muscled bodies, all facing the front doors, craning their necks to see over each other but none launching into the atrium airspace—

Hunt went rigid at the edge of the crowd that had nearly blocked off the

barracks elevator bank. Bryce made it all of one step toward him before the elevator to their right opened and Isaiah rushed out, halting as he spied Hunt. “I just heard—”

The ripple of power at the other end of the lobby made her legs buckle.

As if that power had knocked the crowd to the ground, everyone knelt

and bowed their heads.

Leaving the three of them with a perfect view of the Archangel who

stood at the giant glass doors of the atrium, Micah at her side.

31

Sandriel turned toward Hunt, Bryce, and Isaiah at the same moment Micah did. Recognition flared in the dark-haired female’s eyes as that gaze landed on Hunt, skipped Bryce entirely, and took in Isaiah.

Bryce recognized her, of course. She was on television often enough

that no one on the planet wouldn’t recognize her.

A step ahead, Hunt was a trembling live wire. She’d never seen him like

this.

“Get down,” Isaiah murmured, and knelt.

Hunt didn’t move. Wouldn’t, Bryce realized. People looked over their

shoulders as they remained on their knees.

Isaiah muttered, “Pollux isn’t with her. Just fucking kneel.” Pollux—the

Hammer. Some of the tension went out of Hunt, but he remained standing.

He looked lost, stranded, somewhere between rage and terror. Not even

a flicker of lightning at his fingertips. Bryce stepped closer to his side, flicking her ponytail over a shoulder. She took her brand-new phone out of her pocket, making sure the sound was cranked up.

So everyone could hear the loud click click click as she snapped photos

of the two Archangels, then turned, angling herself and the phone, to get a shot with herself and the Governors in the background—

People murmured in shock. Bryce tilted her head to the side, smiling

wide, and snapped another.

Then she turned to Hunt, who was still trembling, and said as flippantly

as she could muster, “Thanks for bringing me to see them. Shall we?”

She didn’t give Hunt the chance to do anything as she looped her arm

through his, turned them both around before taking a photo with him and the stone-faced Archangels and the gawking crowd in the background, and then tugged him back toward the elevator bank.

That’s why some legionaries had been rushing to get on. To flee.

Maybe there was another exit beyond the wall of glass doors. The

crowd rose to their feet.

She pushed the button, praying it gave her access to any of the tower’s

floors. Hunt was still shaking. Bryce gripped his arm tight, tapping her foot on the tiles as—

“Explain yourself.” Micah stood behind them, blocking the crowd from

the elevator bank.

Hunt closed his eyes.

Bryce swallowed and turned, nearly whipping Hunt in the face with her

hair again. “Well, I heard that you had a special guest, so I asked Hunt to bring me so I could get a photo—”

“Do not lie.” Hunt opened his eyes, then slowly turned to the Governor. “I had to

pick up supplies and clothes. Isaiah gave me the go-ahead to bring her here.”

As if speaking his name had summoned him, the Commander of the

33rd pushed through the line of guards. Isaiah said, “It’s true, Your Grace.

Hunt was grabbing necessities, and didn’t want to risk leaving Miss Quinlan alone while he did it.”

The Archangel looked at Isaiah, then Hunt. Then her.

Micah’s gaze roved over her body. Her face. She knew that gaze, that

slow study.

Too fucking bad that Micah was about as warm as a fish at the bottom

of a mountain lake.

Too fucking bad he’d used Hunt like a weapon, dangling his freedom

like a dog treat.

Too fucking bad he often worked with her father on city matters, and on

House business—too bad he reminded her of her father.

Boo. Fucking. Hoo.

She said to Micah, “It was nice to see you again, Your Grace.” Then the

elevator doors opened, as if some god had willed them to make a good exit.

She nudged Hunt inside, and was following him in when a cold, strong

hand gripped her elbow. She batted her eyelashes up at Micah as he stopped her between the elevator doors. Hunt didn’t seem to be breathing.

As if he were waiting for the Governor to rescind his deal.

But Micah purred, “I would like to take you to dinner, Bryce Quinlan.” She pulled out of his grip, joining Hunt in the elevator. And as the doors

closed, she looked the Archangel of Valbara full in the face. “Not interested,” she said.

Hunt had known Sandriel was coming, but running into her today … She must have wanted to surprise them all, if Isaiah hadn’t known. Wanted to catch the Governor and the legion off guard and see what this place was like before the pomp and circumstance made their defenses seem stronger, their wealth deeper. Before Micah could call in one of his other legions to make them look that much more impressive.

What piss-poor fucking luck that they’d run into her.

But at least Pollux hadn’t been there. Not yet.

The elevator shot up again, and Bryce stayed silent. Holding herself.

Not interested.

He doubted Micah Domitus had ever heard those words before.

He doubted Sandriel ever had someone snap photos of her like that.

All he’d been able to think about while he beheld Sandriel was the

weight of his knife at his side. All he could smell was the reek of her arena, blood and shit and piss and sand—

Then Bryce had made her move. Played that irreverent, vapid party girl

she wanted them to believe she was, that he’d believed she was, snapping those photos, giving him an out—

Hunt placed his hand against the disk beside the button panel and

punched in a different floor, overriding wherever the elevator had been taking them. “We can leave from the landing.” His voice was like gravel.

He always forgot—just how similar Sandriel and Shahar looked. Not identical twins, but their coloring and build had been nearly the same. “I’ll have to carry you, though.”

She twirled the silken length of her ponytail around a wrist, unaware

that she bared the golden column of her throat to him with the movement.

Not interested.

She’d sounded certain. Not gleeful, not gloating, but … firm.

Hunt didn’t dare consider how this rejection might affect his bargain

with Micah—to wonder if Micah would somehow blame Hunt for it.

Bryce asked, “No back door?” “There is, but we’d have to go down again.” He could feel her questions bubbling up, and before she could ask any

of them he said, “Sandriel’s Second, Pollux, is even worse than she is.

When he arrives, avoid him at all costs.”

He couldn’t bring himself to dredge up the list of horrors Pollux had

inflicted on innocents.

Bryce clicked her tongue. “Like my path will ever cross theirs if I can

help it.”

After that show in the lobby, it might. But Hunt didn’t tell her that

Sandriel wasn’t above petty revenge for slights and minor offenses. Didn’t tell her that Sandriel would likely never forget Bryce’s face. Might already be asking Micah who she was.

The doors opened onto a quiet upper level. The halls were dim, hushed,

and he led her into a labyrinth of gym equipment. A broad path cut through the gear directly to the wall of windows—and the launch balcony beyond.

There was no railing, just an open jut of stone. She balked.

“I’ve never dropped anyone,” he promised.

She gingerly followed him outside. The dry wind whipped at them. Far

below, the city street was packed with onlookers and news vans. Above them, angels were flying, some fleeing outright, some circling the five spires of the Comitium to get a glimpse of Sandriel from afar.

Hunt bent, sliding a hand under Bryce’s knees, bracing another on her

back, and picked her up. Her scent filled his senses, washing away the last of the memory of that reeking dungeon.

“Thank you,” he said, meeting her stare. “For bailing me out back

there.”

She shrugged as best she could in his grip, but winced as he stepped

closer to the edge.

“That was fast thinking,” he went on. “Ridiculous on so many levels,

but I owe you.”

She slid her arms around his neck, her grip near-strangling. “You helped

me out last night. We’re even.”

Hunt didn’t give her a chance to change her mind as he beat his wings

in a powerful push and leapt off the edge. She clung to him, tight enough to hurt, and he held her firmly, the duffel strapped across his chest awkwardly banging against his thigh.

“Are you even watching?” he asked over the wind as he sent them

sailing hard and fast, flying up, up, up the side of the adjacent skyscraper in the Central Business District.

“Absolutely not,” she said in his ear.

He chuckled as they leveled out, cruising above the reaching pinnacles

of the CBD, the Istros a winding sparkle to their right, the mist-shrouded isle of the Bone Quarter looming behind it. To the left, he could just make out the walls of the city, and then the wide-open land beyond the Angels’ Gate. No houses or buildings or roads out there. Nothing but the aerialport.

But at the Gate to their right—the Merchants’ Gate in the Meat Market—the broad, pale line of the Western Road shot into the rolling, cypress-dotted hills.

A pleasant, beautiful city—in the midst of pleasant, beautiful

countryside.

In Pangera, the cities were little more than pens for the Vanir to trap and

feed on the humans—and their children. No wonder the humans had risen up. No wonder they were shredding that territory with their chemical bombs and machines.

A shiver of rage ran down his spine at the thought of those children, and

he made himself look toward the city again. The Central Business District was separated from the Old Square by the clear dividing line of Ward Avenue. The sunlight glowed off the white stones of Luna’s Temple—and, as if in a mirror reflection directly across from it, seemed to be absorbed by the black-domed Oracle’s Temple. His destination tomorrow morning.

But Hunt looked beyond the Old Square, to where the green of Five

Roses sparkled in the muggy haze. Towering cypresses and palms rose up, along with glittering bursts of magic. In Moonwood, more oak trees—less magic frills. Hunt didn’t bother looking anywhere else. Asphodel Meadows wasn’t much to behold. Yet the Meadows was a luxury development compared to the human districts in Pangera.

“Why’d you want to live in the Old Square?” he asked after several

minutes of flying in silence, with only the song of the wind to listen to.

She still wasn’t looking, and he began a gentle descent toward her little

section of the Old Square, just a block off the river and a few blocks from the Heart Gate. Even from that distance, he could see it, the clear quartz glinting like an icy spear toward the gray sky.

“It’s the heart of the city,” she said, “why not be there?” “FiRo is cleaner.” “And full of Fae peacocks who sneer at half-breeds.” She spat out the

term.

“Moonwood?” “Sabine’s territory?” A harsh laugh, and she pulled back to look at him.

Her smattering of freckles crinkled as she scrunched her face. “Honestly, the Old Square is about the only safe place for someone like me. Plus, it’s close to work and I’ve got my pick of restaurants, music halls, and museums. I never need to leave.”

“But you do—you go all over the city on your morning runs. Why a

different route so often?”

“Keeps it fresh and fun.” Her building became clearer, the roof empty. A firepit, some lounge

chairs, and a grill occupied most of it. Hunt banked, circling back, and smoothly landed, carefully setting her down. She clung to him long enough to get her legs steady, then stepped back.

He adjusted the duffel, heading for the roof door. He held it open for

her, firstlight warming the stairwell beyond. “Did you mean what you said —to Micah?”

She plunked down the stairs, the ponytail bobbing. “Of course I did.

Why the Hel would I want to go out with him?”

“He’s the Governor of Valbara.” “So? Just because I saved his life, that doesn’t mean I’m destined to be

his girlfriend. It’d be like banging a statue anyway.”

Hunt smirked. “In all fairness, the females who have been with him say

otherwise.”

She unlocked her door, mouth twisting. “Like I said, not interested.” “You sure it’s not because you’re just avoiding—”

“See, that right there is the problem. You and the whole rest of the

world seem to think I exist just to find someone like him. That of course I can’t be genuinely not interested, because why wouldn’t I want a big, strong male to protect me? Surely if I’m pretty and single, the second any powerful Vanir shows interest, I’m bound to drop my panties. In fact, I didn’t even have a life until he showed up—never had good sex, never felt alive—”

Darkest Hel, this woman. “You’ve got a real chip on your shoulder

there, you know.”

Bryce snickered. “You make it really fucking easy, you know.” Hunt crossed his arms. She crossed hers.

That stupid fucking ponytail seemed to cross its proverbial arms, too. “So,” Hunt said through his teeth as he dumped his duffel on the

ground, clothes and weapons thumping hard. “You gonna come with me to the Oracle tomorrow or what?”

“Oh no, Athalar.” Her purred words ran over his skin, and her smile was

pure wickedness. Hunt braced himself for whatever was about to come out of her mouth. Even as he found himself looking forward to it. “You get to deal with her alone.”

32

After dropping off his gear at the apartment, Hunt trailed Bryce back to work, where she said she intended to look through Danika’s location data from Declan and cross-reference it with her own list—and the murder

scenes so far.

But the thought of sitting underground for another few hours grated

enough that he found himself sitting on the roof instead. He needed the fresh, open air. Even if angels were still flying past—leaving the city. He made a point not to look toward the Comitium, looming at his back.

Just before sundown, Syrinx in tow, Bryce emerged from the gallery

with a grim expression that matched Hunt’s own.

“Nothing?” he asked, landing on the sidewalk beside her. “Nothing,” she confirmed. “We’ll look tomorrow with fresh eyes.” Maybe there was something

they were missing. Today had been long and awful and weird, and he was more than ready to collapse on her couch.

He asked as casually as he could, “There’s a big sunball game on

tonight. You mind if I watch it?”

She glanced at him sidelong, her brows rising. “What?” he asked, unable to keep the corner of his mouth from

twitching upward.

“It’s just … you’re such … a guy.” She waved a hand at him. “With the

sports and stuff.”

“Females like sports as much as males.”

She rolled her eyes. “This sunball-watching person doesn’t fit with my

mental image of the Shadow of Death.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” Hunt’s turn to lift a brow. “What do you think I

do with my spare time?”

“I don’t know. I assumed you cursed at the stars and brooded and

plotted revenge on all your enemies.”

She didn’t know the half of it. But Hunt let out a low chuckle. “Again,

sorry to disappoint.”

Her eyes crinkled with amusement, the last of the day’s sun lighting

them into liquid gold. He forced himself to monitor the streets around them.

They were a block from Bryce’s apartment when Hunt’s phone rang.

She tensed, peering at his screen the same moment he did.

The phone rang a second time. They both stared at the name that

popped up, pedestrians streaming past.

“You gonna answer it?” Bryce asked quietly.

It rang a third time.

Hunt knew. Before he hit the button, he knew.

Which was why he stepped away from Quinlan, putting the phone to his

ear just as he said blandly, “Hi, boss.”

“I have work for you tonight,” Micah said.

Hunt’s gut twisted. “Sure.” “I hope I’m not interrupting your fun with Miss Quinlan.” “We’re good,” Hunt said tightly.

Micah’s pause was loaded. “What occurred in the lobby this morning is

never to happen again. Understood?”

“Yes.” He bit out the word. But he said it—and meant it—because the

alternative to Micah was now staying at the Governor’s residence in the Comitium. Because Sandriel would have drawn out his punishment for refusing to bow, for embarrassing her, for days, weeks. Months.

But Micah would give him this warning, and make him do this job

tonight to remind him where the fuck he stood in the pecking order, and then that would be that.

“Good,” Micah said. “The file’s waiting at your room in the barracks.”

He paused, as if sensing the question now burning through Hunt. “The offer still stands, Athalar. Don’t make me reconsider.” The call ended.

Hunt clenched his jaw hard enough to hurt.

Quinlan’s forehead wrinkled with concern. “Everything okay?” Hunt slid the phone into his pocket. “It’s fine.” He resumed walking.

“Just legion business.” Not a lie. Not entirely.

The glass doors to her building opened. Hunt nodded toward the lobby.

“You head up. I’ve got something to do. I’ll call if we get the date and time for Briggs.”

Her amber eyes narrowed. Yeah, she saw right through it. Or rather,

heard everything he wasn’t saying. Knew what Micah had ordered him to do.

But she said, “All right.” She turned toward the lobby, but added over

her shoulder, “Good luck.”

He didn’t bother answering before he shot into the skies, phone already

to his ear as he called Justinian to ask him to play sentry for a few hours.

Justinian whined about missing the sunball game, but Hunt pulled rank, earning a grumbled promise that the angel would be at the adjacent rooftop in ten minutes.

Justinian arrived in eight. Leaving his brother-in-arms to it, Hunt

sucked in a breath of dusty, dry air, the Istros a teal ribbon to his left, and went to do what he did best.

“Please.”

It was always the same word. The only word people tended to say when

the Umbra Mortis stood before them.

Through the blood splattered on his helmet, Hunt regarded the male

cougar shifter cowering before him. His clawed hands shook as he left them upraised. “Please,” the man sobbed.

Every utterance dragged Hunt further away. Until the arm he

outstretched was distant, until the gun he aimed at the male’s head was just a bit of metal.

A death for a death. “Please.” The male had done horrible things. Unspeakable things. He deserved

this. Deserved worse.

“Pleasepleaseplease.” Hunt was nothing but a shadow, a wisp of life, an instrument of death.

He was nothing and no one at all. “Ple—” Hunt’s finger curled on the trigger.

Hunt returned early. Well, early for him.

Thankfully, no one was in the barracks bathroom while he showered off

the blood. Then sat under the scalding spray for so long that he lost track of time.

He would have stayed longer had he not known that Justinian was

waiting.

So he patched himself up, pieced himself together. Half crawled out of

the boiling-hot shower and into the person he was when he wasn’t forced to put a bullet between someone’s eyes.

He made a few stops before getting back to Bryce’s apartment. But he

made it back, relieving Justinian from his duties, and walked through Bryce’s door at eleven.

She was in her bedroom, the door shut, but Syrinx let out a little yowl

of welcome from within. Her scolding hush was proof that she’d heard Hunt return. Hunt prayed she wouldn’t come into the hall. Words were still beyond him.

Her doorknob turned. But Hunt was already at his room, and didn’t dare

look across the expanse of the great room as she said tightly, “You’re back.”

“Yeah,” he choked out.

Even across the room, he could feel her questions. But she said softly,

“I recorded the game for you. If you still want to watch it.”

Something tightened unbearably in his chest. But Hunt didn’t look

back.

He slipped into his room with a mumbled “Night,” and shut the door

behind him.

33

The Oracle’s black chamber reeked of sulfur and roasted meat—the former from the natural gases rising from the hole in the center of the space, the latter from the pile of bull bones currently smoldering atop the altar against the far wall, an offering to Ogenas, Keeper of Mysteries.

After last night, what he’d done, a sacred temple was the last place he

wanted to be. The last place he deserved to be.

The twenty-foot doors shut behind Hunt as he strode across the silent

chamber, aiming for the hole in the center and wall of smoke behind it. His eyes burned with the various acrid scents, and he summoned a wind to keep them out of his face.

Behind the smoke, a figure moved. “I wondered when the Shadow of

Death would darken my chamber,” a lovely voice said. Young, full of light and amusement—and yet tinged with ancient cruelty.

Hunt halted at the edge of the hole, avoiding the urge to peer into the

endless blackness. “I won’t take much of your time,” he said, his voice swallowed by the room, the pit, the smoke.

“I shall give you what time Ogenas offers.” The smoke parted, and he

sucked in a breath at the being that emerged.

Sphinxes were rare—only a few dozen walked the earth, and all of them

had been called to the service of the gods. No one knew how old they were, and this one before him … She was so beautiful he forgot what to do with his body. The golden lioness’s form moved with fluid grace, pacing the other side of the hole, weaving in and out of the mist. Golden wings lay

folded against the slender body, shimmering as if they were crafted from molten metal. And above that winged lion’s body … the golden-haired woman’s face was as flawless as Shahar’s had been.

No one knew her name. She was simply her title: Oracle. He wondered

if she was so old that she’d forgotten her true name.

The sphinx blinked large brown eyes at him, lashes brushing against her

light brown cheeks. “Ask me your question, and I shall tell you what the smoke whispers to me.” The words rumbled over his bones, luring him in.

Not in the way he sometimes let himself be lured in by beautiful females, but in the manner that a spider might lure a fly to its web.

Maybe Quinlan and her cousin had a point about not wanting to come

here. Hel, Quinlan had refused to even set foot in the park surrounding the black-stoned temple, opting to wait on a bench at its edge with Ruhn.

“What I say here is confidential, right?” he asked. “Once the gods speak, I become the conduit through which their words

pass.” She arranged herself on the floor before the hole, folding her front paws, claws glinting in the dim light of the braziers smoldering to either side of them. “But yes—this shall be confidential.”

It sounded like a whole bunch of bullshit, but he blew out a breath,

meeting those large brown eyes, and said, “Why does someone want Luna’s Horn?”

He didn’t ask who had taken it—he knew from the reports that she had

already been asked that question two years ago and had refused to answer.

She blinked, wings rustling as if in surprise, but settled herself.

Breathed in the fumes rising from the hole. Minutes passed, and Hunt’s head began to throb with the various scents—especially the reeking sulfur.

Smoke swirled, masking the sphinx from sight even though she sat only

ten feet away.

Hunt forced himself to keep still.

A rasping voice slithered out of the smoke. “To open the doorway

between worlds.” A chill seized Hunt. “They wish to use the Horn to reopen the Northern Rift. The Horn’s purpose wasn’t merely to close doors—it opens them, too. It depends on what the bearer wishes.”

“But the Horn is broken.” “It can be healed.” Hunt’s heart stalled. “How?”

A long, long pause. Then, “It is veiled. I cannot see. None can see.” “The Fae legends say it can’t be repaired.” “Those are legends. This is truth. The Horn can be repaired.” “Who wants to do this?” He had to ask, even if it was foolish. “This, too, is veiled.” “Helpful.” “Be grateful, Lord of Lightning, that you learned anything at all.” That

voice—that title … His mouth went dry. “Do you wish to know what I see in your future, Orion Athalar?”

He recoiled at the sound of his birth name like he’d been punched in the

gut. “No one has spoken that name in two hundred years,” he whispered.

“The name your mother gave you.” “Yes,” he ground out, his gut twisting at the memory of his mother’s

face, the love that had always shone in her eyes for him. Utterly undeserved, that love—especially when he had not been there to protect her.

The Oracle whispered, “Shall I tell you what I see, Orion?” “I’m not sure I want to know.” The smoke peeled back enough for him to see her sensuous lips part in

a cruel smile that did not wholly belong in this world. “People come from across Midgard to plead for my visions, yet you do not wish to know?”

The hair on the back of his neck stood. “I thank you, but no.” Thanks

seemed wise—like something that might appease a god.

Her teeth shone, her canines long enough to shred flesh. “Did Bryce

Quinlan tell you what occurred when she stood in this chamber twelve years ago?”

His blood turned to ice. “That’s Quinlan’s business.” That smile didn’t falter. “You do not wish to know what I saw for her,

either?”

“No.” He spoke from his heart. “It’s her business,” he repeated. His

lightning rose within him, rallying against a foe he could not slay.

The Oracle blinked, a slow bob of those thick lashes. “You remind me

of that which was lost long ago,” she said quietly. “I had not realized it might ever appear again.”

Before Hunt dared ask what that meant, her lion’s tail—a larger version

of Syrinx’s—swayed over the floor. The doors behind him opened on a phantom wind, his dismissal clear. But the Oracle said before stalking into

the vapors, “Do yourself a favor, Orion Athalar: keep well away from Bryce Quinlan.”

34

Bryce and Ruhn had waited at the edge of the Oracle’s Park for Hunt, each minute dripping by. And when he’d emerged again, eyes searching every inch of her face … Bryce knew it was bad. Whatever he’d learned.

Hunt waited until they’d walked down a quiet residential block

bordering the park before he told them what the Oracle had said about the Horn.

His words were still hanging in the bright morning air around them as

Bryce blew out a breath. Hunt did the same beside her and then said, “If someone has learned how to repair the Horn after so long, then they can do the opposite of what Prince Pelias did. They can open the Northern Rift. It seems like one Hel of a motive to kill anyone who might rat them out.”

Ruhn ran a hand over the buzzed side of his hair. “Like the acolyte at

the temple—either as a warning to us to stay the fuck away from the Horn or to keep her from saying anything, if she’d found out somehow.”

Hunt nodded. “Isaiah questioned the others at the temple—they said the

girl was the only acolyte on duty the night the Horn was stolen, and was interviewed then, but claimed she didn’t know anything about it.”

Guilt twisted and writhed within Bryce.

Ruhn said, “Maybe she was scared to say anything. And when we

showed up …”

Hunt finished, “Whoever is looking for the Horn doesn’t want us

anywhere near it. They could have learned she’d been on duty that night and gone to extract information from her. They’d have wanted to make sure

she didn’t reveal what she knew to anyone else—to make sure she stayed silent. Permanently.”

Bryce added the girl’s death to the list of others she’d repay before this

was finished.

Then she asked, “If that mark on the crate really was the Horn, maybe

the Ophion—or even just the Keres sect—is seeking the Horn to aid in their rebellion. To open a portal to Hel, and bring the demon princes back here in some sort of alliance to overthrow the Asteri.” She shuddered. “Millions would die.” At their chilled silence, she went on, “Maybe Danika caught on to their plans about the Horn—and was killed for it. And the acolyte, too.”

Hunt rubbed the back of his neck, his face ashen. “They’d need help

from a Vanir to summon a demon like that, but it’s a possibility. There are some Vanir pledged to their cause. Or maybe one of the witches summoned it. The new witch queen could be testing her power, or something.”

“Unlikely that a witch was involved,” Ruhn said a shade tightly,

piercings along his ear glinting in the sun. “The witches obey the Asteri— they’ve had millennia of unbroken loyalty.”

Bryce said, “But the Horn can only be used by a Starborn Fae—by you,

Ruhn.”

Hunt’s wings rustled. “So maybe they’re looking for some way around

the Starborn shit.”

“Honestly,” Ruhn said, “I’m not sure I could use the Horn. Prince Pelias

possessed what was basically an ocean of starlight at his disposal.” Her brother’s brow furrowed, and a pinprick of light appeared at his fingertip. “This is about as good as it gets for me.”

“Well, you’re not going to use the Horn, even if we find it, so it won’t

matter,” Bryce said.

Ruhn crossed his arms. “If someone can repair the Horn … I don’t even

know how that would be possible. I read some mentions of the Horn having a sort of sentience to it—almost like it was alive. Maybe a healing power of some sort would be applicable? A medwitch might have some insight.”

Bryce countered, “They heal people, not objects. And the book you

found in the gallery’s library said the Horn could only be repaired by light that is not light, magic that is not magic.”

“Legends,” said Hunt. “Not truth.”

“It’s worth looking into,” Ruhn said, and halted, glancing between

Bryce and Hunt, who was watching her warily from the corner of his eye.

Whatever the fuck that meant. Ruhn said, “I’ll look up a few medwitches and pay some discreet visits.”

“Fine,” she said. When he stiffened, she amended, “That sounds good.” Even if nothing else about this case did.

Bryce tuned out the sound of Lehabah watching one of her dramas and tried to concentrate on the map of Danika’s locations. Tried but failed, since she could feel Hunt’s eyes lingering on her from across the library table. For the hundredth time in that hour alone. She met his stare, and he looked away quickly. “What?”

He shook his head and went back to his research. “You’ve been staring at me all afternoon with that weird fucking look

on your face.”

He drummed his fingers on the table, then blurted, “You want to tell me

why the Oracle warned me to stay the Hel away from you?”

Bryce let out a short laugh. “Is that why you seemed all freaked when

you left the temple?”

“She said she’d reveal her vision for you—like she has a damned bone

to pick with you.”

A shiver crawled down Bryce’s spine at that. “I don’t blame her if she’s

still pissed.”

Hunt paled, but Bryce said, “In Fae culture, there’s a custom: when girls

get their cycle for the first time, or when they turn thirteen, they go to an Oracle. The visit provides a glimpse toward what sort of power they might ascend to when mature, so their parents can plan unions years before the

actual Drop. Boys go, too—at age thirteen. These days, if the parents are progressive, it’s just an old tradition to figure out a career for their children.

Soldiers or healers or whatever Fae do if they can’t afford to lounge around eating grapes all day.”

“The Fae and malakim might hate each other, but they have a lot of

bullshit in common.”

Bryce hummed her agreement. “My cycle started when I was a few

weeks shy of thirteen. And my mom had this … I don’t know. Crisis? This

sudden fear that she’d shut me off from a part of my heritage. She got in touch with my biological father. Two weeks later, the documents showed up, declaring me a full civitas. It came with a catch, though: I had to claim Sky and Breath as my House. I refused, but my mom actually insisted I do it. She saw it as some kind of … protection. I don’t know. Apparently, she was convinced enough of his intention to protect me that she asked if he wanted to meet me. For the first time. And I eventually cooled down enough from the whole House allegiance thing to realize I wanted to meet him, too.”

Hunt read her beat of silence. “It didn’t go well.” “No. That visit was the first time I met Ruhn, too. I came here—stayed

in FiRo for the summer. I met the Autumn King.” The lie was easy. “Met my father, too,” she added. “In the initial few days, the visit wasn’t as bad as my mother had feared. I liked what I saw. Even if some of the other Fae children whispered that I was a half-breed, I knew what I was. I’ve never not been proud of it—being human, I mean. And I knew my father had invited me, so he at least wanted me there. I didn’t mind what others thought. Until the Oracle.”

He winced. “I have a bad feeling about this.” “It was catastrophic.” She swallowed against the memory. “When the

Oracle looked into her smoke, she screamed. Clawed at her eyes.” There was no point hiding it. The event had been known in some circles. “I heard later that she went blind for a week.”

“Holy shit.” Bryce laughed to herself. “Apparently, my future is that bad.” Hunt didn’t smile. “What happened?” “I returned to the petitioners’ antechamber. All you could hear was the

Oracle screaming and cursing me—the acolytes rushed in.”

“I meant with your father.” “He called me a worthless disgrace, stormed out of the temple’s VIP

exit so no one could know who he was to me, and by the time I caught up, he’d taken the car and left. When I got back to his house, I found my bags on the curb.”

“Asshole. Danaan had nothing to say about him kicking his cousin to

the curb?”

“The king forbade Ruhn to interfere.” She examined her nails. “Believe

me, Ruhn tried to fight. But the king bound him. So I got a cab to the train station. Ruhn managed to shove money for the fares into my hand.”

“Your mom must have gone ballistic.” “She did.” Bryce paused a moment and then said, “Seems like the

Oracle’s still pissed.”

He threw her a half smile. “I’d consider it a badge of honor.” Bryce, despite herself, smiled back. “You’re probably the only one who

thinks that.” His eyes lingered on her face again, and she knew it had nothing to do with what the Oracle had said.

Bryce cleared her throat. “Find anything?” Catching her request to drop the subject, Hunt pivoted the laptop toward

her. “I’ve been looking at this ancient shit for days—and this is all I’ve found.”

The terra-cotta vase dated back nearly fifteen thousand years. After

Prince Pelias by about a century, but the kristallos hadn’t yet faded from common memory. She read the brief catalog copy and said, “It’s at a gallery in Mirsia.” Which put it a sea and two thousand miles beyond that from Lunathion. She pulled the computer to her and clicked on the thumbnail. “But these photos should be enough.”

“I might have been born before computers, Quinlan, but I do know how

to use them.”

“I’m just trying to spare you from further ruining your badass image as

the Umbra Mortis. We can’t have word getting out that you’re a computer nerd.”

“Thanks for your concern.” His eyes met hers, the corner of his mouth

kicking up.

Her toes might have curled in her heels. Slightly.

Bryce straightened. “All right. Tell me what I’m looking at.” “A good sign.” Hunt pointed at the image, rendered in black paint

against the burnt orange of the terra-cotta, of the kristallos demon roaring as a sword was driven through its head by a helmeted male warrior.

She leaned toward the screen. “How so?” “That the kristallos can be killed the old-fashioned way. As far as I can

tell, there’s no magic or special artifact being used to kill it here. Just plain brute force.”

Her gut tightened. “This vase could be an artistic interpretation. That

thing killed Danika and the Pack of Devils, and knocked Micah on his ass, too. And you mean to tell me some ancient warrior killed it with just a sword through the head?”

Though Lehabah’s show kept playing, Bryce knew the sprite was

listening to every word.

Hunt said, “Maybe the kristallos had the element of surprise on its side

that night.”

She tried and failed to block out the red pulped piles, the spray of blood

on the walls, the way her entire body had seemed to plummet downward even while standing still as she stared at what was left of her friends. “Or maybe this is just a bullshit rendering by an artist who heard an embellished song around a fire and did their own take on it.” She began tapping her foot under the table, as if it’d somehow calm her staccato heartbeat.

He held her stare, his black eyes stark and honest. “All right.” She

waited for him to push, to pry, but Hunt slid the computer back to his side of the table. He squinted. “That’s odd. It says the vase is originally from Parthos.” He angled his head. “I thought Parthos was a myth. A human fairy tale.”

“Because humans were no better than rock-banging animals until the

Asteri arrived?”

“Tell me you don’t believe that conspiracy crap about an ancient library

in the heart of a pre-existing human civilization?” When she didn’t answer, Hunt challenged, “If something like that did exist, where’s the evidence?”

Bryce zipped her amulet along its chain and nodded toward the image

on the screen.

“This vase was made by a nymph,” he said. “Not some mythical,

enlightened human.”

“Maybe Parthos hadn’t been wiped off the map entirely at that point.” Hunt looked at her from under lowered brows. “Really, Quinlan?”

When she again didn’t answer, he jerked his chin at her digital tablet. “Where are you with the data about Danika’s locations?”

Hunt’s phone buzzed before she could reply, but Bryce said, reeling

herself back together as that image of the slain kristallos bled with what had been done to Danika, what had been left of her, “I’m still ruling out the things that were likely unconnected, but … Really, the only outlier here is

the fact that Danika was on sentry duty at Luna’s Temple. She was sometimes stationed in the general area, but never specifically at the temple itself. And somehow, days before she died, she got put on watch there? And data shows her being right there when the Horn was stolen. The acolyte was also there that night. It’s all got to tie together somehow.”

Hunt set down his phone. “Maybe Philip Briggs will enlighten us

tonight.”

Her head snapped up. “Tonight?” Lehabah completely stopped watching her show at that. “Just got the message from Viktoria. They transferred him from

Adrestia. We’re meeting him in an hour in a holding cell under the Comitium.” He surveyed the data spread before them. “He’s going to be difficult.”

“I know.” He leaned back in the chair. “He’s not going to have nice things to say

about Danika. You sure you can handle hearing his kind of venom?”

“I’m fine.” “Really? Because that vase just set you off, and I doubt coming face-to-

face with this guy is going to be any easier.”

The walls began swelling around her. “Get out.” Her words cut between

them. “Just because we’re working together doesn’t mean you’re entitled to push into my personal matters.”

Hunt merely looked her over. Saw all of that. But he said roughly, “I

want to head to the Comitium in twenty. I’ll wait for you outside.”

Bryce trailed Hunt out, making sure he didn’t touch any of the books

and that they didn’t grab for him, then shut the door before he’d fully walked onto the street beyond.

She sank against the iron until she sat on the carpet, and braced her

forearms on her knees.

They were gone—all of them. Thanks to that demon depicted on an

ancient vase. They were gone, and there would be no more wolves in her life. No more hanging out in the apartment. No more drunken, stupid dancing on street corners, or blasting music at three in the morning until their neighbors threatened to call the 33rd.

No friends who would say I love you and mean it. Syrinx and Lele came

creeping in, the chimera curling up beneath her bent legs, the sprite lying

belly-down on Bryce’s forearm.

“Don’t blame Athie. I think he wants to be our friend.” “I don’t give a shit what Hunt Athalar wants.” “June is busy with ballet, and Fury is as good as gone. Maybe it’s time

for more friends, BB. You seem sad again. Like you were two winters ago.

Fine one minute, then not fine the next. You don’t dance, you don’t hang out with anyone, you don’t—”

“Leave it, Lehabah.” “Hunt is nice. And Prince Ruhn is nice. But Danika was never nice to

me. Always biting and snarling. Or she ignored me.”

“Watch it.” The sprite crawled off her arm and floated in front of her, arms

wrapping across her round belly. “You can be cold as a Reaper, Bryce.” Then she was gone, whizzing off to stop a thick leather-bound tome from crawling its way up the stairs.

Bryce blew out a long breath, trying to piece the hole in her chest

together.

Twenty minutes, Hunt had said. She had twenty minutes before going to

question Briggs. Twenty minutes to get her shit together. Or at least pretend she had.

35

The fluorescent wands of firstlight hummed through the white-paneled, pristine corridor far beneath the Comitium. Hunt was a storm of black and gray against the shining white tiles, his steps unfaltering as he aimed for one of the sealed metal doors at the end of the long hall.

A step behind him, Bryce simply watched Hunt move—the way he cut

through the world, the way the guards in the entry room hadn’t so much as checked his ID before waving them through.

She hadn’t realized that this place existed beneath the five shining

towers of the Comitium. That they had cells. Interrogation rooms.

The one she’d been in the night Danika had died had been five blocks

from here. A facility governed by protocols. But this place … She tried not to think about what this place was for. What laws stopped applying once one crossed over the threshold.

The lack of any scent except bleach suggested it was scrubbed down

often. The drains she noted every few feet suggested—

She didn’t want to know what the drains suggested.

They reached a room without windows, and Hunt laid a palm against

the circular metal lock to its left. A hum and hiss, and he shouldered open the door, peering inside before nodding to her.

The firstlights above droned like hornets. What would her own firstlight

go toward, small mote that it would be? With Hunt, the explosion of energy-filled light that had probably erupted from him when he’d made the Drop had likely gone toward fueling an entire city.

She sometimes wondered about it: whose firstlight was powering her

phone, or the stereo, or her coffee machine.

And now was not the time to think about random shit, she chided

herself as she followed Hunt into the cell and beheld the pale-skinned man sitting there.

Two seats had been set before the metal table in the center of the room

—where Briggs’s shackles were currently chained. His white jumpsuit was pristine, but—

Bryce beheld the state of his gaunt, hollow face and willed herself not

to flinch. His dark hair was buzzed close to his scalp, and though not a bruise or scratch marred his skin, his deep blue eyes … empty and hopeless.

Briggs said nothing as she and Hunt claimed the seats across the table.

Cameras blinked red lights in every corner, and she had no doubt someone was listening in a control room a few doors down.

“We won’t take much of your time,” Hunt said, as if noting those

haunted eyes as well.

“Time is all I have now, angel. And being here is better than being …

there.”

There, where they kept him in Adrestia Prison. Where they did the

things to him that resulted in those broken, awful eyes.

Bryce could feel Hunt silently urging her to ask the first of their

questions, and she took a breath, bracing herself to fill this humming, too-small room with her voice.

But Briggs asked, “What month is it? What’s today’s date?” Horror coiled in her gut. This man had wanted to kill people, she

reminded herself. Even if it seemed he hadn’t killed Danika, he had planned to kill plenty of others, to ignite a larger-scale war between the human and Vanir. To overthrow the Asteri. It was why he remained behind bars.

“It’s the twelfth of April,” Hunt said, his voice low, “in the year 15035.” “It’s only been two years?” Bryce swallowed against the dryness in her mouth. “We came to ask

you about some things related to two years ago. As well as some recent events.”

Briggs looked at her then. Really looked. “Why?” Hunt leaned back, a silent indication that this was now her show to run.

“The White Raven nightclub was bombed a few days ago. Considering that

it was one of your prime targets a few years ago, evidence points toward Keres being active again.”

“And you think I’m behind it?” A bitter smile curved the angular, harsh

face. Hunt tensed. “I don’t know what year it is, girl. And you think I’m somehow able to make outside contact?”

“What about your followers?” Hunt said carefully. “Would they have

done it in your name?”

“Why bother?” Briggs reclined in his chair. “I failed them. I failed our

people.” He nodded toward Bryce. “And failed people like you—the undesirables.”

“You never represented me,” Bryce said quietly. “I abhor what you tried

to do.”

Briggs laughed, a broken rasp. “When the Vanir tell you you’re not

good enough for any job because of your human blood, when males like this asshole next to you just see you as a piece of ass to be fucked and then discarded, when you see your mother—it is a human mother for you, isn’t it? It always is—being treated like trash … You’ll find those self-righteous feelings fading real fast.”

She refused to reply. To think about the times she’d seen her mother

ignored or sneered at—

Hunt said, “So you’re saying you’re not behind this bombing.” “Again,” Briggs said, tugging on his shackles, “the only people I see on

a daily basis are the ones who take me apart like a cadaver, and then stitch me up again before nightfall, their medwitches smoothing everything away.”

Her stomach churned. Even Hunt’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Your followers wouldn’t have considered bombing the nightclub in

revenge?”

Briggs demanded, “Against who?” “Us. For investigating Danika Fendyr’s murder and looking for Luna’s

Horn.”

Briggs’s blue eyes shuttered. “So the assholes in the 33rd finally

realized I didn’t kill her.”

“You haven’t been officially cleared of anything,” Hunt said roughly.

Briggs shook his head, staring at the wall to his left. “I don’t know

anything about Luna’s Horn, and I’m sure as shit no Keres soldier did

either, but I liked Danika Fendyr. Even when she busted me, I liked her.”

Hunt stared at the gaunt, haunted man—a shell of the powerfully built adult he’d been two years ago. What they were doing to him in that prison … Fucking Hel.

Hunt could take a few guesses about the manner of torture. The

memories of it being inflicted upon him still dragged him from sleep.

Bryce was blinking at Briggs. “What do you mean, you liked her?” Briggs smiled, savoring Quinlan’s surprise. “She circled me and my

agents for weeks. She even met with me twice. Told me to stop my plans— or else she’d have to bring me in. Well, that was the first time. The second time she warned me that she had enough evidence against me that she had to bring me in, but I could get off easy if I admitted to my plotting and ended it then and there. I didn’t listen then, either. That third time … She brought her pack, and that was that.”

Hunt reined in his emotions, setting his features into neutrality. “Danika went easy on you?” Bryce’s face had drained of color. It took a

surprising amount of effort not to touch her hand.

“She tried to.” Briggs ran gnarled fingers down his pristine jumpsuit.

“For a Vanir, she was fair. I don’t think she necessarily disagreed with us.

With my methods, yes, but I thought she might have been a sympathizer.” He surveyed Bryce again with a starkness that had Hunt’s hackles rising.

Hunt suppressed a growl at the term. “Your followers knew this?” “Yes. I think she even let some of them get away that night.” Hunt blew out a breath. “That is a big fucking claim to make against an

Aux leader.”

“She’s dead, isn’t she? Who cares?” Bryce flinched. Enough so that Hunt didn’t hold back his growl this

time.

“Danika wasn’t a rebel sympathizer,” Bryce hissed.

Briggs looked down his nose at her. “Not yet, maybe,” he agreed, “but

Danika could have been starting down that path. Maybe she saw how her pretty, half-breed friend was treated by others and didn’t like it too much, either.” He smiled knowingly when Bryce blinked at his correct guess

regarding her relationship to Danika. The emotions he’d probably read in her face.

Briggs went on, “My followers knew Danika was a potential asset.

We’d discussed it, right up until the raid. And that night, Danika and her pack were fair with us. We fought, and even managed to get in a few good blows on that Second of hers.” He whistled. “Connor Holstrom.” Bryce went utterly rigid. “Guy was a bruiser.” From the cruel curve of his lips, he’d clearly noticed how stiff she’d gone at the mention of Connor’s name. “Was Holstrom your boyfriend? Pity.”

“That’s none of your business.” The words were flat as Briggs’s eyes.

They tightened something in Hunt’s chest, her words. The vacancy in

her voice.

Hunt asked him, “You never mentioned any of this when you were

initially arrested?”

Briggs spat, “Why the fuck would I ever rat out a potentially

sympathetic, incredibly powerful Vanir like Danika Fendyr? I might have been headed for this”—he gestured to the cell around them—“but the cause would live on. It had to live on, and I knew that someone like Danika could be a mighty ally to have on our side.”

Hunt cut in, “But why not mention any of this during your murder

trial?”

“My trial? You mean that two-day sham they televised? With that

lawyer the Governor assigned me?” Briggs laughed and laughed. Hunt had to remind himself that this was an imprisoned man, enduring unspeakable torture. And not someone he could punch in the face. Not even for the way his laugh made Quinlan shift in her seat. “I knew they’d pin it on me no matter what. Knew that even if I told the truth, I’d wind up here. So on the chance that Danika might have friends still living who shared her sentiments, I kept her secrets to myself.”

“You’re ratting her out now,” Bryce said.

But Briggs didn’t reply to that, and instead studied the dented metal

table. “I said it two years ago, and I’ll say it again now: Keres didn’t kill Danika or the Pack of Devils. The White Raven bombing, though—they might have managed that. Good for them if they did.”

Hunt ground his teeth. Had he been this out of touch with reality when

he’d followed Shahar? Had it been this level of fanaticism that prompted

him to lead the angels of the 18th to Mount Hermon? In those last days, would he have even listened to anyone if they’d advised against it?

A hazy memory surfaced, of Isaiah doing just that, screaming in Hunt’s

war tent. Fuck.

Briggs asked, “Did a lot of Vanir die in the bombing?” Disgust curdled Bryce’s face. “No,” she said, standing from her chair.

“Not a single one.” She spoke with the imperiousness of a queen. Hunt could only rise with her.

Briggs tsked. “Too bad.” Hunt’s fingers balled into fists. He’d been so wildly in love with Shahar,

with the cause—had he been no better than this man?

Bryce said tightly, “Thank you for answering our questions.” Without

waiting for Briggs to reply, she hurried for the door. Hunt kept a step behind her, even with Briggs anchored to the table.

That she’d ended the meeting so quickly showed Hunt that Bryce

shared his opinion: Briggs truly hadn’t killed Danika.

He’d nearly reached the open doorway when Briggs said to him,

“You’re one of the Fallen, huh?” Hunt paused. Briggs smiled. “Tons of respect for you, man.” He surveyed Hunt from head to toe. “What part of the 18th did you serve in?”

Hunt said nothing. But Briggs’s blue eyes shone. “We’ll bring the

bastards down someday, brother.”

Hunt glanced toward Bryce, already halfway down the hallway, her

steps swift. Like she couldn’t stand to breathe the same air as the man chained to the table, like she had to get out of this awful place. Hunt himself had been here, interrogated people, more often than he cared to remember.

And the kill he’d made last night … It had lingered. Ticked off another

life-debt, but it had lingered.

Briggs was still staring at him, waiting for Hunt to speak. The

agreement that Hunt would have voiced weeks ago now dissolved on his tongue.

No, he’d been no better than this man.

He didn’t know where that put him.

“So Briggs and his followers are off the list,” Bryce said, folding her feet beneath her on her living room couch. Syrinx was already snoring beside her. “Unless you think he was lying?”

Hunt, seated at the other end of the sectional, frowned at the sunball

game just starting on TV. “He was telling the truth. I’ve dealt with enough … prisoners to sense when someone’s lying.”

The words were clipped. He’d been on edge since they’d left the

Comitium through the same unmarked street door they’d used to enter. No chance of running into Sandriel that way.

Hunt pointed to the papers Bryce had brought from the gallery, noting

some of Danika’s movements and the list of names she’d compiled. “Remind me who’s the next suspect on your list?”

Bryce didn’t answer as she observed his profile, the light of the screen

bouncing off his cheekbones, deepening the shadow beneath his strong jaw.

He truly was pretty. And really seemed to be in a piss-poor mood.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” “Says the guy who’s grinding his teeth so hard I can hear them.” Hunt cut her a glare and spread a muscled arm along the back of the

couch. He’d changed when they’d returned thirty minutes ago, having grabbed a quick bite at a noodles-and-dumplings food cart just down the block, and now wore a soft gray T-shirt, black sweats, and a white sunball cap turned backward.

It was the hat that had proven the most confusing—so ordinary and …

guy-ish, for lack of a better word, that she’d been stealing glances at him for the past fifteen minutes. Stray locks of his dark hair curled around the edges, the adjustable band nearly covered the tattoo over his brow, and she had no idea why, but it was all just … Disgustingly distracting.

“What?” he asked, noting her gaze.

Bryce reached forward, her long braid slipping over a shoulder, and

grabbed his phone from the coffee table. She snapped a photo of him and sent a copy to herself, mostly because she doubted anyone would believe her that Hunt fucking Athalar was sitting on her couch in casual clothes, sunball hat on backward, watching TV and drinking a beer.

The Shadow of Death, everyone. “That’s annoying,” he said through his teeth.

“So is your face,” she said sweetly, tossing the phone to him. Hunt

picked it up, snapped a photo of her, and then set it down, eyes on the game again.

She let him watch for another minute before she said, “You’ve been

broody since Briggs.”

His mouth twisted toward the side. “Sorry.” “Why are you apologizing?” His fingers traced a circle along the couch cushion. “It brought up some

bad shit. About—about the way I helped lead Shahar’s rebellion.”

She considered, retracing every horrid word and exchange in that cell

beneath the Comitium.

Oh. Oh. She said carefully, “You’re nothing like Briggs, Hunt.” His dark eyes slid toward her. “You don’t know me well enough to say

that.”

“Did you willingly and gleefully risk innocent lives to further your

rebellion?”

His mouth thinned. “No.” “Well, there you have it.” Again, his jaw worked. Then he said, “But I was blind. About a lot of

things.”

“Like what?” “Just a lot,” he hedged. “Looking at Briggs, what they’re doing to him

… I don’t know why it bothered me this time. I’ve been down there often enough with other prisoners that—I mean …” His knee bounced. He said without looking at her, “You know what kinda shit I have to do.”

She said gently, “Yeah.” “But for whatever reason, seeing Briggs like that today, it just made me

remember my own …” He trailed off again and swigged from his beer.